Free Sharpe's Trafalgar by Bernard Cornwell

on board.”
    “There’s lots that’s forbidden, sir, but that don’t mean it don’t happen.”
    Sharpe’s ears were ringing from the terrible sound of the gun as he stepped away from the

    smoking weapon. Tufnell, the first lieutenant, insisted on shaking his hand and refused

    to countenance Sharpe’s insistence that the shot had been pure luck, then Tufnell stepped

    aside for Captain Cromwell had come down from the quarterdeck and was advancing on Sharpe.

    “Have you fired a cannon before?” the captain inquired fiercely.
    “No, sir.”
    Cromwell peered up into the rigging, then looked for his first officer. “Mister

    Tufnell!”
    “Sir?”
    “A broken horse! There, on the main topsail!” Cromwell pointed. Sharpe followed the

    captain’s finger and saw that one of the footropes that the topmen would stand on when they

    were furling the sail had parted. “I will not command a ragged ship, Mister Tufnell,”

    Cromwell snarled. “This ain’t a Thames hay barge, Mister Tufnell, but an Indiaman! Have it

    spliced, man, have it spliced!”
    Tufnell sent two seamen aloft to mend the broken line, while Cromwell paused to glower at

    the next crew firing the gun. The cannon recoiled, the smoke blossomed, and the ball

    skipped across the waves a good hundred yards from the bobbing cask.
    “A miss!” Binns shouted from the top of the mainmast.
    “I have an eye for an irregularity,” Cromwell said in his harsh, low voice, “as I’ve no

    doubt you do, Mister Sharpe. You see a hundred men on parade and doubtless your eye goes to

    the one sloven with a dirty musket. Am I right?”
    “I hope so, sir.”
    “A broken horse can kill a man. It can tumble him to the deck, putting misery into a

    mother’s heart. Her son put his foot down and there was nothing beneath him but void. Do you

    want your mother to have a broken heart, Mister Sharpe?”
    Sharpe decided this was no time to explain that he had long been orphaned. “No,

    sir.”
    Cromwell glared around the main deck which was crowded with the men who formed the gun

    crews. “What is it that you notice about these men, Mister Sharpe?”
    “Notice, sir?”
    “They are in shirtsleeves, Mister Sharpe. All except you and me are in shirtsleeves. I

    keep my coat on, Sharpe, because I am captain of this ship and it is meet and right that a

    captain should appear formally dressed before his crew. But why, I ask myself, does

    Mister Sharpe keep on his wool jacket on a hot day? Do you believe you are captain of this

    scow?”
    “I just feel the cold, sir,” Sharpe lied.
    “Cold?” Cromwell sneered. He put his right foot on a crack between the deck planks and,

    when he lifted the shoe, a string of melting tar adhered to his sole. “You are not cold,

    Mister Sharpe, you are sweating. Sweating! So come with me, Mister Sharpe.” The captain

    turned and led Sharpe up to the quarterdeck. The passengers watching the gunnery made way

    for the two men and Sharpe was suddenly conscious of Lady Grace’s perfume, then he

    followed Cromwell down the companion-way into the great cabin where the captain had his

    quarters. Cromwell unlocked his door, pushed it open and gestured that Sharpe should go

    inside. “My home,” the captain grunted.
    Sharpe had expected that the captain would have one of the stern cabins with their big

    wide windows, but it was more profitable to sell such accommodation to passengers and

    Cromwell was content with a smaller cabin on the larboard side. It was still a

    comfortable home. A bunk bed was built into a wall of bookshelves while a table, hinged to

    the bulkhead, was smothered in unrolled charts that were weighted down with three lanterns

    and a pair of long-barreled pistols. The daylight streamed in through an opened porthole,

    above which the sea’s reflection rippled on the white painted ceiling. Cromwell unlocked

    a small cupboard to reveal a barometer and, beside it, what appeared to be a fat