Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe's Trafalgar, Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe's Rifles by Bernard Cornwell

army. A small army can never defeat Napoleon. Ergo, Napoleon is safe. Ergo, the war is lost. Good God, man, they might already have invaded Britain!’
    ‘I pray not,’ Major Dalton said fervently.
    ‘Their army was ready,’ Cromwell boomed with a strange relish in this talk of British defeat, ‘and all they needed was for their navy to command the channel.’
    ‘Which it cannot do,’ the barrister intervened quietly.
    ‘And even if they did not invade this year,’ Cromwell went on, ignoring the lawyer, ‘then in time they will succeed in building a navy fit to defeat ours, and when that day comes Britain will have to seek peace. Britain will revert to its natural posture, and its natural posture is to be a small and insignificant island poised off a great continent.’
    Lady Grace spoke for the first time. Sharpe had been pleased and surprised to see her at supper, for Captain Chase had suggested that she eschewed company, but she seemed content to be in the cuddy though so far she had taken as little part in the conversation as her husband. ‘So we are doomed to defeat, Captain?’ she suggested.
    ‘No, ma’am,’ Cromwell answered, softening his pugnacity now that he addressed a titled passenger. ‘We are doomed to a realistic settlement of peace just as soon as the jackanapes politicians recognize what is plain in front of their faces.’
    ‘Which is?’ Fairley demanded.
    ‘That the French are more powerful than us, of course!’ Cromwell growled. ‘And until we make peace the prudent man makes money, for we shall need money in a world run by the French. That is why India is important. We should suck the place dry before the French take it from us.’ Cromwell snapped his fingers to instruct the stewards to remove the plates which had held a ragout of salted beef. Sharpe had eaten clumsily, finding the thick silverware unwieldy, and wishing he had dared take out his folding pocket knife which he used at meals when his betters were not present.
    Mathilde, the Baroness von Dornberg, smiled gratefully as the captain replenished her wine glass. The baroness, who was almost certainly nothing of the sort, sat on Captain Cromwell’s left while opposite her was Lady Grace Hale. Pohlmann, resplendent in a lace-fringed silk coat, sat next to Lady Grace while Lord William was to the left of Mathilde. Sharpe, as the least important person present, was at the lower end of the table.
    The cuddy was an elegant room panelled with wood that had been painted pea-green and gold, while a brass chandelier, bereft of candles, hung from a beam alongside the wide skylight. If the room had not been gently rocking, sometimes shifting a wine glass on the table, Sharpe might have thought himself ashore.
    He had said nothing all evening, content to gaze at Lady Grace who, white-faced and aloof, had ignored him since the moment he had been named to her. She had politely offered him a gloved hand, given him an expressionless glance, then turned away. Her husband had frowned at Sharpe’s presence, then imitated his wife by pretending the ensign did not exist.
    A dessert of oranges and burnt sugar was served. Pohlmann eagerly spooned the rich sauce into his mouth, then looked at Sharpe. ‘You think the war is lost, Sharpe?’
    ‘Me, sir?’ Sharpe was startled at being addressed.
    ‘You, Sharpe, yes, you,’ Pohlmann said. ‘Do you think the war is lost?’
    Sharpe hesitated, wondering whether the wisest course was to say something harmless and let the conversation go on again without him, but he had been offended by Cromwell’s defeatism. ‘It certainly isn’t over, my lord,’ he said to Pohlmann.
    Cromwell recognized the challenge. ‘What do you mean by that, sir, eh? Explain yourself.’
    ‘A fight ain’t lost till it’s finished, sir,’ Sharpe said, ‘and this one ain’t done.’
    ‘An ensign speaks,’ Lord William murmured scornfully.
    ‘You think a rat has a chance against a terrier?’ Cromwell demanded, just