That night brought no Lady Grace. Perhaps, Sharpe thought, she had already looked into Pohlmann’s cabin and found Sharpe absent. Or perhaps Lord William was awake and watchful, wondering if a rescue was closing on the night-shrouded Calliope, so Sharpe wrapped himself in a blanket and slept until a fist knocked on his door to announce the breakfast burgoo. “There’s a ship on the starboard bow, sir,” the seaman who had brought the cauldron said softly. “You can’t see it from here, but she’s there all right. One of ours, too.”
“Navy?”
“We reckons she is, sir. So it’s a race to Mauritius now.”
“How close is she?”
“Seven, eight miles? Fair ways, sir, and she has to tack to cut us off so it’ll be precious close, sir.” He lowered his voice even more. “The Froggies have taken down their ensign, so we’re flying our old colors, but that won’t help ‘em if it’s a warship. She’ll come and look at us anyway. Ensigns don’t mean nothing when there’s prize money to be gained.”
The news had spread through the ship, elating the passengers and alarming the French crew who tried to coax their prize into showing her best speed, but to the passengers in the stern, who could neither see the other ship nor determine what happened on the Calliope’s deck, it was a slow and agonizing morning. Lieutenant Tufnell suggested that the two ships must be on converging courses and that the Calliope had the advantage of the wind, but it was bitterly frustrating not knowing for sure. They all wanted to cut the tiller rope, but knew that if they severed it too soon the French might have time to make a repair.
No dinner was served at midday and perhaps it was that small hardship which persuaded Sharpe that the rope was best cut. “We can’t tell when the best moment is,” he argued, “so let’s give the buggers a headache now.”
No one demurred. Fairley pulled back the carpet and Sharpe thrust his saber into the hole and sawed the blade back and forth on the rope. The rope kept moving, not by much, but enough to ensure that it was difficult keeping the saber on the same spot, but Sharpe grunted and sweated as he tried to find the leverage to bring all his strength onto the blade.
“Shall I try?” Tufnell asked.
“I’m managing,” Sharpe said. He could not see the rope, but he knew he had the blade deep in its fibers now, for the blade was being tugged back and forth with the rudder’s small movements. His right arm was on fire from the wrist to the shoulder, but he kept the blade sawing and suddenly felt the tension vanish as the ravaged hemp unraveled. The rudder squealed on its pintles as Sharpe drew the saber back through the hole and collapsed in exhaustion against the foot of Fairley’s bed.
The Calliope, with no pressure on the rudder to resist her weather-helm, swung ponderously into the wind. There were frantic shouts on deck, the sound of bare feet going to the sheets and then the blessed noise of the sails slatting and banging as they flapped uselessly in the wind.
“Cover the hole,” Fairley ordered, “quick! Before the buggers see it.”
Sharpe moved his feet so they could drop the carpet into place. The ship jerked as the French used the headsails to bring her around, but without the rudder’s pressure she stubbornly went back into irons, and the sails again hammered at the masts. The helmsman would be spinning the wheel that suddenly had no load, and then there was a rush of feet going down the companionways and Sharpe knew the French were at last exploring the tiller lines.
There was a knock on Fairley’s door and, without waiting to be bidden, Lord William entered the cabin. “Does anyone know,” he asked, “what precisely is happening?”
“We cut the tiller ropes,” Fairley said, “and I’ll thank your lordship to keep quiet about it.” Lord William blinked at that brusque request, but before he could say anything there was the sound of a distant gun. “I reckon that’s the end of it,” Fairley said happily. “Come on, Sharpe, let’s go and see what you wrought.” He held out a big hand and hauled Sharpe to his feet.