He was too late. The captain was already at the main-deck entry port where he was greeting a tall French naval officer who was resplendent in a gilded blue coat, red waistcoat, blue breeches and white stockings. The Frenchman took off his salt-stained cocked hat as a courtesy to Cromwell. “You yield the ship?” he asked in good English.
“Don’t have much bloody choice, do I?” Cromwell said, glancing at the Revenant, which had opened four of her gunports to deter anyone aboard the Calliope from attempting a futile resistance. “Who are you?”
“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?”
“I don’t think Peculiar tried at all, sir,” Sharpe said morosely. Indeed, Sharpe believed that this empty spot of an empty ocean had been a rendezvous and that Cromwell had deliberately lost the convoy and then purposefully sailed here in the knowledge that the Revenant would be waiting for him. The English captain had put on a feeble display of attempting to escape, and a meager show of defiance when Montmorin came aboard, but Sharpe still reckoned the Calliope had been sold long before the Revenant hove into sight.
“But we’re not seamen, you and I,” Dalton said, then frowned as boots tramped on the deck above, evidently inside Pohlmann’s quarters in the roundhouse. Something heavy fell on the deck, then there was a scraping sound. “Dear me,” Dalton said, “now they’re looting us.” He sighed. “Lord knows how long it’ll be before we’ll be paroled and I did so hope to be home by autumn.”
“It’ll be cold in Edinburgh, sir,” Sharpe said.
Dalton smiled. “I’ll have forgotten what it’s like to feel the cold. What place do you call home, Sharpe?”
Sharpe shrugged. “I’ve only ever lived in London and Yorkshire, sir, and I don’t know that cither’s home. The army’s my real home.”
“Not a bad home, Sharpe. You could do much worse.”
The brandy made Sharpe’s head swim and he refused a second glass. The ship, oddly silent, rocked in a long swell. Sharpe edged to the porthole to see that the French seamen had taken the spare spars from the Calliope’s main deck and were now floating the great lengths of timber across to the Revenant, towing them behind longboats, while other craft were carrying back casks of wine, water and food. The French warship was at least half as long again as the Calliope and her decks were much higher. Her gunports were all closed now, but she still looked sinister as she rose and fell on the ocean swell. The copper at her water line looked bright, suggesting she had recently scraped her bottom clean.
Footsteps sounded in the narrow passageway and there was a sudden knock on the door. “Come!” Major Dalton called, expecting one of his fellow passengers, but it was Capitaine Louis Montmorin who ducked under the low door, followed by an even taller man dressed in the same red, blue and white uniform. The two tall Frenchmen made the cabin seem very small.
“You are the senior English officer aboard?” Montmorin asked Dalton.
“Scottish,” Dalton bristled.
“Pardonnez-moi.” Montmorin was amused. “Permit me to name Lieutenant Bursay.” The captain indicated the huge man who loomed just inside the door. “Lieutenant Bursay will be captain of the prize crew that will take this ship to Mauritius.” The lieutenant was a gross-looking creature with an expressionless face that had been first scarred by smallpox, then by weapons. His right cheek was pitted blue with powder burns, his greasy hair hung lank over his collar and his uniform was stained with what looked like dried blood. He had huge hands with blackened palms, suggesting he had once earned his living in the high rigging, while at his side hung a broad-bladed cutlass and a long-barreled pistol. Monhnorin spoke to the lieutenant in French, then turned back to Dalton. “I have told him, Major, that in all matters concerning the passengers he is to consult with you.”