Sharpe rubbed the bruise on his forehead and tried to work out the weight of shot that the Pucelle could fire, but Collier was ahead of him. ‘We can throw 972 pounds of metal with each broadside, sir, and we’ve got two sides,’ he added helpfully, ‘as you may have noticed. And we’ve got the six carronades, sir, and they can throw thirty-two pounds apiece plus a cask of musket balls as well, which will make a Frenchman weep, sir. Or so I’m told, sir. Mind your head, sir.’ Which meant, Sharpe thought, that this one ship could throw more round shot in a single broadside than all the combined batteries of the army’s artillery at the battle of Assaye. It was a floating bastion, a crushing killer of the high seas, and this was not even the largest warship afloat. Some ships, Sharpe knew, carried over a hundred guns, and again Collier had the answers, trained in them because, like all midshipmen, he was preparing for his lieutenant’s examination. ‘The navy’s got eight first rates, sir, that’s ships with a hundred or more guns – watch that low beam, sir – fourteen second rates, which carry about ninety or more cannon, and a hundred and thirty of these third rates.’
‘You call this a third rate?’ Sharpe asked, astonished.
‘Down here, sir, watch your head, sir.’ Collier vanished into another companionway, sliding down the ladder’s uprights, and Sharpe followed more slowly, using the rungs, to find himself in a dark, dank, low-ceilinged deck that stank foully and was dimly lit by a scatter of glass-shielded lanterns. ‘This is the orlop deck, sir. Mind your head. It’s called the cockpit as well, sir. Watch that beam, sir. We’re just about under water here, sir, and the surgeon has his rooms down there, beyond the magazines, and we all prays, sir, we never end under his knife. This way, sir. Mind your head.’ He showed Sharpe the cable tiers where the anchor ropes were flaked down, the two leather-curtained magazines that were guarded by red-coated marines, the spirit store, the surgeon’s lair where the walls were painted red so that the blood did not show, the dispensary, and the midshipmen’s cabins that were scarce bigger than dog kennels, then he took Sharpe down a final ladder into the massive hold where the ship’s stores were piled in vast heaps of casks. Only the bilge lay beneath and a mournful sucking, interrupted by a clatter, told Sharpe that men were even now pumping it dry. ‘We hardly ever stop the six pumps,’ the midshipman said, ‘because as tight as you build ’em, sir, the sea do get in.’ He kicked at a rat, missed, then scrambled back up the ladder. He showed Sharpe the galley beneath the forecastle, introduced him to master-at-arms, cooks, bosuns, gunner’s mates, the carpenter, then offered to take Sharpe up the mainmast.
‘I’ll not bother today,’ Sharpe said.
Collier took him to the wardroom where he was named to a half-dozen officers, then back to the quarterdeck and aft, past the great double wheel, to a door that led directly into Captain Chase’s sleeping cabin. It was, as the captain had said, a small room, but it was panelled with varnished wood, had a canvas carpet on the floor and a scuttle to let in the daylight. Sharpe’s sea chest took up one wall, and Collier now helped him rig the hanging cot. ‘If you’re killed, sir,’ the boy said earnestly, ‘then this will be your coffin.’
‘Better than the one the army would give me,’ Sharpe said, throwing his blankets into the cot. ‘Where’s the first lieutenant’s cabin?’ he asked.
‘Forrard of this one, sir.’ Collier indicated the forward bulkhead. ‘Just beyond there, sir.’
‘And the second lieutenant’s?’ Sharpe asked, knowing that was where Lady Grace would be sleeping.
‘Weather deck, sir. Aft. By the wardroom,’ Collier said. ‘There’s a hook for your lantern there, sir, and you’ll find the captain’s quarter gallery is aft through that door, sir, and on the starboard side.’
‘Quarter gallery?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Latrine, sir. Drops direct into the sea, sir. Very hygienic. Captain Chase says you’re to share it, sir, and his steward will look after you, you being his guest.’
‘You like Chase?’ Sharpe asked, struck by the warmth in the midshipman’s voice.
‘Everyone likes the captain, sir, everyone,’ Collier said. ‘This is a happy ship, sir, which is more than I can say for many, and permit me to remind you that captain’s supper is at the end of the first dogwatch. That’s four bells, sir, seeing as how the dogwatches are only two hours apiece.’
‘What is it now?’
‘Just past two bells, sir.’
‘So how long till four bells?’
Collier’s small face showed astonishment that anyone should need to ask such a question. ‘An hour, sir, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Sharpe said.
Chase had invited six other guests to join him for supper. He could hardly avoid asking Lord William Hale and his wife, but he confided in Sharpe that Haskell, the first lieutenant, was a terrible snob who had flattered Lord William all the way from Calcutta to Bombay. ‘So he can damn well do it again now,’ Chase said, glancing at his first lieutenant, a tall, good-looking man, who was bending close to Lord William and evidently drinking in every word. ‘And this is Llewellyn Llewellyn,’ Chase said, drawing Sharpe towards a red-faced man in a scarlet uniform coat. ‘A man who does nothing by halves and is the captain of our marines, which means that if the Frogs board us I’m relying on Llewellyn Llewellyn and his rogues to throw them overboard. Is your name really Llewellyn Llewellyn?’
‘We are descended from the lineage of ancient kings,’ Captain Llewellyn said proudly, ‘unlike the Chase family, which, unless I am very much mistaken, were mere servants of the hunt.’
‘We hunted the bloody Welsh out,’ Chase said, smiling. It was plain that the two were old friends who took a delight in mutual insult. ‘This is my particular friend, Llewellyn, Richard Sharpe.’
The marine captain shook Sharpe’s hand energetically and expressed the hope that the ensign would join him and his men for some musketry training. ‘Maybe you can teach us something?’ the captain suggested.
‘I doubt it, Captain.’
‘I could use your help,’ Llewellyn said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve a lieutenant, of course, but the lad’s only sixteen. Doesn’t even shave! Not sure he can wipe his own bum. It’s good to have another redcoat aboard, Sharpe. It raises the tone of the ship.’
Chase laughed, then drew Sharpe on to meet the last guest, the ship’s surgeon, who was a plump man called Pickering. Malachi Braithwaite had been talking to the surgeon and he looked uncomfortable as Sharpe was introduced. Pickering, whose face was a mass of broken blood vessels, shook Sharpe’s hand. ‘I trust we never meet professionally, Ensign, for there ain’t a great deal I can do except carve you up and mutter a prayer. I do the latter very prettily, if that’s a consolation. I say, she does look better.’ The surgeon had turned to look at Lady Grace who was in a low-cut dress of very pale blue with an embroidered collar and hem. There were diamonds at her throat and more diamonds in her black hair which was pinned so high that it brushed the beams of Chase’s cabin whenever she moved. ‘I hardly saw her when she was aboard before,’ Pickering said, ‘but she seems a good deal more lively now. Even so, she’s unwelcome.’
‘Unwelcome?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Monstrous ill luck to have women on board, monstrous ill luck.’ Pickering reached up and superstitiously touched a beam. ‘But I must say she’s decorative. There’ll be some odious things being said in the fo’c’sle tonight, I can tell you. Ah well, we must survive what the good Lord sends us, even if it is a woman. Our captain tells us you are a celebrated soldier, Sharpe!’