“I was just glad to be there, sir,” Sharpe had answered just as awkwardly.
Sir Arthur had forced himself to say something more. “Remember, Mister Sharpe, that an officer’s eyes are more valuable than his sword.”
“I’ll remember that, sir,” Sharpe said, reflecting that the general would have been dead without Sharpe’s saber. Still, he supposed the advice was good. “And thank you, sir,” Sharpe had said and remembered being obscurely disappointed with the telescope. He had reckoned that a good sword would have been a better reward for saving the general’s life.
Sir Arthur had frowned, but Campbell, one of his aides, had tried to be friendly. “So you’re off to join the Rifles, Sharpe?”
“I am, sir.”
Sir Arthur had cut the conversation short. “You’ll be happy there, I’m sure. Thank you, Mister Sharpe. Good day to you.”
And thus Sharpe had become the ungrateful possessor of a telescope that would have been the envy of richer men. He trained it now on the strange ship, which, to his untutored eye, looked a good deal smaller than the Calliope. She was certainly no warship, but appeared to be a small merchantman.
“She’s a Jonathon!” Tufnell called from aloft, and Sharpe edged the glass leftward and saw a faded ensign flying at the far ship’s stern. The flag looked very like the red-and-white-striped banner of the East India Company, but then the wind lifted it and he saw the stars in its upper quadrant and realized she was an American.
Major Dalton had come down to the main deck and now stood beside Sharpe who politely offered the Scotsman the use of the telescope. The major stared at the American ship. “She’s carrying powder and shot to Mauritius,” he said.
“How do you know, sir?”
“Because that’s what they do. No French merchantman dare sail in these waters, so the damned Americans supply Mauritius with weaponry. And they have the nerve to call themselves neutral! Still, I’ve no doubt they turn a fine profit, which is all that matters to them. This is a very fine glass, Sharpe!”
“It was a gift, Major.”
“A handsome one.” Dalton handed the glass back and frowned. “You look tired, Sharpe.”
“Not been sleeping that well, Major.”
“I pray you’re not sickening. The Lady Grace is also looking very peaky. I do hope there isn’t ship fever on board. I recall a brigantine coming into Leith when I was a child and there can’t have been more than three men alive on her, and they were near death’s door. They couldn’t land, of course, poor things. They had to anchor off and let the sickness run its course, which left them all dead.”
The American, confident that the Calliope presented no threat, sailed close to the great Indiaman and the two ships inspected each other as they passed in mid ocean. The American ship was half the Calliope’s length and her main deck was crammed with the longboats that her crew used to stalk and kill whales. “Doubtless she’ll drop her cargo on Mauritius,” Major Dalton observed, “then head for the Southern Ocean. A hard life, Sharpe.”
The American crew returned the Calliope’s waves, then she was past and the folk on board the Indiaman could read the whaler’s name and hailing port, which were painted in blue and gold on handsome stern boards. “The Jonah Coffin out of Nantucket,” Dalton said. “What extraordinary names they do pick!”
“Like Peculiar Cromwell?”
“There is that!” Dalton laughed. “But I can’t imagine our captain painting his name on his boat’s stern, can you? By the way, Sharpe, I’ve donated a pickled tongue for dinner.”
“Generous of you, sir.”
“And I owe you a recompense for all the help you’ve been to me,” Dalton said, referring to his long conversations with Sharpe about the war against the Mahrattas which the major planned to write about in his retirement, “so why don’t you join us at noon? The captain’s agreed to let us eat on the quarterdeck!” Dalton sounded excited, as if dining in the open air would prove a special treat.
“I don’t want to intrude, Major.”
“No intrusion, no intrusion! You shall be my guest. I’ve also donated some wine and you can help drink it. Red coat, I fear, Sharpe. Dinner might be a mere cold collation, but Peculiar rightly insists there are no shirtsleeves on the quarterdeck.”
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