“Know who that is?” It was Braithwaite, Lord William Male’s secretary, who had sidled alongside Sharpe.
“No.” Sharpe was brusque, instinctively disliking anyone connected with Lord William.
“That was the Baron von Dornberg,” Braithwaite said, evidently expecting Sharpe to be impressed. The secretary watched the baron help his lady up to the forecastle where another gust of wind threatened to snatch her wide-brimmed hat.
“Never heard of him,” Sharpe said churlishly.
“He’s a nabob.” Braithwaite spoke the word in awe, meaning that the baron was a man who had made himself fabulously rich in India and was now carrying his wealth back to Europe. Such a career was a gamble. A man either died in India or became wealthy. Most died. “Are you carrying goods?” Braithwaite asked Sharpe.
“Goods?” Sharpe asked, wondering why the secretary was making such an effort to be pleasant to him.
“To sell,” Braithwaite said impatiently, as though Sharpe was being deliberately obtuse. “I’ve got peacock feathers,” he went on, “five crates! The plumes fetch a rare price in London. Milliners buy them. I’m Malachi Braithwaite, by the way.” He held out his hand. “Lord William’s confidential secretary.”
Sharpe reluctantly shook the offered hand.
“I never did send that letter,” Braithwaite said, smiling meaningfully. “I told him I did, but I didn’t.” Braithwaite leaned close to make these confidences. He was a few inches taller than Sharpe, but much thinner, and had a lugubrious face with quick eyes that never seemed to look at Sharpe for long before darting sideways, almost as though Braithwaite expected to be attacked at any second. “His lordship will merely assume your colonel never received the letter.”
“Why didn’t you send it?” Sharpe asked.
Braithwaite looked offended at Sharpe’s curt tone. “We’re to be shipmates,” he explained earnestly, “for how long? Three, four months? And I don’t travel in the stern like his lordship, but have to sleep in the steerage, and lower steerage at that! Not even main-deck steerage.” He plainly resented that humiliation. The secretary was dressed as a gentleman, with a fashionable high stock and an elaborately tied cravat, but the cloth of his black coat was shiny, the cuffs were frayed and the collar of his shirt was darned. “Why should I make unnecessary enemies, Mister Sharpe?” Braithwaite asked. “If I scratch your back, then maybe you can do me a service.”
“Such as?”
Braithwaite shrugged. “Who knows what eventuality might arise?” he asked airily, then turned to watch the Baron von Dornberg come back down the forecastle steps. “They say he made a fortune in diamonds,” Braithwaite murmured to Sharpe, “and his servant isn’t expected to travel in steerage, but has a place in the great cabin.” He spat that last information, then composed his face and stepped forward to intercept the baron. “Malachi Braithwaite, confidential secretary to Lord William Hale,” he introduced himself as he raised his hat, “and most honored to meet your lordship.”
“The honor and pleasure are entirely mine,” the Baron von Dornberg answered in excellent English, then returned Braithwaite’s courtesy by removing his tricorne hat and making a low bow. Straightening, he looked at Sharpe and Sharpe found himself staring into a familiar face, though now that face was decorated with a big waxed mustache. He looked at the baron, and the baron looked astonished for a second, then recovered himself and winked at Sharpe.
Sharpe wanted to say something, but feared he would laugh aloud and so he simply offered the baron a stiff nod.
But von Dornberg would have none of Sharpe’s formality. He spread his powerful arms and gave Sharpe a bear-like embrace. “This is one of the bravest men in the British army,” he told his woman, then whispered in Sharpe’s ear. “Not a word, I beg you, not a pippy squeak.” He stepped back. “May I name the Baroness von Dornberg? This is Mister Richard Sharpe, Mathilde, a friend and an enemy from a long time ago. Don’t tell me you travel in steerage, Mister Sharpe?”
“I do, my lord.”
“I am shocked! The British do not know how to treat their heroes. But I do! You shall come and dine with us in the captain’s cuddy. I shall insist on it!” He grinned at Sharpe, offered Mathilde his arm, inclined his head to Braithwaite and walked on.
“I thought you said you didn’t know him!” Braithwaite said, aggrieved.
“I didn’t recognize him with his hat on,” Sharpe said. He turned away, unable to resist a grin. The Baron von Dornberg was no baron, and Sharpe doubted he had traded for any diamonds, no matter how many he carried, for von Dornberg was a rogue. His true name was Anthony Pohlmann and he had once been a sergeant in the Hanoverian army before he deserted for the richer service of an Indian prince, and his talent for war had brought him ever swifter promotion until, for a time, he had led a Mahratta army that was feared throughout central India. Then, one hot day, his forces met a much smaller British army between two rivers at a village called Assaye, and there, in an afternoon of dusty heat and red-hot guns and bloody slaughter, Anthony Pohlmann’s army had been shredded by sepoys and Highlanders. Pohlmann himself had vanished into the mystery of India, but now he was here on the Calliope as a celebrated passenger.
“How did you meet him?” Braithwaite demanded.
“Can’t remember now,” Sharpe said vaguely. “Somewhere or other. Can’t really remember.” He turned to stare at the shore. The land was black now, punctured by sparks of firelight and outlined by a gray sky smeared with a city’s smoke. He wished he was back there, but then he heard Pohlmann’s loud voice and turned to see the German introducing his woman to Lady Grace Hale.
Sharpe stared at her ladyship. She was above him, on the quarterdeck, seemingly oblivious of the folk crowded on the main deck below. She offered Pohlmann a limp hand, inclined her head to the fair-haired woman and then, without a word, turned regally away. “That is Lady Grace,” Braithwaite told Sharpe in an awed voice.
“Someone told me she was ill?” Sharpe suggested.
“Merely highly strung,” Braithwaite said defensively. “Very fine-strung women are prone to fragility, I think, and her ladyship is fine-strung, very fine-strung indeed.” He spoke warmly, unable to take his eyes from Lady Grace, who stood watching the receding shore.
An hour later it was dark, India was gone and Sharpe sailed beneath the stars.
“The war is lost,” Captain Peculiar Cromwell declared, “lost.” He made the statement in a harsh, flat voice, then frowned at the tablecloth. It was the Calliope’s third day out from Bombay and she was running before a gentle wind. She was, as Captain Chase had told Sharpe, a fast ship and the East India Company frigate had ordered Cromwell to shorten sail during the day because she was in danger of outrunning the slower ships. Cromwell had grumbled at the order, then had taken so much canvas from the yards that the Calliope now sailed at the convoy’s rear.
Anthony Pohlmann had invited Sharpe to take supper in the cuddy where Captain Cromwell nightly presided over those wealthier passengers who had paid to travel in the luxurious stern cabins. The cuddy was in the poop, the highest part of the ship, just forward of the two roundhouse cabins that were the largest, most lavish and most expensive. Lord William Hale and the Baron von Dornberg occupied the roundhouse, while beneath them, on the main deck of the ship, the great cabin had been divided into four compartments for the ship’s other wealthy passengers. One was a nabob and his wife who returned to their Cheshire home after twenty profitable years in India, another was a barrister who had been traveling after practicing in the Supreme Court in Bengal, the third was a gray-haired major from the 96th who was retiring from the army, while the last cabin belonged to Pohlmann’s servant who alone among the stern passengers was not invited to eat in the cuddy.