He heard the footsteps behind and turned to see that one of the gardeners had come to the boathouse. The man was holding a fowling piece that he trained at 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 who 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 climbed the tower and joined Harper, Hagman, and Slattery, who kept watch from the tower’s top. Harper told Sharpe that nothing moved on the road leading eastward. “Be ready to go, Pat,” Sharpe said. “I’ve got a boat. We’re just waiting for the brigadier now.”

“You’ve found a boat? Easy as that?”

“Easy as that.”

“So what do we do with it?”

Sharpe thought for a second. “I doubt we can catch the others,” he said, “so probably the best thing is to go downriver. Find a British ship on the coast. We’ll be in Lisbon in five days, and back with the battalion in six.”

“Now that would be nice,” Harper said fervently.

Sharpe smiled. “Joana?” he asked. Joana was a Portuguese girl whom Harper had rescued in Coimbra and who now shared the sergeant’s quarters.

“I’m fond of the girl,” Harper admitted airily. “And she’s a good lass. She can cook, mend, works hard.”

“Is that all she does?” Sharpe asked.

“She’s a good girl,” Harper insisted.

“You should marry her then,” Sharpe said.

“There’s no call for that, sir,” Harper said, sounding alarmed.

“I’ll ask Colonel Lawford when we’re back,” Sharpe said. Officially only six wives were allowed with the men of each company, but the colonel could give permission to add another to the strength.

Harper looked at Sharpe a long time, trying to work out whether he was being serious or not, but Sharpe’s face gave away nothing. “The colonel’s got enough to worry about, sir, so he does,” Harper said.

“What’s he got to worry about? We do all the work.”

“But he’s a colonel, sir. He’s got to worry.”

“And I worry about you, Pat. I worry that you’re a sinner. It worries me that you’ll be going to hell when you die.”

“At least I can keep you company there, sir.”

Sharpe laughed at that. “That’s true, so maybe I won’t ask the colonel.”

“You escaped, Sergeant,” Slattery said, amused.

“But it all depends on Moon, doesn’t it?” Sharpe said. “If he wants to cross the river and try to catch the others, that’s what we’ll have to do. If he wants to go downriver we go downriver, but one way or another we should get you back to Joana in a week.” He saw a horseman appear on the northern hill from which he had first glimpsed the house and town, and he took out his telescope, but by the time he had trained it the man had gone. Probably a hunter, he told himself. “So be ready to move, Pat. And you’ll have to fetch the brigadier. He’s got crutches now, but if the bloody frogs show we’ll need to get him down to the river fast so you’ll have to carry him.”

“There’s a wheelbarrow in the stable yard, sir,” Hagman said. “A dung barrow.”

“I’ll put it on the terrace,” Sharpe said.

He found the barrow behind a heap of horse manure and wheeled it to the terrace and parked it beside the door. He had done all he could now. He had a boat, it was guarded, the men were ready, and all now depended on Moon giving the orders.

He sat outside the brigadier’s door and took off his hat so the winter sun could warm his face. He closed his eyes in tiredness and within seconds he was asleep, his head tipped back onto the house wall beside the door. He was dreaming, and he was aware it was a good dream, and then someone hit him hard across the head, and that was no dream. He scrambled sideways, reaching for his rifle, and was hit again. “Impudent puppy!” a voice shrieked, and then she hit him again. She was an old woman, older than Sharpe could imagine, with a brown face like sun-dried mud, all cracks and wrinkles and malevolence and bitterness. She was dressed in black with a black widow’s veil pinned to her white hair. Sharpe stood up, rubbing his head where she had hit him with one of the brigadier’s borrowed crutches. “You dare attack one of my servants?” she shrieked. “You insolent cur!”

“Ma’am,” Sharpe said for want of anything else to say.

“You break into my boathouse?” she said in a grating voice. “You assault my servant? If the world were respectable you would be whipped. My husband would have whipped you.”

“Your husband, ma’am?”

“He was the Marquis de Cardenas and he had the misfortune to be ambassador to the Court of St. James for eleven sad years. We lived in London. A horrid city. A vile city. Why did you attack my gardener?”

“Because he attacked me, ma’am.”

“He says not.”

“If the world were a respectable place, ma’am, then an officer’s word would be preferred to a servant’s.”

“You impudent puppy! I feed you, I shelter you, and you reward me with barbarism and lies. Now you wish to steal my son’s boat?”

“Borrow it, ma’am.”

“You can’t,” she snapped. “It belongs to my son.”

“He’s here, ma’am?”