Sharpe and bowed to Jane. “Good morning, ma'am! Somewhat brisk!”
“Indeed, Mr Frederickson.” Jane shivered again.
“Everyone's aboard, sir.” Frederickson turned to Sharpe.
Sharpe wanted to linger with Jane, he wanted to reassure himself that she had not caught Hogan's fever, but Frederickson was waiting for him, men were holding the ropes that would swing the gangplank away, and he could not stay. He gave Jane a last kiss, and her forehead was like fire. “Go home to bed.”
“I will.” She was shaking now, hunched and clenched against the bitter wind.
Sharpe paused, wanting to say something memorable, something that would encompass the inchoate, extraordinary love he felt for her, but there were no words. He smiled, then turned to follow Frederickson on to the Amelias deck.
The daylight was thin now, seeping through the hilly landscape behind the port and making the streaked, bubbling, heaving water of the harbour silver. The gangplank crashed on to the stones of the quay.
Far out to sea, like some impossible mountain forming on the face of the waters, an airy structure of dirty grey sails caught the morning daylight. It was the Vengeance getting under way. She looked formidably huge; a great floating weapon that could make the air tremble and the sea shake when she launched her full broadside, but she would be useless in the shoal waters by the Teste de Buch fort. That would have to be taken by men and by hand-held weapons.
“He's signalling.” Tremgar, master of the Amelie, spat over the side. “Means they'll be moving us off. Stand by, forrard!” He bellowed the last words.
A topsail dropped from the nearby Scylla's yards and the movement, suggesting an imminent departure, made Sharpe turn to the quay. Jane, swathed in her powder-blue cloak, was still there. Sharpe could see her shivering. “Go home!”
A voice shouted. “Wait! Wait!” The accent was French and the speaker a dully-dressed man, evidently a servant, who rode a small horse and led a packhorse on a leading rein. `Amelie! Wait!"
“Bloody hell.” Tremgar had been packing a pipe with dark tobacco that he now pushed into a pocket of his filthy coat.
Behind the servant and packhorse and, stately as a bishop in procession, rode a tall, elegant man on a tall, elegant horse. The man had a delicate, sensitive face, a white cloak clasped with silver, and a bicorne hat shielded with oiled-cloth against the rain.
The gangplank was rigged again and the man, with a faint shudder as though the stench of the Amelie was too much for a gentleman of his fastidious tastes, came aboard. “I seek Major Sharpe,” he announced in a French accent to the assembled officers who had gathered in the ship's waist.
“I'm Sharpe.” Sharpe spoke from the poop deck.
The newcomer turned in a movement that would have been elegant on a dance-floor, but seemed somewhat ludicrous on the battered deck of an erstwhile collier. He took a quizzing glass from his sleeve and, with its help, inspected the tattered uniform of Major Richard Sharpe. He bowed, somehow suggesting that he should have been the recipient of such an honour himself, then took off his waterproofed hat to reveal sleek, silver hair that was brushed back to a black velvet bow. He held out a sealed envelope. “Orders.”
Sharpe had jumped down from the poop and now tore open the envelope. “To Major Sharpe. The bearer of this note is the Comte de Maquerre. You will render him every assistance within your power. Bertram Wigram, Colonel.”
Sharpe looked into the narrow face that had been powdered pale. He suddenly remembered that Hogan, in his sick ramblings, had mentioned the name Maquereau, meaning `pimp', and he wondered if the insult was a nickname for this elegant, fastidious man. “You're the Comte de Maquerre?”
!I have that honour, Monsieur, and I travel to Arcachon with you." De Maquerre's cloak had fallen open to reveal the uniform of the Chasseurs Britannique. Sharpe knew that
“Indeed, Mr Frederickson.” Jane shivered again.
“Everyone's aboard, sir.” Frederickson turned to Sharpe.
Sharpe wanted to linger with Jane, he wanted to reassure himself that she had not caught Hogan's fever, but Frederickson was waiting for him, men were holding the ropes that would swing the gangplank away, and he could not stay. He gave Jane a last kiss, and her forehead was like fire. “Go home to bed.”
“I will.” She was shaking now, hunched and clenched against the bitter wind.
Sharpe paused, wanting to say something memorable, something that would encompass the inchoate, extraordinary love he felt for her, but there were no words. He smiled, then turned to follow Frederickson on to the Amelias deck.
The daylight was thin now, seeping through the hilly landscape behind the port and making the streaked, bubbling, heaving water of the harbour silver. The gangplank crashed on to the stones of the quay.
Far out to sea, like some impossible mountain forming on the face of the waters, an airy structure of dirty grey sails caught the morning daylight. It was the Vengeance getting under way. She looked formidably huge; a great floating weapon that could make the air tremble and the sea shake when she launched her full broadside, but she would be useless in the shoal waters by the Teste de Buch fort. That would have to be taken by men and by hand-held weapons.
“He's signalling.” Tremgar, master of the Amelie, spat over the side. “Means they'll be moving us off. Stand by, forrard!” He bellowed the last words.
A topsail dropped from the nearby Scylla's yards and the movement, suggesting an imminent departure, made Sharpe turn to the quay. Jane, swathed in her powder-blue cloak, was still there. Sharpe could see her shivering. “Go home!”
A voice shouted. “Wait! Wait!” The accent was French and the speaker a dully-dressed man, evidently a servant, who rode a small horse and led a packhorse on a leading rein. `Amelie! Wait!"
“Bloody hell.” Tremgar had been packing a pipe with dark tobacco that he now pushed into a pocket of his filthy coat.
Behind the servant and packhorse and, stately as a bishop in procession, rode a tall, elegant man on a tall, elegant horse. The man had a delicate, sensitive face, a white cloak clasped with silver, and a bicorne hat shielded with oiled-cloth against the rain.
The gangplank was rigged again and the man, with a faint shudder as though the stench of the Amelie was too much for a gentleman of his fastidious tastes, came aboard. “I seek Major Sharpe,” he announced in a French accent to the assembled officers who had gathered in the ship's waist.
“I'm Sharpe.” Sharpe spoke from the poop deck.
The newcomer turned in a movement that would have been elegant on a dance-floor, but seemed somewhat ludicrous on the battered deck of an erstwhile collier. He took a quizzing glass from his sleeve and, with its help, inspected the tattered uniform of Major Richard Sharpe. He bowed, somehow suggesting that he should have been the recipient of such an honour himself, then took off his waterproofed hat to reveal sleek, silver hair that was brushed back to a black velvet bow. He held out a sealed envelope. “Orders.”
Sharpe had jumped down from the poop and now tore open the envelope. “To Major Sharpe. The bearer of this note is the Comte de Maquerre. You will render him every assistance within your power. Bertram Wigram, Colonel.”
Sharpe looked into the narrow face that had been powdered pale. He suddenly remembered that Hogan, in his sick ramblings, had mentioned the name Maquereau, meaning `pimp', and he wondered if the insult was a nickname for this elegant, fastidious man. “You're the Comte de Maquerre?”
!I have that honour, Monsieur, and I travel to Arcachon with you." De Maquerre's cloak had fallen open to reveal the uniform of the Chasseurs Britannique. Sharpe knew that
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