SHARPE’S TRAFALGAR. Bernard Cornwell. Sharpe’s Trafalgar: Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Trafalgar, October 21, 1805

“Good-bye!” Dalton called a last time.

And Sharpe joined the hunter, seeking revenge, going home.

“I hate having women on board,” Chase said savagely. “It’s bad luck, you know that? Women and rabbits, both bring bad luck.” He touched the polished table in his day cabin to avert the ill fortune. “Not that there aren’t women on board already,” he admitted. “There’s at least six Portsmouth whores down below who I’m not supposed to know about, and I suspect one of the gunners has his wife hidden away, but that ain’t the same as having her ladyship and her maid out on the open deck feeding the crew’s filthy fantasies.”

Sharpe said nothing. The elegant cabin stretched the whole width of the ship and was lit by a wide stern window through which he could see the far-off Calliope already hull down on the horizon. The windows were curtained in flowered chintz which matched the cushions spread along the window seat, and the deck was carpeted with canvas painted in a black and white checkerboard pattern. There were two tables, a sideboard, a deep leather armchair, a couch and a revolving bookcase, though the air of genteel domesticity was somewhat spoiled by the presence of two eighteen-pounder cannons that pointed toward red-painted gunports. Forward of the day cabin, and on the ship’s starboard side, were Chase’s sleeping quarters, while forward on the larboard side was a dining cabin that could seat a dozen in comfort. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll move out for Lord goddamn bloody Hale,” Chase grumbled, “though he plainly expects me to. He can go back to the first lieutenant’s quarters and his damned wife can go into the second lieutenant’s cabin, which is how they sailed from Calcutta. Lord knows why they sleep apart, but they do. I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Sharpe said.

“The bloody secretary can go in Horrocks’s cabin,” Chase decided. Horrocks was the lieutenant who had been made prize master of the Calliope. “And the first lieutenant can have the master’s cabin. He died three days ago. No one knows why. He tired of life, or life tired of him. God alone knows where the second will go. He’ll turf out the third, I suppose, who’ll kick out someone else, and so on down to the ship’s cat that will get chucked overboard, poor thing. God, I hate having passengers, especially women! You’ll have my quarters.”

“Your quarters?” Sharpe asked in astonishment.

“Sleeping cabin,” Chase said, “through that door there. Good Lord above, Sharpe, I’ve got this damn great room!” He gestured about the lavish day cabin with its elegant furniture, framed portraits and curtained windows. “My steward can hang my cot in here, and yours can go in the small cabin.”

“I can’t take your cabin!” Sharpe protested.

“Of course you can! It’s a damned poky little hole, anyway, just right for an insignificant ensign. Besides, Sharpe, I’m a fellow who likes some company and as captain I can’t go to the wardroom without an invitation and the officers don’t invite me much. Can’t blame them. They want to relax, so I end up in lonely state. So you can entertain me instead. D’you play chess? No? I shall teach you. And you’ll take supper with me tonight? Of course you will.” Chase, who had taken off his uniform coat, stretched out in a chair. “Do you really think the baron might have been Pohlmann?”

“He was,” Sharpe said flatly.

Chase raised an eyebrow. “So sure?”

“I recognized him, sir,” Sharpe admitted, “but I didn’t tell any of the Calliope’s officers. I didn’t think it was important.”

Chase shook his head, more in amusement than disapproval. “It wouldn’t have done any good if you had told them. And Peculiar would probably have killed you if you had, and as for the others, how were they to know what was happening? I only hope to God I do!” He straightened to find a piece of paper on the larger table. “We, that is His Britannic Majesty’s navy, are looking for a gentleman named Vaillard. Michel Vaillard. He’s a bad lad, our Vaillard, and it seems he is trying to return to Europe. And how better to travel than disguised as a servant? No one looks at servants, do they?”

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