He was a tall and heavy-set man with black hair streaked badger white that he wore past his shoulders. He had a long jaw, big yellow teeth and belligerent eyes. His hands, large and powerful, were permanently blackened from the tarred rigging. His uniform coat was cut from a thick blue broadcloth and heavily crusted with brass buttons decorated with the Company’s symbol which was supposed to show a lion holding a crown, but which everyone called “the cat and the cheese.” Cromwell shook his ponderous head. “The war is lost,” he declared again. “Who rules the continent of Europe?”

“The French,” the barrister answered lazily, “but it won’t last. All flash and fire, the French, but there ain’t no substance in them. No substance at all.”

“The whole coast of Europe,” Cromwell said icily, ignoring the lawyer’s scorn, “is in enemy hands.” He paused as a shuddering, grating and scraping noise echoed through the cabin. It punctuated the conversation sporadically and it had taken Sharpe a few moments to realize that it was the sound of the tiller ropes that ran two decks beneath him. Cromwell glanced up at a telltale compass that was mounted on the ceiling, then, deciding all was in order, resumed his argument. “Europe, I tell you, is in enemy hands. The Americans, damn their insolence, are hostile, so our home ocean, sir, is an enemy sea. An enemy sea. We sail there because we have more ships, but ships cost money, and for how long will the British people pay for ships?”

“There are the Austrians,” Major Dalton suggested, “the Russians?”

“The Austrians, sir!” Cromwell scoffed. “No sooner do the Austrians field an army than it is destroyed! The Russians? Would you trust the Russians to free Europe when they cannot liberate themselves? Have you been to Russia, sir?”

“No,” Major Dalton admitted.