“Pray God he gets both here before sundown. Oh, and Sharpe, send that bright young fellow, the one who speaks the languages, to translate for me. But tell him to smarten himself up first.” The brigadier jerked his head, dismissing Sharpe who went back onto the terrace and found his way through an alley, across the stable yard, and so to a whitewashed kitchen hung with hams and smelling of wood smoke, cheese, and baking bread. A crucifix hung above the huge fireplace where two cooks were busy at a blackened stove. A third woman pounded a mass of dough on a long scrubbed table.

Harper grinned at Sharpe, then gestured at the cheeses, hams, and the two fat wine barrels on their stands. “You wouldn’t think there was a war going on, sir, would you now?”

“You’ve forgotten something, Sergeant.”

“And what would that be, sir?”

“There’s a battalion of French infantry within half a day’s march.”

“So there is.”

Sharpe walked to the twin wine barrels and rapped the nearest. “You know the rules,” he told the watching soldiers. “If any of you get drunk I’ll make you wish you hadn’t been born.” They stared at him solemnly. What he should do, he knew, was take the two barrels outside and stave them in, but if they wanted to get drunk they would still find liquor in a house this size. Put a British soldier in a wilderness and he would soon discover a taproom. “We might have to get out of here fast,” he explained, “so I don’t want you drunk. When we get to Lisbon, I promise I’ll fill you all so full of rum that you won’t be able to stand for a week. But today, lads? Today you stay sober.”

They nodded and he slung his rifle on his shoulder. “I’m going to stand watch until you’ve eaten,” he told Harper. “Then you and two others take over from me. You saw that old castle tower?”

“Couldn’t miss it, sir.”

“That’s where I’ll be. And Harris? You’re to be an interpreter for the brigadier.”

Harris shuddered. “Do I have to, sir?”

“Yes, you bloody do. And you’re to smarten yourself up first.”

“Three bags full, sir,” Harris said.

“And Harris!” Sergeant Harper called.

“Sergeant?”

“Make sure to tell His Lordship if us teagues are causing trouble.”

“I’ll do that, Sergeant, I promise.”

Sharpe went to the tower that formed the eastern end of the stable yard. He climbed to the parapet that was some forty feet above the ground and from there he had a good view of the road that ran eastward along the smaller river. It was the road the French would use if they decided to come here. Would they come? They knew a handful of British troops was stranded on the Spanish bank of the river, but would they bother to pursue? Or perhaps they might just send a forage party. It was evident that this large house had been spared the usual French cruelties and that was doubtless because the Marquesa was anfrancesado, and that meant she must be supplying the French garrisons with provisions. So had the French refrained from plundering the town as well? If so, was there a boat? And if there was, then they could cross the river as soon as the brigadier had seen a doctor, if any doctor was available. Though once across the river, what then? The brigadier’s troops had blown up Fort Joseph and were withdrawing westward, going back to the Tagus, and as long as Moon had a broken leg there was no hope of catching them. Sharpe worried for a moment, then decided it was not his problem. Brigadier Moon was the senior officer, so all Sharpe had to do was wait for orders. In the meantime he would have his men make some crutches for the brigadier.

He stared eastward. The sides of the valley were thick with grapevines and a few men worked there, shoring up one of the stone walls holding the terraces in place. A horseman ambled eastward 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 around 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 eastward. “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 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 outward.

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 center 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 stern 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.