‘Then you went to England?’
‘And we thrived, Sharpe, we thrived. My father made his money trading with the men he once fought.’ Leroy laughed, then rode in silence for a few yards, ducking under a low tree branch. ‘So tell me about these fortifications guarding Lisbon.’
‘I only know what Michael Hogan told me.’
‘So what did he tell you?’
‘That they’re the biggest defences ever made in Europe,’ Sharpe said. He saw Leroy’s scepticism. ‘Over a hundred and fifty forts,’ Sharpe went on, ‘connected by trenches. Hills reshaped to make them too steep to climb, valleys filled with obstacles, streams dammed to flood the approaches, the whole lot filled with cannon. Two lines, stretching from the Tagus to the ocean.’
‘So the idea is to get behind them and thumb our noses at the French?’
‘And let the bastards starve,’ Sharpe said.
‘And you, Sharpe, what will you do? Apologize?’ Leroy laughed at Sharpe’s expression. ‘The Colonel ain’t going to give in.’
‘Nor am I,’ Sharpe said.
‘So you’ll stay quartermaster?’
‘The Portuguese want British officers,’ Sharpe said, ‘and if I join them I get a promotion.’
‘Hell,’ Leroy said, thinking about it.
‘Not that I want to leave the light company,’ Sharpe went on, thinking about Pat Harper and the other men he counted as friends. ‘But Lawford wants Slingsby, he doesn’t want me.’
‘He wants you, Sharpe,’ Leroy said, ‘but he’s made promises. Have you ever met the Colonel’s wife?’
‘No.’
‘Pretty,’ Leroy said, ‘pretty as a picture, but about as soft as an angry dragoon. I watched her ream out a servant once because the poor bastard hadn’t filled a flower vase with enough water, and by the time she’d done there was nothing left of the man but slivers of skin and spots of blood. A formidable lady, our Jessica. She’d make a much better commanding officer than her husband.’ The Major drew on a cigar. ‘But I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to join the Portuguese. I have a suspicion that Mister Slingsby will cook his own goose.’
‘Drink?’
‘He was liquored to the gills on the night of the battle. Staggering, he was. Fine next morning.’
They reached Coimbra long after dark and it was close to midnight before they discovered the office of the Town Major, the British officer responsible for liaison with the town authorities, and the Major himself was not there, but his servant, wearing a tasselled nightcap, opened the door and grumbled about officers keeping unseasonable hours. ‘What is it you want, sir?’
‘Chalk,’ Sharpe said, ‘and you’ve got two battalions arriving before dawn.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ the servant said, ‘two battalions? Chalk?’
‘At least four sticks. Where are the commissary officers?’
‘Up the street, sir, six doors on the left, but if it’s rations you’re after help yourself from the town quay. Bloody tons there, sir.’
‘A lantern would be useful,’ Major Leroy put in.
‘Lantern, sir. There is one somewhere.’
‘And we need to stable two horses.’
‘Round the back, sir. Be safe there.’
Once the horses were stabled and Leroy was equipped with the lantern they worked their way up the street chalking on the doors. SE, Sharpe chalked, meaning South Essex, 4–6, which said six men of number four company would be billeted in the house. They used the small streets close to the bridge over the Mondego, and after a half-hour they encountered two Portuguese officers chalking up for their battalion. Neither of the battalions had arrived by the time the work was done, so Sharpe and Leroy found a tavern on the quay where lights still glowed and ordered themselves wine, brandy and food. They ate salt cod and, just as it was served, the sound of boots echoed in the street outside. Leroy leaned over, pulled open the tavern door and peered out. ‘Portuguese,’ he said laconically.
‘So they beat us?’ Sharpe said. ‘Colonel won’t be pleased.’
‘The Colonel is going to be one very unhappy man about that,’ Leroy said and was about to close the door when he saw the legend chalked on the woodwork. SE, CO, ADJ, LCO, it said, and the American grinned. ‘Putting Lawford and the light company officers in here, Sharpe?’
‘I thought the Colonel might want to be with his relative, sir. Friendly like.’
‘Or are you putting temptation in Mister Slingsby’s path?’
Sharpe looked shocked. ‘Good lord,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘You lying bastard,’ Leroy said, closing the door. He laughed. ‘I don’t think I’d want you as an enemy.’
They slept in the taproom and, when Sharpe woke at dawn, the South Essex had still not reached the city. A sad procession of wagons, all with men wounded on Bussaco’s slope, was crossing the bridge and Sharpe, going to the quayside, saw that the sills of the wagon beds were stained where blood had dripped from the vehicles. He had to wait to cross to the river bank because the convoy of wounded was followed by a smart travelling coach, drawn by four horses and heaped with trunks, accompanied by a wagon piled with more goods on which a half-dozen unhappy servants clung, and both vehicles were escorted by armed civilian horsemen. Once they were gone Sharpe crossed to the vast heaps of army provisions that had been brought to Coimbra. There were sacks of grain, barrels of salt meat, puncheons of rum, boxes of biscuit, all unloaded from the river boats that were tied to the wharves. Each boat had a number painted on its bow beneath the owner’s name and town. The Portuguese authorities had ordered the boats to be numbered and labelled, then listed town by town, so they could be sure that all the craft would be destroyed before the French arrived. The name Ferreira was painted on a half-dozen of the larger vessels, and Sharpe assumed that meant the craft belonged to Ferragus. The boats were all under the guard of redcoats, one of whom, seeing Sharpe, slung his musket and walked along the quay. ‘Is it true we’re retreating, sir?’
‘We are.’
‘Bloody hell.’ The man gazed at the vast heaps of provisions. ‘What happens to this lot?’
‘We have to get rid of it. And those boats.’
‘Bloody hell,’ the man said again, then watched as Sharpe marked dozens of boxes of biscuit and barrels of meat as rations for the South Essex.
The battalion arrived two hours later. They were, as Leroy had forecast, irritable, hungry and tired. Their march had been a nightmare, with wagons obstructing the road, clouds across the moon and at least two wrong turnings that had wasted so much time that in the end Lawford had ordered the men to get some sleep in a pasture until dawn gave them some light to find their way. Major Forrest, sliding wearily from his saddle, looked askance at Sharpe. ‘Don’t tell me you and Leroy came straight here?’
‘We did, sir. Had a night’s sleep too.’
‘What a detestable man you are, Sharpe.’
‘Can’t see how you could get lost,’ Sharpe said. ‘The road was pretty well straight. Who was leading?’
‘You know who was leading, Sharpe,’ Forrest said, then turned to gaze at the great piles of food. ‘How do we destroy that lot?’
‘Shoot the rum barrels,’ Sharpe suggested, ‘and sling the flour and grain into the river.’