Sharpe’s Trafalgar

“I might be the savage,” Sharpe said, rubbing salt into the secretary’s wounded pride, “but I’m the one who had supper with her tonight.”

Though Lady Grace had neither spoken with him that night, nor even appeared to notice his presence in the cuddy where the food was scarcely better than the slop provided in steerage. The richer passengers were served the dead goats that were stewed and served in a vinegar sauce and Captain Cromwell was particularly fond of peas and pork, though the peas were dried to the consistency of bullets and the meat was salted to the texture of ancient leather. There was a suet pudding most nights, then port or brandy, coffee, cigars and whist. Eggs and coffee were served for breakfast, luxuries that never appeared in steerage, but Sharpe was not invited to share breakfast with the privileged folk.

On the nights when he ate in steerage Sharpe would go on deck afterward and watch the sailors dancing to a four-man orchestra of two violins, a flute and a drummer who beat his hands on the end of a half-barrel. One night there was a sudden and violent downpour of rain that drummed on the sails. Sharpe stood bare-chested, head back and mouth agape to drink the clean water, but most of the rain which fell on the ship seemed to find its way between decks that became ever more rank. Everything seemed to rot, rust or grow fungus. On Sundays the purser held divine service and the four-man orchestra played while the passengers, the richer standing on the quarterdeck and the less privileged beneath them on the main deck, sang “Awake, my soul, and with the sun thy daily stage of duty run.” Major Dalton sang gustily, beating time with his hand. Pohlma

Yet they did not perish and the sea and the miles slipped endlessly by, untouched by any speck of land or hostile sail. At noon the officers solemnly sighted the sun with their sextants, then hurried to Captain Cromwell’s cabin to work out the mathematics, though, in the middle of the third week, a day at last came when the sky was so thick with cloud that no sight could be taken. Captain Cromwell was overheard to remark that the Calliope was in for a blow, and all day he strode about the quarterdeck with a look of grim pleasure. The wind rose slowly but surely, making the passengers stagger on the canted deck and hold onto their hats. Many of those who had overcome their early seasickness now succumbed again, and the spray breaking on the ship’s bluff bows rattled on the sails as it flew down the deck. Late in the afternoon it began to rain so heavily that gray veils hid all but the closest vessels of the convoy.

Sharpe was again invited to be Pohlma

Water cascaded down the companionway as Sharpe climbed back to the remains of the daylight. He staggered across the quarterdeck where six men hung onto the wheel and banged through the poop door where he was thrown across the small hallway before ca

“You’re the baron’s guest again?” Cromwell asked pointedly.

“You surely do not mind Mister Sharpe being my guest?” Pohlma

“He eats from your purse, Baron, not mine,” Cromwell growled, then waved Sharpe into his usual chair. “For God’s sake, sit, Mister Sharpe.” He held up a massive hand, then paused as the ship rolled. The bulkheads shifted alarmingly and the cutlery slid across the table. “May the good Lord bless these victuals,” Cromwell said, “and make us grateful for their sustenance, in the name of the Lord, amen.”

“Amen,” Lady Grace said distantly. Her husband looked pale and gripped the table’s edge as if it might alleviate the boat’s quick motion. Lady Grace, on the other hand, was quite unaffected by the weather. She wore a red dress, cut low, and had a string of pearls around her slim neck. Her dark hair was piled at her crown and held in place with pearl-encrusted pins.

Fiddles had been placed about the table so that the knives, forks, spoons, glasses, plates and cruets would not slide off, but the lurching of the ship made the meal a perilous experience. Cromwell’s steward served a thick soup first. “Fresh fish!” Cromwell boasted. “All caught this morning. I have no idea what kind of fish they were, but no one has yet died of an unknown fish on my ship. They’ve died of other things, of course.” The captain eagerly spooned the bony gruel into his mouth, expertly holding the plate so that the contents did not spill as the ship tilted. “Men fall from the upper works, folk die of fever and I’ve even had a passenger kill herself for unrequited love, but I’ve never had one die offish poison.”

“Unrequited love?” Pohlma

“It happens, Baron, it happens,” Cromwell said with relish. “It is a well-attested phenomenon that a sea voyage spurs the baser instincts. You will forgive me mentioning the matter, milady,” he added hastily to Lady Grace, who ignored his coarseness.

Lord William took one taste of the fish soup and turned away, leaving his plate to slop itself empty on the table. Lady Grace managed a few spoonfuls, but then, disliking the taste, pushed the malodorous mess away. The major ate heartily, Pohlma

“Cold beef and rice next,” the captain a

“I traded, Captain, yes.”

Lady Grace looked up sharply, frowned, then pretended the conversation did not interest her. The wine decanters rattled in their metal cage. The whole ship creaked, groaned and shuddered whenever a stronger wave exploded at her bows.

“In England,” Cromwell said pointedly, “the aristocracy do not trade. They think it beneath them.”

“English lords have land,” Pohlma

“Doing what, pray?” Cromwell demanded. His long wet hair lay lank on his shoulders.

“I buy, I sell,” Pohlma

“And successfully, too!” Captain Cromwell appeared to be making conversation to take his guests’ minds off the ship’s pitching and rolling. “So now you take your profits home, and quite right too. So where is home? Bavaria? Prussia? Hesse?”

“Hanover,” Pohlma

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