Sharpes Siege   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

“Major Sharpe! Welcome aboard.”

Sharpe saw an eager, ingratiating lieutenant who clearly expected to be recognized. Sharpe frowned. “You were with…”

“With Captain Bampfylde, indeed, sir. I’m Ford.”

The elegantly clothed Ford made inconsequential conversation as he steered Sharpe towards the stern cabins. It was an honour, he said, to have such a distinguished soldier aboard, and was it possible that Sharpe was related to Sir Roderick Sharpe of Northamptonshire?

“No,” Sharpe was remembering Captain Bampfylde’s parting words in the Officer’s Club. Were those the reason for his summons here?

“One of the Wiltshire Sharpes, perhaps?” Ford seemed eager to place the Rifleman in a comforting social context.

“Middlesex,” Sharpe said.

“Do mind your head,” Ford smiled as he waved Sharpe under the break of the poopdeck. “I can’t quite place the Middlesex Sharpes.”

“My mother was a whore, I was born in a common lodging-house, and I joined the Army as a private. Does that make it easier?”

Ford’s smile did not falter. “Captain Bampfylde’s waiting for you, sir. Please go in.”

Sharpe ducked under the lintel of the opened doorway to find himself in a lavishly furnished cabin that extended the width of the Vengeance’s wide stern. A dozen officers, their wine glasses catching the light from the galleried windows, sat around a polished dining table.

“Major! We meet in happier circumstances.” Captain Horace Bampfylde greeted Sharpe with effusive and false pleasure. “No damned American to spoil our conversation, eh? Come and meet the company.”

Seeing Bampfylde in his ship made Sharpe realize how very young the naval captain was. Bampfylde must still lack two years of thirty, yet the naval captain possessed an ebullient confidence and a natural authority to compensate for his lack of years. He had a fleshy face, quick eyes, and an impatient manner that he tried to disguise as he made the introductions.

Most of the men about the table were naval officers whose names meant nothing to Sharpe, but there were also two Army officers, one of whom Sharpe recognized. “Colonel Elphinstone?”

Elphinstone, a big, burly Engineer whose hands were calloused and scarred, beamed a welcome. “You haven’t met my brother-in-arms, Sharpe; Colonel Wigram.”

Wigram was a grey-faced, dour, bloodless creature who acknowledged the ironic introduction with a curt nod. “If you could seat yourself, Major Sharpe, we might at last begin.