“I am Capitaine Montmorin.” The Frenchman bowed. “Capitaine Louis Montmorin and you have my sympathy, monsieur. And you are?”
“Cromwell,” Cromwell grunted.
Montmorin, the French captain of whom Captain Joel Chase had spoken so admiringly, now talked to his seamen who had followed him up the Calliope’s side to fill the ship’s waist. Once he had given them their orders he looked back to Cromwell. “Do I have your word, Captain, that neither you nor your officers will attempt anything rash?” He waited until Cromwell had offered a grudging nod, then smiled. “Then your crew will go to the forecastle, you and your officers will retire to your quarters and all passengers will return to their cabins.” He left Cromwell by the entry port and climbed to the quarterdeck. “I apologize for the inconvenience, ladies and gentlemen,” he said courteously, “but you must go to your cabins. You, gentlemen”—he had turned to look at Sharpe and Dalton who were the only men on the quarterdeck in military uniform—”you are British officers?”
“I am Major Dalton.” Dalton stepped forward, then gestured to Sharpe who still stood beside the wheel. “And that is my colleague, Mister Sharpe.”
Dalton had begun to draw his claymore to offer a formal surrender, but Montmorin frowned and shook his head as if to suggest he required no such gesture. “Do you give me your word that you will obey my orders, Major?”
“I do,” Dalton said.
“Then you may keep your swords.” Montmorin smiled, but his elegant courtesy was given an edge of steel by three French marines in blue coats who now climbed to the quarterdeck and pointed their muskets at Dalton.
The major stepped back, gesturing that Sharpe should join him. “Stay with me,” he said softly.
Montmorin had now registered Lady Grace’s presence and he greeted her by removing his hat again and offering a sweeping bow. “I am sorry, ma’am, that you should be inconvenienced.” Lady Grace appeared not to notice the Frenchman’s existence, but Lord William spoke to Montmorin in fluent French, and whatever he said seemed to amuse the French captain who bowed a second time to Lady Grace. “No one,” Montmorin announced in a loud voice, “will be molested. So long as you cooperate with the prize crew. Now, ladies and gentlemen, to your cabins if you please.”
“Captain!” Sharpe called. Montmorin turned and waited for Sharpe to speak. “I want Cromwell,” Sharpe said and started toward the quarterdeck steps. Cromwell looked alarmed, but then a French marine barred Sharpe’s path.
“To your cabin, monsieur,” Montmorin insisted.
“Cromwell!” Sharpe called and he tried to force his way past the marine, but a second bayonet faced him and Sharpe was driven back.
Pohlmann and Mathilde, alone among the stern passengers, had not been on the quarterdeck when the Frenchmen came aboard, but now they emerged and with them was the Swiss servant who was no longer dressed in somber gray but wore a sword like any gentleman. He greeted Montmorin in fluent French and the Revenant’s captain offered the so-called servant a deep bow, and then Sharpe saw no more because the French marines were ushering the passengers off the deck and Sharpe reluctantly followed Dalton to the major’s cabin, which was twice the size of Sharpe’s quarters and partitioned with wood instead of canvas. It was furnished with a bed, bureau, chest and chair. Dalton gestured that Sharpe should sit on the bed, hung his sword and belt on the back of the door and uncorked a bottle. “French brandy,” he said unhappily, “to console ourselves for a French victory.” He poured two glasses. “I thought you’d be more comfortable here than down in the ship’s cellar, Sharpe.”
“It’s kind of you, sir.”
“And to be truthful,” the elderly major said, “I’d be glad of some company. I fear these next hours are liable to be tedious.”
“I fear they will, sir.”
“Mind you, they can’t keep us cooped up forever.” He handed Sharpe a glass of brandy, then peered through the porthole. “More boats arriving, more men. Horrible-looking rogues. I don’t know about you, Sharpe, but I thought Cromwell didn’t try over-hard to escape. Not that I’m any sailor, of course, but Tufnell told me there were other sails we might have set. Skyscrapers, I think he called them. Can that be right? Skyscrapers and studdingsails?”