“God, this place stinks!” Chase said.

“You’ve not been here before?” Sharpe asked, surprised.

“I’ve been five months in India,” Chase said, “but always at sea. Now I’m living ashore for a week, and it stinks. My God, how the place stinks!”

“No more than London,” Sharpe said, which was true, but here the smells were different. Instead of coal fumes there was bullock-dung smoke and the rich odors of spices and sewage. It was a sweet smell, ripe even, but not unpleasant, and Sharpe was thinking back to when he had first arrived and how he had recoiled from the smell that he now thought homely and even enticing. “I’ll miss it,” he admitted. “I sometimes wish I wasn’t going back to England.”

“Which ship are you on?”

“The Calliope.”

Chase evidently found that amusing. “So what do you make of Peculiar?”

“Peculiar?” Sharpe asked.

“Peculiar Cromwell, of course, the Captain.” Chase looked at Sharpe. “Surely you’ve met him!”

“I haven’t. Never heard of him.”

“But the convoy must have arrived two months ago,” Chase said.

“It did.”

“Then you should have made an effort to see Peculiar. That’s his real name, by the way, Peculiar Cromwell. Odd, eh? He was navy once, most of the East Indiamen captains were navy, but Peculiar resigned because he wanted to become rich. He also believed he should have been made admiral without spending tedious years as a mere captain. He’s an odd soul, but he sails a tidy ship, and a fast one. I can’t believe you didn’t make the effort to meet him.”

“Why should I?” Sharpe asked.

“To make sure you get some privileges aboard, of course. Can I assume you’ll be traveling in steerage?”