“I don’t think Peculiar tried at all, sir,” Sharpe said morosely. Indeed, Sharpe believed that this empty spot of an empty ocean had been a rendezvous and that Cromwell had deliberately lost the convoy and then purposefully sailed here in the knowledge that the Revenant would be waiting for him. The English captain had put on a feeble display of attempting to escape, and a meager show of defiance when Montmorin came aboard, but Sharpe still reckoned the Calliope had been sold long before the Revenant hove into sight.
“But we’re not seamen, you and I,” Dalton said, then frowned as boots tramped on the deck above, evidently inside Pohlmann’s quarters in the roundhouse. Something heavy fell on the deck, then there was a scraping sound. “Dear me,” Dalton said, “now they’re looting us.” He sighed. “Lord knows how long it’ll be before we’ll be paroled and I did so hope to be home by autumn.”
“It’ll be cold in Edinburgh, sir,” Sharpe said.
Dalton smiled. “I’ll have forgotten what it’s like to feel the cold. What place do you call home, Sharpe?”
Sharpe shrugged. “I’ve only ever lived in London and Yorkshire, sir, and I don’t know that cither’s home. The army’s my real home.”
“Not a bad home, Sharpe. You could do much worse.”
The brandy made Sharpe’s head swim and he refused a second glass. The ship, oddly silent, rocked in a long swell. Sharpe edged to the porthole to see that the French seamen had taken the spare spars from the Calliope’s main deck and were now floating the great lengths of timber across to the Revenant, towing them behind longboats, while other craft were carrying back casks of wine, water and food. The French warship was at least half as long again as the Calliope and her decks were much higher. Her gunports were all closed now, but she still looked sinister as she rose and fell on the ocean swell. The copper at her water line looked bright, suggesting she had recently scraped her bottom clean.
Footsteps sounded in the narrow passageway and there was a sudden knock on the door. “Come!” Major Dalton called, expecting one of his fellow passengers, but it was Capitaine Louis Montmorin who ducked under the low door, followed by an even taller man dressed in the same red, blue and white uniform. The two tall Frenchmen made the cabin seem very small.
“You are the senior English officer aboard?” Montmorin asked Dalton.
“Scottish,” Dalton bristled.
“Pardonnez-moi.” Montmorin was amused. “Permit me to name Lieutenant Bursay.” The captain indicated the huge man who loomed just inside the door. “Lieutenant Bursay will be captain of the prize crew that will take this ship to Mauritius.” The lieutenant was a gross-looking creature with an expressionless face that had been first scarred by smallpox, then by weapons. His right cheek was pitted blue with powder burns, his greasy hair hung lank over his collar and his uniform was stained with what looked like dried blood. He had huge hands with blackened palms, suggesting he had once earned his living in the high rigging, while at his side hung a broad-bladed cutlass and a long-barreled pistol. Monhnorin spoke to the lieutenant in French, then turned back to Dalton. “I have told him, Major, that in all matters concerning the passengers he is to consult with you.”
“Merci, Capitaine,” Dalton said, then looked at the huge Bursay. “Parlez-vous anglais?”
Bursay offered Dalton a flat stare for a few seconds. “Non,” he finally grunted.
“But you speak French?” Montmorin asked Dalton.
“Passably,” Dalton conceded.
“That is good. And you may be assured, monsieur, that no harm will come to any passenger so long as you all obey Lieutenant Bursay’s orders. Those orders are very simple. You are to stay below decks. You may go anywhere in the ship, except on deck. There will be armed men guarding every hatchway, and those men have orders to shoot if any of you disobey those simple orders.” He smiled. “It will be three, perhaps four days to Mauritius? Longer, I fear, if the wind does not improve. And, monsieur, allow me to tell you how sincerely I regret your inconvenience. C’est la guerre.”