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‘There is a quicker path,’ Vicente said.
‘Then lead on.’
Some of the men were sleeping, but Harper kicked them awake and they all followed Vicente off the road and down into a gentle valley where vines grew in neatly tended rows. From there they climbed another hill and walked through meadows dotted with the small haystacks left from the previous year. Flowers studded the grass and twined about the witch-hat haystacks, while blossom filled the hedgerows. There was no path, though Vicente led the men confidently enough.
‘You know where you’re going?’ Sharpe asked suspiciously after a while.
‘I know this landscape,’ Vicente assured the rifleman, ‘I know it well.’
‘You grew up here, then?’
Vicente shook his head. ‘I was raised in Coimbra. That’s far to the south, senhor, but I know this landscape because I belong’ – he checked and corrected himself – ‘belonged to a society that walks here.’
‘A society that walks in the countryside?’ Sharpe asked, amused.
Vicente blushed. ‘We are philosophers, senhor, and poets.’
Sharpe was too astonished to respond immediately, but finally managed a question. ‘You were what?’
‘Philosophers and poets, senhor.’
‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ Sharpe said.
‘We believe, senhor,’ Vicente went on, ‘that there is inspiration in the countryside. The country, you see, is natural, while towns are made by man and so harbour all men’s wickedness. If we wish to discover our natural goodness then it must be sought in the country.’ He was having trouble finding the right English words to express what he meant. ‘There is, I think,’ he tried again, ‘a natural goodness in the world and we seek it.’
‘So you come here for inspiration?’
‘We do, yes.’ Vicente nodded eagerly.
Giving inspiration to a lawyer, Sharpe thought sourly, was like feeding fine brandy to a rat. ‘And let me guess,’ he said, barely hiding his derision, ‘that the members of your society of rhyming philosophers are all men. Not a woman among you, eh?’
‘How did you know?’ Vicente asked in amazement.
‘I told you, I guessed.’
Vicente nodded. ‘It is not, of course, that we do not like women. You must not think that we do not want their company, but they are reluctant to join our discussions. They would be most welcome, of course, but …’ His voice tailed away.
‘Women are like that,’ Sharpe said. Women, he had found, preferred the company of rogues to the joys of conversation with sober and earnest young men like Lieutenant Vicente who harboured romantic dreams about the world and whose thin black moustache had patently been grown in an attempt to make himself look older and more sophisticated and only succeeded in making him look younger. ‘Tell me something, Lieutenant,’ he said.
‘Jorge,’ Vicente interrupted him, ‘my name is Jorge. Like your saint.’
‘So tell me something, Jorge. You said you had some training as a soldier. What kind of training was it?’
‘We had lectures in Porto.’
‘Lectures?’
‘On the history of warfare. On Hannibal, Alexander and Caesar.’
‘Book learning?’ Sharpe asked, not hiding his derision.
‘Book learning,’ Vicente said bravely, ‘comes naturally to a lawyer, and a lawyer, moreover, who saved your life, Lieutenant.’
Sharpe grunted, knowing he had deserved that mild reproof. ‘What did happen back there,’ he asked, ‘when you rescued me? I know you shot one of your sergeants, but why didn’t the French hear you do that?’
‘Ah!’ Vicente frowned, thinking. ‘I shall be honest, Lieutenant, and tell you it is not all to my credit. I had shot the Sergeant before I saw you. He was telling the men to strip off their uniforms and run away. Some did and the others would not listen to me so I shot him. It was very sad. And most of the men were in the tavern by the river, close to where the French made their barricade.’ Sharpe had seen no tavern; he had been too busy trying to extricate his men from the dragoons to notice one. ‘It was then I saw you coming. Sergeant Macedo’ – Vicente gestured towards a squat, dark-faced man stumping along behind – ‘wanted to stay hidden in the tavern and I told the men that it was time to fight for Portugal. Most did not seem to listen, so I drew my pistol, senhor, and I went into the road. I thought I would die, but I also thought I must set an example.’
‘But your men followed you?’
‘They did,’ Vicente said warmly, ‘and Sergeant Macedo fought very bravely.’
‘I think,’ Sharpe said, ‘that despite being a bloody lawyer you’re a remarkable bloody soldier.’
‘I am?’ The young Portuguese sounded amazed, but Sharpe knew it must have taken a natural leader to bring men out of a tavern to ambush a party of dragoons.
‘So did all your philosophers and poets join the army?’ Sharpe asked.
Vicente looked embarrassed. ‘Some joined the French, alas.’
‘The French!’
The Lieutenant shrugged. ‘There is a belief, senhor, that the future of mankind is prophesied in French thought. In French ideas. In Portugal, I think, we are old-fashioned and in response many of us are inspired by the French philosophers. They reject the church and the old ways. They dislike the monarchy and despise unearned privilege. Their ideas are very exciting. You have read them?’
‘No,’ Sharpe said.
‘But I love my country more than I love Monsieur Rousseau,’ Vicente said sadly, ‘so I shall be a soldier before I am a poet.’
‘Quite right,’ Sharpe said, ‘best choose something useful to do with your life.’ They crossed a small rise in the ground and Sharpe saw the river ahead and a small village beside it and he checked Vicente with an upraised hand. ‘Is that Barca d’Avintas?’
‘It is,’ Vicente said.
‘God damn it,’ Sharpe said bitterly, because the French were there already.
The river curled gently at the foot of some blue-tinged hills, and between Sharpe and the river were meadows, vineyards, the small village, a stream flowing to the river and the goddamned bloody French. More dragoons. The green-coated cavalrymen had dismounted and now strolled about the village as if they did not have a care in the world and Sharpe, dropping back behind some gorse bushes, waved his men down. ‘Sergeant! Skirmish order along the crest.’ He left Harper to get on with deploying the rifles while he took out his telescope and stared at the enemy.
‘What do I do?’ Vicente asked.
‘Just wait,’ Sharpe said. He focused the glass, marvelling at the clarity of its magnified image. He could see the buckle holes in the girth straps on the dragoons’ horses which were picketed in a small field just to the west of the village. He counted the horses. Forty-six. Maybe forty-eight. It was hard to tell because some of the beasts were bunched together. Call it fifty men. He edged the telescope left and saw smoke rising from beyond the village, maybe from the river bank. A small stone bridge crossed the stream which flowed from the north. He could see no villagers. Had they fled? He looked to the west, back down the road which led to Oporto, and he could see no more Frenchmen, which suggested the dragoons were a patrol sent to harry fugitives. ‘Pat!’
‘Sir?’ Harper came and crouched beside him.
‘We can take these bastards.’
Harper borrowed Sharpe’s telescope and stared south for a good minute. ‘Forty of them? Fifty?’
‘About that. Make sure our boys are loaded.’ Sharpe left the telescope with Harper and scrambled back from the crest to find Vicente. ‘Call your men here. I want to talk to them. You’ll translate.’ Sharpe waited till the thirty-seven Portuguese were assembled. Most looked uncomfortable, doubtless wondering why they were being commanded by a foreigner. ‘My name is Sharpe,’ he told the blue-coated troops, ‘Lieutenant Sharpe, and I’ve been a soldier for sixteen years.’ He waited for Vicente to interpret, then pointed at the youngest-looking Portuguese soldier, a lad who could not have been a day over seventeen and might well have been three years younger. ‘I was carrying a musket before you were born. And I mean carrying a musket. I was a soldier like you. I marched in the ranks.’ Vicente, as he translated, gave Sharpe a surprised look. The rifleman ignored it. ‘I’ve fought in Flanders,’ Sharpe went on, ‘I’ve fought in India, I’ve fought in Spain and I’ve fought in Portugal, and I’ve never lost a fight. Never.’ The Portuguese had just been run out of the great northern redoubt in front of Oporto and that defeat was still sore, yet here was a man telling them he was invincible and some of them looked at the scar on his face and the hardness in his eyes and they believed him. ‘Now you and I are going to fight together,’ Sharpe went on, ‘and that means we’re going to win. We’re going to run these damned Frenchmen out of Portugal!’ Some of them smiled at that. ‘Don’t take any notice of what happened today. That wasn’t your fault. You were led by a bishop! What bloody use is a bishop to anyone? You might as well go into battle with a lawyer.’ Vicente gave Sharpe a swift and reproving glance before translating the last sentence, but he must have done it correctly for the men grinned at Sharpe. ‘We’re going to run the bastards back to France,’ Sharpe continued, ‘and for every Portuguese and Briton they kill we’re going to slaughter a score.’ Some of the Portuguese thumped their musket butts on the ground in approbation. ‘But before we fight,’ Sharpe went on, ‘you’d better know I have three rules and you had all better get used to those rules now. Because if you break these three rules then, God help me, I’ll goddamn break you.’ Vicente sounded nervous as he interpreted the last few words.
Sharpe waited, then held up one finger. ‘You don’t get drunk without my permission.’ A second finger. ‘You don’t thieve from anyone unless you’re starving. And I don’t count taking things off the enemy as thieving.’ That got a smile. He held up the third finger. ‘And you fight as if the devil himself was on your tail. That’s it! You don’t get drunk, you don’t thieve and you fight like demons. You understand?’ They nodded after the translation.
‘And right now,’ Sharpe went on, ‘you’re going to start fighting. You’re going to make three ranks and you’ll fire a volley at some French cavalry.’ He would have preferred two ranks, but only the British fought in two ranks. Every other army used three and so, for the moment, he would too, even though thirty-seven men in three ranks offered a very small frontage. ‘And you won’t pull your trigger until Lieutenant Vicente gives the order. You can trust him! He’s a good soldier, your Lieutenant!’ Vicente blushed and perhaps made some modest changes to his interpretation, but the grins on his men’s faces suggested the lawyer had conveyed the gist of Sharpe’s words. ‘Make sure your muskets are loaded,’ Sharpe said, ‘but not cocked. I don’t want the enemy knowing we’re here because some careless halfwit lets off a cocked musket. Now, enjoy killing the bastards.’ He left them on that bloodthirsty note and walked back to the crest where he knelt beside Harper. ‘Are they doing anything?’ he asked, nodding towards the dragoons.
‘Getting drunk,’ Harper said. ‘Gave them the talk, did you?’
‘Is that what it is?’
‘Don’t get drunk, don’t thieve and fight like the devil. Mister Sharpe’s sermon.’
Sharpe smiled, then took the telescope from the Sergeant and trained it at the village where a score of dragoons, their green coats unbuttoned, were squirting wineskins into their mouths. Others were searching the small houses. A woman with a torn black dress ran from one house, was seized by a cavalryman and dragged back indoors. ‘I thought the villagers were gone,’ Sharpe said.
‘I’ve seen a couple of women,’ Harper said, ‘and doubtless there are plenty more we can’t see.’ He ran a huge hand over the lock of his rifle. ‘So what are we going to do with them?’
‘We’re going to piss up their noses,’ Sharpe said, ‘till they decide to swat us away and then we’re going to kill them.’ He collapsed the glass and told Harper exactly how he planned to defeat the dragoons.
The vineyards gave Sharpe the opportunity. The vines grew in close thick rows that stretched from the stream on their left to some woodland off to the west, and the rows were broken only by a footpath that gave labourers access to the plants which offered dense cover for Sharpe’s men as they crawled closer to Barca d’Avintas. Two careless French sentries watched from the village’s edge, but neither saw anything threatening in the spring countryside and one of them even laid his carbine down so he could pack a small pipe with tobacco. Sharpe put Vicente’s men close to the footpath and sent his riflemen off to the west so that they were closer to the paddock in which the dragoons’ horses were picketed. Then he cocked his own rifle, lay down so that the barrel protruded between two gnarled vine roots and aimed at the nearest sentry.
He fired, and the butt slammed back into his shoulder and the sound was still echoing from the village’s walls when his riflemen began shooting at the horses. Their first volley brought down six or seven of the beasts, wounded as many again and started a panic among the other tethered animals. Two managed to pull their picketing pins out of the turf and jumped the fence in an attempt to escape, but then circled back towards their companions just as the rifles were reloaded and fired again. More horses screamed and fell. A half-dozen of the riflemen were watching the village and began shooting at the first dragoons to run towards the paddock. Vicente’s infantry remained hidden, crouching among the vines. Sharpe saw that the sentry he had shot was crawling up the street, leaving a bloody trail, and, as the smoke from that shot faded, he fired again, this time at an officer running towards the paddock. More dragoons, fearing they were losing their precious horses, ran to unpicket the beasts and the rifle bullets began to kill men as well as horses. An injured mare whinnied pitifully and then the dragoons’ commanding officer realized he could not rescue the horses until he had driven away the men who were slaughtering them and so he shouted at his cavalrymen to advance into the vines and drive the attackers off.
‘Keep shooting the horses!’ Sharpe shouted. It was not a pleasant job. The screams of the wounded beasts tore at men’s souls and the sight of an injured gelding trying to drag itself along by its front legs was heartbreaking, but Sharpe kept his men firing. The dragoons, spared the rifle fire now, ran towards the vineyard in the confident belief that they were dealing with a mere handful of partisans. Dragoons were supposed to be mounted infantry and so they were issued with carbines, short-barrelled muskets, with which they could fight on foot, and some carried the carbines while others preferred to attack with their long straight swords, but all of them instinctively ran towards the track which climbed among the vines. Sharpe had guessed they would follow the track rather than clamber over the entangling vines and that was why he had put Vicente and his men close by the path. The dragoons were bunching together as they entered the vines and Sharpe had an urge to run across to the Portuguese and take command of them, but just then Vicente ordered his men to stand.
The Portuguese soldiers appeared as if by magic in front of the disorganized dragoons. Sharpe watched, approvingly, as Vicente let his men settle, then ordered them to fire. The French had tried to check their desperate charge and swerve aside, but the vines obstructed them and Vicente’s volley hammered into the thickest press of cavalrymen bunched on the narrow track. Harper, off on the right flank, had the riflemen add their own volley so that the dragoons were assailed from both sides. Powder smoke drifted over the vines. ‘Fix swords!’ Sharpe shouted. A dozen dragoons were dead and the ones at the back were already running away. They had been convinced they fought against a few undisciplined peasants and instead they were outnumbered by real soldiers and the centre of their makeshift line had been gutted, half their horses were dead and now the infantry was coming from the smoke with fixed bayonets. The Portuguese stepped over the dead and injured dragoons. One of the Frenchmen, shot in the thigh, rolled over with a pistol in his hand and Vicente knocked it away with his sword and then kicked the gun into the stream. The unwounded dragoons were running towards the horses and Sharpe ordered his riflemen to drive them off with bullets rather than blades. ‘Just keep them running!’ he shouted. ‘Panic them! Lieutenant!’ He looked for Vicente, ‘Take your men into the village! Cooper! Tongue! Slattery! Make these bastards safe!’ He knew he had to keep the Frenchmen in front moving, but he dared not leave any lightly wounded dragoons in his rear and so he ordered the three riflemen to disarm the cavalrymen injured by Vicente’s volley. The Portuguese were in the village now, banging open doors and converging on a church that stood next to the bridge that crossed the small stream.
Sharpe ran towards the field where the horses were dead, dying or terrified. A few dragoons had tried to untie their mounts, but the rifle fire had chased them off. So now Sharpe was the possessor of a score of horses. ‘Dan!’ he called to Hagman. ‘Put the wounded ones out of their misery. Pendleton! Harris! Cresacre! Over there!’ He pointed the three men towards the wall on the paddock’s western side. The dragoons had fled that way and Sharpe guessed they had taken refuge in some trees that stood thick just a hundred paces away. Three picquets were not enough to cope with even a half-hearted counterattack by the French so Sharpe knew he would have to strengthen those picquets soon, but first he wanted to make sure there were no dragoons skulking in the houses, gardens and orchards of the village.
Barca d’Avintas was a small place, a straggle of houses built about the road that ran down to the river where a short jetty should have accommodated the ferry, but some of the smoke Sharpe had seen earlier was coming from a barge-like vessel with a blunt bow and a dozen rowlocks. Now it was smoking in the water, its upper works burned almost to the waterline and its lower hull holed and sunken. Sharpe stared at the useless boat, looked across the river that was over a hundred yards broad and then swore.
Harper appeared beside him, his rifle slung. ‘Jesus,’ he said, staring at the ferry, ‘that’s not a lot of good to man or beast, is it now?’
‘Any of our boys hurt?’
‘Not a one, sir, not even a scratch. The Portuguese are the same, all alive. They did well, didn’t they?’ He looked at the burning boat again. ‘Sweet Jesus, was that the ferry?’
‘It was Noah’s bloody ark,’ Sharpe snapped. ‘What do you goddamned think it was?’ He was angry because he had hoped to use the ferry to get all his men safe across the Douro, but now it seemed he was stranded. He stalked away, then turned back just in time to see Harper making a face at him. ‘Have you found the taverns?’ he asked, ignoring the grimace.
‘Not yet, sir,’ Harper said.
‘Then find them, put a guard on them, then send a dozen more men to the far side of the paddock.’
‘Yes, sir!’
The French had set more fires among sheds on the river bank and Sharpe now ducked beneath the billowing smoke to kick open half-burned doors. There was a pile of tarred nets smouldering in one shed, but in the next there was a black-painted skiff with a fine spiked bow that curved up like a hook. The shed had been fired, but the flames had not reached the skiff and Sharpe managed to drag it halfway out of the door before Lieutenant Vicente arrived and helped him pull the boat all the way out of the smoke. The other sheds were too well alight, but at least this one boat was saved and Sharpe reckoned it could hold about half a dozen men safely, which meant that it would take the rest of the day to ferry everyone across the wide river. Sharpe was about to ask Vicente to look for oars or paddles when he saw that the young man’s face was white and shaken, almost as if the Lieutenant was on the point of tears. ‘What is it?’ Sharpe asked.
Vicente did not answer, but merely pointed back to the village.
‘The French were having games with the ladies, eh?’ Sharpe asked, setting off for the houses.
‘I would not call it games,’ Vicente said bitterly, ‘and there is also a prisoner.’
‘Only one?’
‘There are two others,’ Vicente said, frowning, ‘but this one is a lieutenant. He had no breeches which is why he was slow to run.’
Sharpe did not ask why the captured dragoon had no breeches. He knew why. ‘What have you done with him?’
‘He must go on trial,’ Vicente said.
Sharpe stopped and stared at the Lieutenant. ‘He must what?’ he asked, astonished. ‘Go on trial?’
‘Of course.’
‘In my country,’ Sharpe said, ‘they hang a man for rape.’
‘Not without a trial,’ Vicente protested and Sharpe guessed that the Portuguese soldiers had wanted to kill the prisoner straight away and that Vicente had stopped them out of some high-minded idea that a trial was necessary.
‘Bloody hell,’ Sharpe said, ‘you’re a soldier now, not a lawyer. You don’t give them a trial. You chop their hearts out.’
Most of Barca d’Avintas’s inhabitants had fled the dragoons, but some had stayed and most of them were now crowded about a house guarded by a half-dozen of Vicente’s men. A dead dragoon, stripped of shirt, coat, boots and breeches, lay face down in front of the church. He must have been leaning against the church wall when he was shot for he had left a smear of blood down the limewashed stones. Now a dog sniffed at his toes. The soldiers and villagers parted to let Sharpe and Vicente into the house where the young dragoon officer, fair-haired, thin and sullen-faced, was being guarded by Sergeant Macedo and another Portuguese soldier. The Lieutenant had managed to pull on his breeches, but had not had time to button them and he was now holding them up by the waist. As soon as he saw Sharpe he began gabbling in French. ‘You speak French?’ Sharpe asked Vicente.
‘Of course,’ Vicente said.
But Vicente, Sharpe reflected, wanted to give this fair-haired Frenchman a trial and Sharpe suspected that if Vicente interrogated the man he would not learn the real truth, merely hear the excuses, so Sharpe went to the house door. ‘Harper!’ He waited till the Sergeant appeared. ‘Get me Tongue or Harris,’ he ordered.
‘I will talk to the man,’ Vicente protested.
‘I need you to talk to someone else,’ Sharpe said and he went to the back room where a girl – she could not have been a day over fourteen – was weeping. Her face was red, eyes swollen and her breath came in fitful jerks interspersed with grizzling moans and cries of despair. She was wrapped in a blanket and had a bruise on her left cheek. An older woman, dressed all in black, was trying to comfort the girl who began to cry even louder the moment she saw Sharpe, making him back out of the room in embarrassment. ‘Find out from her what happened,’ he told Vicente, then turned as Harris came through the door. Harris and Tongue were Sharpe’s two educated men. Tongue had been doomed to the army by drink, while the red-haired, ever cheerful Harris claimed to be a volunteer who wanted adventure. He was getting plenty now, Sharpe reflected. ‘This piece of shit,’ Sharpe told Harris, jerking his head at the fair-haired Frenchman, ‘was caught with his knickers round his ankles and a young girl under him. Find out what his excuse is before we kill the bastard.’
He went back to the street and took a long drink from his canteen. The water was warm and brackish. Harper was waiting by a horse trough in the centre of the street and Sharpe joined him. ‘All well?’
‘There’s two more Frogs in there.’ Harper flicked a thumb towards the church behind him. ‘Live ones, I mean.’ The church door was guarded by four of Vicente’s men.
‘What are they doing in there?’ Sharpe asked. ‘Praying?’
The tall Ulsterman shrugged. ‘Looking for sanctuary, I’d guess.’
‘We can’t take the bastards with us,’ Sharpe said, ‘so why don’t we just shoot them?’
‘Because Mister Vicente says we mustn’t,’ Harper said. ‘He’s very particular about prisoners is Mister Vicente. He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?’
‘He seems halfway decent for a lawyer,’ Sharpe admitted grudgingly.
‘The best lawyers are six feet under the daisies, so they are,’ Harper said, ‘and this one won’t let me go and shoot those two bastards. He says they’re just drunks, which is true. They are. Skewed to the skies, they are.’
‘We can’t cope with prisoners,’ Sharpe said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, then pulled his shako back on. The visor was coming away from the crown, but there was nothing he could do about that here. ‘Get Tongue,’ he suggested, ‘and see if he can find out what these two were up to. If they’re just drunk on communion wine then march them out west, strip them of anything valuable and boot them back where they came from. But if they raped anyone …’
‘I know what to do, sir,’ Harper said grimly.
‘Then do it,’ Sharpe said. He nodded to Harper, then walked on past the church to where the stream joined the river. The small stone bridge carried the road eastwards through a vineyard, past a walled cemetery and then twisted through pastureland beside the Douro. It was all open land and if more French came and he had to retreat from the village then he dared not use that road and he hoped to God he had time to ferry his men over the Douro and that thought made him go back up the street to look for oars. Or maybe he could find a rope? If the rope were long enough he could rig a line across the river and haul the boat back and forth and that would surely be quicker than rowing.
He was wondering if there were bell ropes in the small church that might stretch that far when Harris came out of the house and said that the prisoner’s name was Lieutenant Olivier and he was in the 18th Dragoons and that the Lieutenant, despite being caught with his breeches round his ankles, had denied raping the girl. ‘He said French officers don’t behave like that,’ Harris said, ‘but Lieutenant Vicente says the girl swears he did.’
