‘And the forts you saw?’
‘They overlook the main road to Lisbon,’ Ferreira said, ‘but there are other roads.’
‘And how far were they from Lisbon?’
‘Twenty miles,’ Ferreira guessed.
‘And there are hills there?’
‘Not so steep as that.’ Ferreira nodded towards the looming ridge.
‘So they hope to delay us in the hills, yes, as they retreat to their new port?’
‘I would think so, monsieur.’
‘So we will need food,’ the Frenchman concluded. ‘And what does your brother want besides money and protection?’
‘He wants to survive, monsieur.’
‘It is what we all want,’ the Frenchman said. He was gazing at the blue bodies that lay on the ridge’s eastern slope. ‘God send us back to France soon.’
To Ferreira’s surprise the Marshal himself returned with Colonel Barreto. The one-eyed Masséna stared hard at Ferreira who returned the gaze, seeing how old and tired the Frenchman looked. Finally Masséna nodded. ‘Tell your brother we will pay him a price and tell him Colonel Barreto will take troops to protect his property. You know where that property is, Colonel?’
‘Major Ferreira will tell me,’ Barreto said.
‘Good. It’s time my men had a proper meal.’ Masséna walked back to his cold chicken, bread, cheese and wine while Barreto and Ferreira first haggled over the price to be paid, then made arrangements to safeguard the food. And when that was all done Ferreira rode back the way he had come. He rode in the afternoon sun, chilled by an autumn wind, and no one saw him and no one in the British or Portuguese army thought it strange that he had been away since the battle’s end.
And on the ridge, and in the valley beneath, the troops waited.
The British and Portuguese army stayed on the ridge all the next day while the French remained in the valley. At times the crackle of muskets or rifles started birds up from the heather as skirmishers contested the long slope, but mostly the day was quiet. The cannons did not fire. French troops, without weapons and dressed in shirtsleeves, climbed the slope to take away their wounded who had been left to suffer overnight. Some of the injured had crawled down to the stream while others had died in the darkness. A dead voltigeur just beneath the rocky knoll lay with his clenched hands jutting to the sky while a raven pecked at his lips and eyes. The British and Portuguese picquets let the enemy work undisturbed, only challenging the few voltigeurs who climbed too close to the crest. When the wounded had been taken away, the dead were carried to the graves being dug behind the entrenchments the French had thrown up beyond the stream, but the defensive bastions were a waste of effort, for Lord Wellington had no intention of giving up the high ground to take the fight into the valley.
Lieutenant Jack Bullen, a nineteen-year-old who had been serving in number nine company, was sent to the light company to replace Iliffe. Slingsby, Lawford decreed, was now to be addressed as Captain Slingsby. ‘He was breveted as such in the 55th,’ Lawford told Forrest, ‘and it will distinguish him from Bullen.’
‘Indeed it will, sir.’
Lawford bridled at the Major’s tone. ‘It’s merely a courtesy, Forrest. You surely approve of courtesy?’
‘Indeed I do, sir, though I value Sharpe more.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean, sir, that I’d rather Sharpe commanded the skirmishers. He’s the best man for the job.’
‘And so he will, Forrest, so he will, just as soon as he learns to behave in a civilized manner. We fight for civilization, do we not?’
‘I hope we do,’ Forrest agreed.
‘And we do not gain that objective by behaving with crass discourtesy. That’s what Sharpe’s behaviour is, Forrest, crass discourtesy! I want it eradicated.’
Might as well wish to extinguish the sun, Major Forrest thought. The Major was a courteous man, judicious and sensible, but he doubted the fighting efficiency of the South Essex would be enhanced by a campaign to improve its manners.
There was a sullen atmosphere in the battalion. Lawford put it down to the casualties of the battle, who had either been buried on the ridge or carried away in carts to the careless mercies of the surgeons. This was a day, Lawford thought, when the battalion ought to be busy, yet there was nothing to do except wait on the long high summit in case the French renewed their attacks. He ordered all the muskets to be cleaned with boiling water, the flints to be inspected and replaced if they were too chipped, and every man’s cartridge box to be replenished, but those useful tasks only took an hour and the men were no more cheerful at its end than they had been at the beginning. The Colonel made himself visible and tried to encourage the men, yet he was aware of reproachful glances and muttered comments, and Lawford was no fool and knew exactly what caused it. He kept hoping Sharpe would make the requisite apology, but the rifleman stayed stubbornly out of sight and finally Lawford sought out Leroy, the loyal American. ‘Talk to him,’ he pleaded.
‘Won’t listen to me, Colonel.’
‘He respects you, Leroy.’
‘It’s kind of you to suggest as much,’ Leroy said, ‘but he’s stubborn as a mule.’
‘Getting too big for his boots, that’s the trouble,’ Lawford said irritably.
‘Boots he took from a French colonel of chasseurs, if I remember,’ Leroy said, staring up at a buzzard that circled lazily above the ridge.
‘The men are unhappy,’ Lawford said, deciding to avoid a discussion of Sharpe’s boots.
‘Sharpe’s a strange man, Colonel,’ Leroy said, then paused to light one of the rough, dark brown cigars that were sold by Portuguese pedlars. ‘Most of the men don’t like officers up from the ranks, but they’re kind of fond of Sharpe. He scares them. They want to be like him.’
‘I can’t see that scaring men is a virtue in an officer,’ Lawford said, annoyed.
‘Probably the best one,’ Leroy said provocatively. ‘Of course he ain’t an easy man in the mess,’ the American went on more placidly, ‘but he’s one hell of a soldier. Saved Slingsby’s life yesterday.’
‘That is nonsense.’ Lawford sounded testy. ‘Captain Slingsby might have taken the company a little too far, but he would have retrieved them, I’m sure.’
‘Wasn’t talking about that,’ Leroy said. ‘Sharpe shot a fellow about to give Slingsby a Portuguese grave. Finest damned piece of shooting I’ve ever seen.’
Lawford had congratulated Sharpe at the time, but he was in no mood to consider mitigating circumstances. ‘There was a good deal of firing, Leroy,’ he said airily, ‘and the shot could have come from anywhere.’
‘Maybe,’ the American said, sounding dubious, ‘but you have to admit Sharpe was damned useful yesterday.’
Lawford wondered whether Leroy had overheard Sharpe’s quiet advice to turn the battalion around and then wheel them onto the French flank. It had been good advice, and taking it had retrieved a distinctly unhealthy situation, but the Colonel had persuaded himself that he would have thought of turning and wheeling the battalion without Sharpe. He had also persuaded himself that