She touched the scar again. “Richard Sharpe, my fearless soldier.”
“I was terrified of you,” Sharpe admitted. “From the moment I saw you.”
“Terrified?” She seemed genuinely puzzled. “I thought you despised me. You looked at me so grimly.”
“I never said I didn’t despise you,” Sharpe said in mock seriousness, “but from the moment I saw you I wanted to be with you.”
She laughed. “You can be with me here,” she said, “but only on fine nights. I come here when I can’t sleep. William sleeps in the stern cabin,” she explained, “and I sleep on the sofa in the day cabin. My maid uses a truckle bed there.”
“You don’t sleep with him?” Sharpe dared to ask.
“I have to go to bed with him,” she admitted, “but he takes laudanum every night because he insists he cannot sleep. He takes too much and he sleeps like a hog, so when he’s asleep I go to the day cabin.” She shuddered. “And the drug makes him costive, which makes him even more bad-tempered.”
“I have a cabin,” Sharpe said.
She looked at him, unsmiling, and Sharpe feared he had offended her, but then she smiled. “To yourself?”
He nodded. “You’ll like it. It’s seven foot by six with walls of damp wood and clammy canvas.”
“And you swing in your lonely hammock there?” she asked, still smiling.
“Hammock be blowed,” Sharpe said, “I’ve a proper hanging cot with a damp mattress.”
She sighed. “And not six months ago a man offered me a palace with walls of carved ivory, a garden of fountains, and a pavilion with a bed of gold. He was a prince, and I must say he was very delicate about it.”
“And were you?” Sharpe asked, suddenly jealous of the man. “Were you delicate?”
“I froze him.”
“You’re good at that.”
“And in the morning,” she said, “I will have to be good at it again.”
“Yes, my lady, you will.”
She smiled, acknowledging that he understood the necessary deception. “But it won’t be light,” she said, “for another three hours.”
“Four, more like.”
“And I’ve been wanting to explore the ship,” she said. “All I ever see is the roundhouse, the cuddy and the poop deck.”
He took her hand. “It’ll be pitch black below.”
“I think that would probably help,” she said gravely. She took her hand from his. “You go first,” she said, “and I’ll follow. I’ll meet you on the main deck.”
And so he waited below the break of the quarterdeck and she did follow and he led her below and there they forgot their suspicions of Pohlmann and Cromwell.
Who, most probably, Sharpe thought when the dawn came and he lay astonished and alone again in his bed, had been playing backgammon. He closed his eyes, amazed at his happiness and praying that this voyage could last forever.
CHAPTER 4
Two mornings later a sail was sighted, the first since the Calliope had left the convoy. It was dawn and the sky above unseen Madagascar was still dark when a topman saw the first sunlight reflect from a distant sail off the starboard bow. Captain Cromwell, summoned from his cabin by Lieutenant Tufnell, appeared agitated. He was wearing a flannel nightgown and his long hair was twisted into a bun at the nape of his neck. He stared at the strange ship’s sails through an ancient telescope. “It ain’t a native ship,” Sharpe heard him say. “They’re proper topsails. Christian canvas, that.” Cromwell ordered the main-deck guns to be unlashed. Powder was brought up from the magazines while Cromwell changed into his usual uniform. Tufnell went to the mainmast crosstrees equipped with a telescope. He stared for a long time, then shouted that he thought the distant vessel was a whaler. Cromwell seemed relieved, but left the powder charges on deck just in case the strange ship proved to be a privateer.
It was the best part of an hour before the distant ship could be seen from the Calliope’s deck and its presence brought the passengers on deck to stare at the stranger. Like the glimpse of land, this was a break in the journey’s tedium and Sharpe gazed with the rest, though he had an advantage over most of the passengers, for he possessed a telescope. The instrument was a marvel, a beautiful spyglass made by Matthew Berge of London and inscribed with the date of the battle of Assaye. Sir Arthur Wellesley had given the telescope to Sharpe, with his thanks engraved above the date, though he had been his usual distant and diffident self as he handed the glass over. “I would not have you think I was unmindful of the service you did me,” the general had said awkwardly.