“Henry!” Mrs. Fairley remonstrated.
Sharpe climbed the stairs and took possession of Pohlmann’s big empty cabin. He lit the two lanterns, placed them on the stern seat, then made the bed. The tiller ropes creaked. He opened one of the windows, banging the frame to loosen the swollen wood, and stared down at the Calliope’s flattened wake. A thin moon lit the sea and silvered some small clouds, but no ships were visible. Above him a Frenchman laughed on the poop deck. Sharpe took off his saber and coat, but he was too tense to sleep and so he just lay on the bed and stared at the white-painted planks above him and thought of Grace next door. He supposed that she and her husband would sleep apart, as they had on every other night, and he wondered how he could let her know that he was now ensconced in luxury.
Then he became aware of raised voices coming from the neighboring quarters and he swung off the bed and crouched beside the thin wooden partition. There were at least three men in the foremost cabin, all speaking in French. Sharpe could make out Lord William’s voice, which sounded angry, but he had no idea of what was being said. Perhaps his lordship was complaining about the food, and that thought made Sharpe smile. He went back to the bed and just then Lord William yelped. It was an odd sound, like a dog. Sharpe was on his feet again, bracing himself against the slow roll of the ship. There was a silence. Once more Sharpe crouched by the flimsy wooden partition and heard a French voice saying a word over and over. Bee-ioo, it sounded like. Lord William spoke, his voice muffled, then grunted as if he had been hit in the belly and had all the wind driven from him.
Sharpe heard the door between Lord William’s two cabins open and close. There was a click as the locking hook was dropped into its eye. A Frenchman’s voice sounded again, this time from the stern cabin that shared the wide window with Sharpe’s makeshift quarters. Lady Grace answered him in French, apparently protesting, then she screamed.
Sharpe stood. He expected to hear Lord William intervene, but there was silence, then Grace gave a second scream which was abruptly stifled and Sharpe hurled himself at the partition. He could have gone into the corridor and back into the next-door cabin, but breaking down the paneled partition was the quickest way to reach Grace and so he hammered it with his shoulder and the thin wood splintered and Sharpe tore his way through, bellowing as though he went into battle.
Which he did, for Lieutenant Bursay was on the bed where he was holding down Lady Grace. The tall lieutenant had torn her dress open at the neck and was now trying to rip it further while, at the same time, keeping one hand over her mouth. He turned to see Sharpe, but he was much too slow, for Sharpe was already on the lieutenant’s broad back with his left hand tangled in Bursay’s greasy hair. He hauled the Frenchman’s head back and chopped the side of his right hand onto the lieutenant’s neck. He hit him once, twice, then Bursay heaved Sharpe off and twisted to swing a huge fist. Someone hammered on the cabin door, but Bursay had locked it.
Bursay had taken off his coat and sword belt, but he seized the cutlass handle, dragged the blade free and slashed at Sharpe. Lady Grace was hunched at the head of the bed, clutching the remnants of her dress to her neck. There were pearls scattered on the bed. Bursay had evidently come to plunder Lord William’s possessions and found Grace the most delectable.
Sharpe threw himself back through the ruins of the bulkhead. His own saber was on the bed and he dragged it from the scabbard and swung the blade as the big Frenchman clambered through the splintered panels. Bursay parried the stroke, then, as the sound of the blades still echoed in the cabin, he charged at Sharpe.
Sharpe tried to spear the saber into Bursay’s belly, but the lieutenant contemptuously swatted the steel away and punched the hilt of the cutlass into Sharpe’s head. The blow made Sharpe reel, scattering his vision with sparks and darkness as he fell backward. He rolled desperately to his right as the cutlass chopped down into the deck, then he swung the saber in a wild, back-handed and clumsy stroke that did no damage, but served to make Bursay step back. Sharpe scrambled to his feet, his head still ringing, and heard the locked door between Lord William’s two cabins being broken down. Bursay grinned. He was so tall that he had to stoop beneath the deck beams, but he was confident, for he had hurt Sharpe, who was staggering slightly. The cutlass hilt had drawn blood which trickled from Sharpe’s forehead down his cheek. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, knowing that this brute of a man was just as savage and quick as he was himself. The lieutenant ducked under a beam and lunged at Sharpe, who parried, then Bursay snarled and charged, the cutlass sweeping like a reaping hook, and Sharpe threw himself back against the cabin’s forward bulkhead and the Frenchman knew he had won, except that Sharpe bounced back from the wall, his saber held like a spear, and stretched forward so that the curved tip ripped into Bursay’s throat. Sharpe swerved to his left to avoid the cutlass’s heavy riposte and it seemed to him that his thrust had not done any real damage, for he had felt no resistance to the blade, but Bursay was wavering and blood was pouring down his coat. The Frenchman’s right arm fell so that the cutlass tip struck the deck. He stared at Sharpe with an expression of puzzlement and put his left hand to his neck where the blood was pulsing dark and then, with a lurch, he fell to his knees and made a gurgling sound. A marine kicked through the shattered bulkhead and stared wide-eyed at the big lieutenant, who was looking up at Sharpe in faint surprise. Then, as if pole-axed, Bursay fell hard forward and a wash of blood spilled across the deck and vanished between the cracks.