Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Fury - The Battle of Barrosa, March 1811

He stared eastwards. The sides of the valley were thick with grape vines and a few men worked there, shoring up one of the stone walls holding the terraces in place. A horseman ambled eastwards and a child drove two goats down the road, but otherwise nothing moved except a hawk that glided across the cloudless sky. It was winter still, but the sun had a surprising warmth. By turning round he could just see a sliver of the river beyond the house and, on the Guadiana’s far side, the Portuguese hills.

Harper relieved him, bringing Hagman and Slattery. ‘Harris is back, sir. Seems the lady speaks English so he isn’t needed. Is anything happening?’

‘Nothing. The lady?’

‘The marquesa, sir. An old biddy.’

‘I think the brigadier was hoping for something young and luscious.’

‘We were all hoping for that, sir. So what do we do if we see a Frenchie?’

‘We get down to the river,’ Sharpe said. He gazed eastwards. ‘If the bastards come,’ he said, ‘this is the road they’ll use, and at least we’ll see them a couple of miles away.’

‘Let’s hope they’re not coming.’

‘And let’s hope no one’s drunk if they do,’ Sharpe said.

Harper threw a puzzled look at Sharpe, then understood. ‘You needn’t worry about the Connaught men, sir. They’ll do what you tell them.’

‘They will?’

‘I had a word with Sergeant Noolan, so I did, and said you weren’t entirely bad unless you were crossed, and then you were a proper devil. And I told him you had an Irish father, which might be true, might it not?’

‘So I’m one of you now, am I?’ Sharpe asked, amused.

‘Oh no, sir, you’re not handsome enough.’

Sharpe went back to the kitchen where he discovered Geoghegan pounding the dough and two more of Noolan’s men stacking firewood beside the stove. ‘They’ll make you eggs and ham,’ Sergeant Noolan told him, ‘and we’ve shown them how to make proper tea.’

Sharpe contented himself with a piece of newly baked bread and a hunk of hard cheese. ‘Have any of your men got razors?’ he asked Noolan.

‘I’m sure Liam has,’ Noolan said, nodding at one of the men stacking firewood. ‘Keeps himself looking smart, he does, for the ladies.’

‘Then I want every man shaved,’ Sharpe said, ‘and no one’s to leave the stable yard. If the bloody Frogs come we don’t want to be searching for lost men. And Harris? Look around the stables. See if you can find some wood to make the brigadier crutches.’

Harris grinned. ‘He’s already got crutches, sir. The lady had some that belonged to her husband.’

‘The marquesa?’

‘She’s a crone, sir, a widow, and hell, has she got a bloody tongue on her!’

‘Has the brigadier been given food?’

‘He has, sir, and there’s a doctor on his way.’

‘He doesn’t need a doctor,’ Sharpe grumbled. ‘Private Geoghegan did a good job on that leg.’

Geoghegan grinned. ‘I did, sir.’

‘I’m going to have a look about,’ Sharpe said, ‘so if the bloody Frogs come you must get the brigadier down to the river.’ He was not sure what they could do beside the river with the French on their heels, but maybe some escape would offer itself.

‘You think they will come, sir?’ Noolan asked.

‘God knows what the bastards will do.’

Sharpe went back outside, then crossed the terrace and went down into the kitchen garden. Two men worked there now, setting out plants in newly turned furrows, and they straightened up and watched him with suspicion as he walked to the boathouse. It was a wooden building on a stone foundation and had a padlocked door. It was an old ball padlock, the size of a cooking apple and Sharpe did not even bother trying to pick it, but just put its shackle against the door then rapped the lock’s base with the brass butt of his rifle. He heard the bolts shear inside, pulled the shackle free and swung the door outwards.

And there was the boat.

The perfect boat. It looked like an admiral’s barge with six rowing benches and a wide stern thwart and a dozen long oars laid neatly up its centre line. It floated between two walkways and there was hardly a drop of water in its bilges, suggesting that the boat was watertight. The gunwales, transom and stem thwart had been painted white once, but the paint was peeling now and there was dust everywhere and cobwebs between the thwarts. A scrabble in the dark beneath the walkways betrayed rats.

He heard the footsteps behind and turned to see one of the gardeners had come to the boathouse. The man was holding a fowling piece that he trained on Sharpe and then spoke in a harsh voice. He jerked his head and twitched the gun, ordering Sharpe away from the boat.

Sharpe shrugged. The fowling piece had a barrel at least five feet long. It looked ancient, but that did not mean it would not work. The man was tall, well built, in his forties, and he held the old gun confidently. He ordered Sharpe out of the boathouse again and Sharpe meekly obeyed. The man was reprimanding him, but so fast that Sharpe could hardly understand one word in ten, but he understood well enough when the man emphasized his words by poking his gun barrel into Sharpe’s waist. Sharpe seized the gun with his left hand and hit the man with his right. Then he kicked him between the legs and took the fowling piece away. ‘You don’t poke guns at British officers,’ Sharpe said, though he doubted the man understood him, or even heard him for that matter, for he was crouching in agony and making a mewing sound. Sharpe blew the last remnants of powder from the gun’s pan so it could not fire, then he banged the muzzle against a stone until the shot and powder came tumbling out. He scuffed the powder into the earth and then, just to make sure the weapon could not fire, he wrenched the doghead away from the lock and threw it into the river. ‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ he told the man. He tossed the fowling piece onto the man’s belly and resisted the urge to kick him again. He had not realized how angry he was. The second gardener backed away, bowing.

Sharpe found the brigadier propped up on the couch with a towel wrapped about his neck. A young manservant was shaving him. ‘There you are, Sharpe,’ Moon greeted him. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve discovered the secret of a good shave.’

‘You have, sir?’

‘Add some lime juice to the shaving water. Very clever, don’t you think?’

Sharpe was not sure what to say to that. ‘We’ve posted sentries, sir. The men are cleaning themselves up and I’ve found a boat.’

‘What use is a boat now?’ Moon asked.

‘Cross the river, sir. We can make a horse swim behind, sir, if we’ve got the cash to buy one, and if you ride, sir, we’ve a chance to catch up with our lads.’ Sharpe doubted there was any chance of catching the six light companies which retreated from Fort Joseph, but he had to give the brigadier hope.

Moon paused as the manservant rinsed his face, then patted it dry with a hot towel. ‘We’re not going anywhere, Sharpe,’ the brigadier said, ‘until a doctor has seen this leg. The marquesa says the fellow in the town is perfectly adequate for broken bones. She’s a damned bitter old hag, but she’s being helpful enough, and I assume her physician is better than some teague soldier, don’t you think?’

‘I think, sir, that the sooner we’re away from here the better.’

‘Not before a proper doctor has seen this leg,’ the brigadier said firmly. ‘The fellow’s been summoned and should be here soon. We can go after that. Have the men ready.’

Sharpe sent Noolan and his men down to the boathouse. ‘Guard the damn boat,’ he told them, then he joined Harper, Hagman and Slattery who kept watch from the tower’s top. Harper told Sharpe that nothing moved on the road leading eastwards. ‘Be ready to go, Pat,’ Sharpe said. ‘I’ve got a boat. We’re just waiting for the brigadier now.’