“I’ll pay it!” Nana Rao gasped.

“And Captain Chase wants his money too,” Sharpe said.

“Two hundred and sixteen guineas,” Chase said, brushing off his hat, “though I think we deserve a little more for having worked the miracle of bringing Nana Rao back to life!”

Panjit was no fool. He looked at Chase’s seamen who were picking up their capstan bars and readying themselves to continue the fight. “No magistrates?” he asked Sharne.

“I hate magistrates,” Sharpe said.

Panjit’s face betrayed a flicker of a smile. “If you were to let go of my cousin’s hair,” he suggested, “then I think we can all talk business.”

Sharpe let go of Nana Rao, lowered the flint of the pistol and stepped back. He stood momentarily to attention. “Ensign Sharpe, sir,” he introduced himself to Chase.

“You are no ensign, Sharpe, but a ministering angel.” Chase climbed the steps with an outstretched hand. Despite the blood on his face he was a good-looking man with a confidence and friendliness that seemed to come from a contented and good-natured character. “You are the deus ex machina, Ensign, as welcome as a whore on a gundeck or a breeze in the horse latitudes.” He spoke lightly, but there was no doubting the fervency of his thanks and, instead of shaking Sharpe’s hand, he embraced him. “Thank you,” he whispered, then stepped back. “Hopper!”

“Sir?” The huge bosun with the tattooed arms who had been laying enemies left and right before he was overwhelmed stepped forward.

“Clear the decks, Hopper. Our enemies wish to discuss surrender terms.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And this is Ensign Sharpe, Hopper, and he is to be treated as a most honored friend.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Hopper said, grinning.

“Hopper commands my barge crew,” Chase explained to Sharpe, “and those battered gentlemen are his oarsmen. This night may not go down as one of our greater victories, gentlemen”—Chase was now addressing his bruised and bleeding men—”but a victory it still is, and I thank you.”