Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3. Bernard Cornwell
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ruefully.
‘He probably had the new sail bent on ready, sir,’ Haskell suggested.
‘Like as not,’ Chase agreed. ‘He’s good, our Louis, ain’t he?’
‘Probably got English blood,’ Haskell said in all seriousness.
They passed the Cape Verde Islands which were mere blurs on a rain-smudged horizon and, a week later, in another rainstorm, they glimpsed the Canaries. There was plenty of local shipping about, but the sight of two warships sent them all scurrying for shelter.
There was just one more week, maybe a day less, to Cadiz. ‘She’ll make port on my birthday,’ Chase said, staring through his glass, then he collapsed the telescope and turned away to hide his bitterness for, unless a miracle intervened, he knew he faced utter failure. He had one week to catch the Frenchman, but the wind had backed and for the next few days the Revenant kept her lead so that the sun-faded tricolour at her stern was a constant taunt to her pursuers.
‘What will Chase do if we don’t catch her?’ Grace asked Sharpe that night.
‘Sail on to England,’ he said. Plymouth, probably, and he imagined landing on a wet autumn afternoon on a stone quay where he would be forced to watch Lady Grace going away in a hired four-wheeler.
‘I shall write to you,’ she said, reading his thoughts, ‘if I know where.’
‘Shorncliffe, in Kent. The barracks.’ He could not hide his misery. The stupid dreams of a ridiculous love were fading into a grim reality, just as Chase’s hopes of catching the Revenant were fading.
Grace lay beside him, gazing up at the deck, listening to the hiss of rain falling on the deadlight of the cabin’s scuttle. She was dressed, for it was almost time for her to slip out of his door and go down to her own cabin, yet she clung to him and Sharpe saw the old sadness in her eyes. ‘There is something,’ she said softly, ‘that I was not going to tell you.’
‘Not going to tell me?’ he asked. ‘Which means you will tell me.’
‘I was not going to tell you,’ she said, ‘because there is nothing to be done about it.’
He guessed what she was going to say, but let her say it.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said and sounded forlorn.
He squeezed her hand, said nothing. He had known what she was going to say, but was now surprised by it.
‘Are you angry?’ she asked nervously.
‘I’m happy,’ he said, and laid a hand on her flat belly. It was true. He was filled with joy, even though he knew that joy had no future.
‘The child is yours,’ she said.
‘You know that?’
‘I know that. Maybe it’s the laudanum, but …’ She stopped and shrugged. ‘It’s yours. But William will think it’s his.’
‘Not if he can’t …’
‘He will think what I tell him!’ she interrupted fiercely, then began to cry and put her head on Sharpe’s shoulder. ‘It is yours, Richard, and I would give the world for the child to know you.’
But they would be home soon, and she would go away and Sharpe would never see the child for he and Grace were illicit lovers and there was no future for them. None. They were doomed.
And next morning everything changed.
It was a chill, wet day. The wind was north of northwest, so that the Pucelle sailed hard on her bowline. Rain squalls swept across the sea, seethed on the deck and dripped from the sails. The water was green and grey, streaked by foam and whipped by the wind. The officers on the quarterdeck looked unfamiliar for they were in thick oiled coats, and Sharpe, feeling the cold for the first time since he had gone to India, shivered. The ship bucked and shuddered, fighting sea and wind, and sometimes heeled far over as a gusting squall strained the sails. Seven men manned the double wheel and it needed all their combined strength to hold the heavy ship up into the wind’s teeth. ‘A touch of autumn in the air,’ Captain Chase greeted Sharpe. Chase’s cocked hat was covered with canvas and tied beneath his chin. ‘Did you have breakfast?’
‘I did, sir.’ It was not much of a breakfast for supplies were getting low on the Pucelle and the officers, like the men, subsisted on short rations of beef, ship’s biscuit and Scotch coffee which was a vile concoction of burnt bread dissolved in hot water and sweetened with sugar.
‘We’re gaining on him,’ Chase said, nodding towards the distant Revenant which was evidently having as hard a time as the Pucelle, for she was shattering the seas with her bluff bow and smothering her hull in spray as she pushed as near northwards as her helmsman could manage. The Pucelle closed the gap relentlessly, as she always did when the ships were hard on the wind, but just after the second bell of the forenoon watch the breeze went into the south-south-west and the Revenant was no longer struggling into the wind, but could sail with her canvas spread to the treacherous wind’s kindness and so keep her lead. Then, just a half-hour later, she unexpectedly turned to the east which meant she was heading towards the Straits of Gibraltar instead of Cadiz.
‘Starboard, starboard!’ Chase called to the helmsman.
Haskell ran up to the quarterdeck as the seven men spun the Pucelle’s wheel. Sail handlers ran about the deck, loosing sheets. The sails flapped, spattering rainwater across the deck. ‘Has she blown out her foresails again?’ Haskell shouted over the noise of the beating canvas.
‘No,’ Chase said. The Frenchman was travelling faster and easier now, sliding across the waves to leave a track of ragged white water at her stern. ‘He’s making for Toulon!’ Chase decided, but no sooner had he spoken than the Revenant turned back onto her old course and the Pucelle’s watch, who had just loosened her sheets, had to haul them tight again.
‘Follow him!’ Chase called to the quartermaster and pulled out his glass again, unhooded the lens and stared at the Frenchman. ‘What the devil is he doing? Is he taunting us? Knows he’s safe and wants to mock us? Blast him!’
The answer came ten minutes later when a lookout called that a sail was in sight. Twenty minutes more and there were two sails out on the northern horizon and the closer of the two had been identified as a British frigate. ‘Can’t be the blockading squadron,’ Chase said, puzzled, ‘because we’re too far south.’ A moment later the second ship came into clearer view and she too was a Royal Navy frigate.
The Revenant had plainly changed course to avoid the two ships, fearing from her first glimpse of their topsails that they might be British ships of the line, but then, realizing that she was faced by two mere frigates, she had decided to fight her way through to Cadiz. ‘She’ll have no trouble brushing them aside,’ Chase said gloomily. ‘Their only hope of stopping her is by laying themselves right across her course.’
Signals were suddenly flying in the breeze. Sharpe could not even see the distant frigates, but Hopper, the bosun of Chase’s crew, could not only see them, but could identify the nearer ship. ‘She’s the Euryalus, sir!’
‘Henry Blackwood, by God,’ Chase said. ‘He’s a good man.’
Tom Connors, the signal lieutenant, was halfway up the mizzen ratlines where he gazed through a glass at the Euryalus which was flying a string of bright flags from her mizzen yard. ‘The fleet’s out, sir!’ Connors called excitedly, then amended his report. ‘Euryalus wants us to identify ourselves, sir. But she also says the French and Spanish fleets are out.’
‘My God! Bless me!’ Chase, his face suddenly stripped of all its tiredness and disappointment, turned to Sharpe. ‘The fleet’s out!’ He sounded disbelieving and exultant at the same time. ‘You’re certain, Tom?’ he asked Connors, who was now running up to the flag lockers on the poop. ‘Of course you’re sure. They’re out!’ Chase could not resist