“Merci, Capitaine,” Dalton said, then looked at the huge Bursay. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

Bursay offered Dalton a flat stare for a few seconds. “Non,” he finally grunted.

“But you speak French?” Montmorin asked Dalton.

“Passably,” Dalton conceded.

“That is good. And you may be assured, monsieur, that no harm will come to any passenger so long as you all obey Lieutenant Bursay’s orders. Those orders are very simple. You are to stay below decks. You may go anywhere in the ship, except on deck. There will be armed men guarding every hatchway, and those men have orders to shoot if any of you disobey those simple orders.” He smiled. “It will be three, perhaps four days to Mauritius? Longer, I fear, if the wind does not improve. And, monsieur, allow me to tell you how sincerely I regret your inconvenience. C’est la guerre.”

Montmorin and Bursay left and Dalton shook his head. “This is a sad business, Sharpe, a sad business.”

The noise overhead, from Pohlmann’s cabins, had stopped and Sharpe looked up. “Do you mind if I make a reconnaissance, sir?”

“A reconnaissance? Not on deck, I hope? Good Lord, Sharpe, do you think they’d really shoot us? It seems very uncivilized, don’t you think?”

Sharpe did not answer, but instead went out into the passageway and, followed by Dalton, climbed the narrow stairs to the roundhouse. The door to the cuddy was open and inside Sharpe found a disconsolate Lieutenant Tufnell staring at an almost empty room. The chairs had been taken, the chintz curtains removed and the chandelier carried away. Only the table which was fixed to the deck and had presumably been too heavy to move in a hurry still remained. “The furniture belonged to the captain,” Tufnell said, “and they’ve stolen it.”

“What else have they stolen?” Dalton asked.

“Nothing of mine,” Tufnell said. “They’ve taken cordage and spars, of course, and some food, but they’ve left the cargo. They can sell that, you see, in Mauritius.”

Sharpe went back into the passage and so to Pohlmann’s door which, though shut, was not locked and all his suspicions were confirmed when he pushed open the door, for the cabin was empty. The two silk-covered sofas were gone, Mathilde’s harp had disappeared, the low table was no more and only the sideboard and the bed, both monstrously heavy, were still nailed to the deck. Sharpe crossed to the sideboard and pulled open its doors to find it had been stripped of everything except empty bottles. The sheets, blankets and pillows were gone from the bed, leaving only a mattress. “Damn him,” Sharpe said.

“Damn who?” Dalton had followed Sharpe into the cabin.

“The Baron von Dornberg, sir.” Sharpe decided not to reveal Pohlmann’s true identity, for Dalton would doubtless demand to know why Sharpe had not uncovered the impostor before, and Sharpe did not think that he could answer that question satisfactorily. Nor did he know whether such a revelation could have saved the ship, for Cromwell was just as guilty as Pohlmann. Sharpe led the major and Tufnell down the stairs to Cromwell’s quarters to find them swept as clean as Pohlmann’s cabin. The dirty clothes were gone, the books had been taken from the shelves and the chronometer and barometer were no longer in the small cupboard. The big chest had vanished. “And damn goddamn bloody Cromwell too,” Sharpe said. “Damn him to hell.” He did not even bother to look in the cabin occupied by Pohlmann’s “servant,” for he knew that would be as bare as this. “They sold the ship, sir,” he said to Dalton.

“They did what?” The major looked appalled.

“They sold the ship. The baron and Cromwell. Damn them.” He kicked the table leg. “I can’t prove it, sir, but it was no accident we lost the convoy, and no accident that we met the Revenant.” He rubbed his face tiredly. “Cromwell believes the war is lost. He thinks we’re going to be living under French sufferance, if not French rule, so he sold himself to the winners.”

“No!” Lieutenant Tufnell protested.

“I can’t believe it, Sharpe,” the major said, but his face showed that he did believe it. “I mean, the baron, yes! He’s a foreigner. But Cromwell?”

“I’ve no doubt it was the baron’s idea, sir. He probably talked to all the convoy’s captains when they were waiting in Bombay and found his man in Cromwell. Now they’ve stolen the passengers’ jewelery, sold the ship and deserted. Why else has the baron gone to the Revenant? Why didn’t he stay with the rest of the passengers?” He almost called him Pohlmann, but remembered just in time.

Dalton sat on the empty table. “Cromwell was looking after a watch for me,” he said sadly. “Rather a valuable one that belonged to my dear father. It kept uncertain time, but it was precious to me.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Nothing we can do,” Dalton said bleakly. “We’ve been fleeced, Sharpe, fleeced!”

“Not by Cromwell, surely!” Tufnell said in wonderment. “He was so proud of being English!”

“It’s just that he loves money more than his country,” Sharpe said sourly.

“And you told me yourself that he could have tried harder to evade the Revenant,” Dalton pointed out to Tufnell.

“He could, sir, he could,” Tufnell admitted, appalled at Cromwell’s betrayal.

They went to Ebenezer Fairley’s cabin and the merchant grunted when he heard Sharpe’s tale, but did not seem unduly surprised. “I’ve seen folk beggar their own families for a slice of profit. And Peculiar was always a greedy man. Come in, the three of you. I’ve got brandy, wine, rum and arrack that needs drinking before those French buggers find it.”

“I hope Cromwell was not carrying any of your valuables?” Dalton asked solicitously.

“Do I look like a blockhead?” Fairley demanded. “He tried! He even told me I had to give him my valuables under Company rules, but I told him not to be such a damned fool!”

“Quite,” Dalton said, thinking of his father’s watch. Sharpe said nothing.

Fairley’s wife, a plump and motherly woman, expressed a hope that the French would provide supper. “It’ll be nothing fancy, mother,” Fairley warned his wife, “not like we’ve been getting in the cuddy. It’ll be burgoo, don’t you reckon, Sharpe?”

“I imagine so, sir.”

“God knows how their lordships will like that!” Fairley said, jerking his head up toward Lord William’s cabin before offering Sharpe a sly glance. “Not that her ladyship seems to mind mucking it.”

“I doubt she’ll like burgoo,” Dalton said earnestly.

It was almost nightfall before the French had emptied the Calliope of all they wanted. They took powder, cordage, spars, food, water and all the Calliope’s boats, but left the cargo intact for that, like the ship itself, would be sold in Mauritius. The last boat rowed back to the warship, then the Frenchman loosed her topsails and chanting seamen hauled out the foresails to catch the wind and turn the ship westward as the other sails were loosed. Men waved from the quarterdeck as the black and yellow ship drew away.

“Gone toward the Cape of Good Hope,” Tufnell said morosely. “Looking for the China traders, I don’t doubt.”

The Calliope, now with the French tricolor hoisted above the Company ensign, began to move. She went slowly at first, for her prize crew was small and it took them over half an hour to loose all the Indiaman’s sails, but by dusk the great ship was sailing smoothly eastward in a light wind.

Two of the Calliope’s own seamen were allowed to bring supper to the passengers and Fairley invited the major, Tufnell and Sharpe to eat in his cabin. The meal was a pot of boiled oats thickened with salt beef fat and dried fish that Fairley declared was the best meal he had yet eaten on board. He saw his wife’s distaste. “You ate worse than this when we were first married, mother.”

“I cooked for you when we were first married!” she answered indignantly.