“But there’s a letter, Sharpe!”
“You lie like a bloody rug, Braithwaite. There’s no letter.”
“There is!” Braithwaite cried in despair.
Sharpe was holding the secretary’s arms above his back, pushing them painfully forward, and now he shoved them hard to dislocate both at the shoulders. Braithwaite gave a whimper of pain, then screamed for help as Sharpe gripped one of his ears and turned his head sideways. Sharpe was trying to find a purchase with his right hand on Braithwaite’s face and Braithwaite attempted to bite him, but Sharpe smacked his face, then gripped a handful of hair and ear and twisted the head hard. “God knows how they did it,” Sharpe said, “those bloody jettis, but I watched them, so it must be possible.” He wrenched Braithwaite’s head again and the secretary’s frantic protest was stilled as his throat was constricted. His breath became a harsh gasping, but still he fought back, trying to heave Sharpe from his back, and Sharpe, amazed that the jettis had made this look so easy, clamped his hands on Braithwaite’s head and wrenched it with all his strength. The secretary’s breathing became a scratchy whimper, hardly audible over the cacophony of creaking and clanking in the hold, but he still twitched and so Sharpe took a deep breath, then twisted a second time and was rewarded with a small grating scrunch that he reckoned was the spine twisting out of alignment in Braithwaite’s neck.
The secretary was still now. Sharpe put a finger on Braithwaite’s neck, trying and failing to find a pulse. He waited. Still no pulse, no twitches, no breathing, and so Sharpe felt around the deck until he discovered the pistol which he put into his pocket, then he stood and heaved the dead man onto his shoulder and staggered forward, pitched left and right by the motion of the ship, until he blundered into the mizzen ladder. He dropped the body there, climbed the ladder and heaved open the hatch to the astonishment of a seaman who was passing. Sharpe nodded a greeting, closed the hatch on the corpse and on the rats that scrabbled in the dark, then climbed on into the daylight. He chucked the pistol out of his cabin’s scuttle. No one noticed.
Dinner was salt pork, peas and biscuits. Sharpe ate well.
Captain Chase assumed that the Revenant, if indeed it was the Revenant that had been glimpsed on the horizon, had seen the Pucelle’s topsails the previous day despite the cloud bank, and so had turned westward in the night. “That’ll slow her down,” he insisted, recovering some of his usual optimism. The wind was fair, for even though the Pucelle had now drawn far enough offshore to lose the advantage of the current, they were in the latitudes where the southeast trades blew. “The wind can only get stronger,” Chase said, “and the barometer’s rising, which is good.”
Flying fish skittered away from the Pucelle’s hull. The ill feeling that had pervaded the ship all morning dissipated beneath the warm sun and under the captain’s renewed optimism. “We know she’s no faster than us,” Chase said, “and we’re on the inside of the bend from now to Cadiz.”
“How far is that?” Sharpe asked. He was taking the air on the quarterdeck after sharing dinner with Chase.
“Another month,” Chase said, “but we ain’t out of trouble yet. We should do well as far as the equator, but after that we could be becalmed.” He drummed his fingers on the rail. “But with God’s help we’ll catch her first.”
“You haven’t seen my secretary, have you, Chase?” Lord William appeared on deck to interrupt the conversation.
“Not a sign of him,” Chase said happily.
“I need him,” Lord William said petulantly. Lord William had persuaded Chase to allow him to use his dining cabin as an office. Chase had been reluctant to yield the room with its lavish table, but had decided it was better to keep Lord William happy rather than have him scowling about the ship in frustration.
Chase turned to the fifth lieutenant, Holderby. “Did his lordship’s secretary take dinner in the wardroom?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Holderby said, “haven’t seen the fellow since breakfast.”