‘Because they will probably offer battle again north of Lisbon,’ Ferreira said.
‘But why wait here?’ Ferragus insisted. ‘Why do they billet men here? Will they fight for Coimbra?’ It seemed an unlikely prospect, for the city’s walls had mostly been pulled down. It was a place for learning and trading, not for fighting.
‘They’re staying here,’ Ferreira said, ‘just long enough to destroy the supplies on the quays.’
An idea occurred to Ferragus then, a risky idea, but one that might yield the amusement he craved. ‘What if they knew these supplies were here?’ He gestured at the stacks in the warehouse.
‘They would destroy them, of course,’ Ferreira said.
Ferragus thought again, trying to put himself into the Englishman’s place. How would Captain Sharpe react? What would he do? There was a risk, Ferragus thought, a real risk, but Sharpe had declared war on Ferragus, that much was obvious. Why else would the Englishman have gone to his brother’s house? And Ferragus was not a man to back down from a challenge, so the risk must be taken. ‘You say there was a Portuguese officer with them?’
‘Yes, senhor. I think I recognized him. Professor Vicente’s son.’
‘That piece of shit,’ Ferragus snarled, then thought again and saw the way clear to finishing the feud. ‘This,’ he said to Miguel, ‘is what we will do.’
And laid his trap.
‘This is splendid, Sharpe, quite splendid.’ Colonel Lawford paced through his new quarters, opening doors and inspecting rooms. ‘The taste in furniture is a little florid, wouldn’t you say? A hint of vulgarity, perhaps? But very splendid, Sharpe. Thank you.’ He stooped to look in a gilt-framed mirror and smoothed down his hair. ‘Is there a cook on the premises?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And stabling, you say?’
‘Out the back, sir.’
‘I shall inspect it,’ Lawford said grandly. ‘Lead on.’ It was evident from his loftily genial manner that he had received no new complaint from Slingsby about Sharpe’s rudeness. ‘I must say, Sharpe, you make a very good quartermaster when you put your mind to it. Maybe we should confirm you in the post. Mister Kiley is not improving, the doctor tells me.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, sir,’ Sharpe said as he led Lawford down through the kitchens, ‘on account that I’m thinking of applying to the Portuguese service. You’d only have to find someone to replace me.’
‘You were thinking of what?’ Lawford asked, shocked by the news.
‘The Portuguese service, sir. They’re still asking for British officers, and so far as I can see they’re not very particular. They probably won’t notice my manners.’
‘Sharpe!’ Lawford spoke brusquely, then stopped abruptly because they had gone into the stable yard where Captain Vicente was trying to calm Sarah Fry, who was now wearing one of Beatriz Ferreira’s dresses, a concoction of black silk that Major Ferreira’s wife had worn when mourning the death of her mother. Sarah had taken the dress gratefully enough, but was repelled by its ugliness and was only placated when she was assured that it was the only garment left in the house. Lawford, oblivious to the dress and noticing simply that she was damned attractive, took off his hat and bowed to her.
Sarah ignored the Colonel, turning on Sharpe instead. ‘They took everything!’
‘Who?’ Sharpe asked. ‘What?’
‘My trunk! My clothes! My books!’ Her money had disappeared too, but she said nothing of that, instead she demanded, in fluent Portuguese from a stable boy whether her trunk really had been left on the cart. It had ‘Everything!’ she said to Sharpe.
‘Allow me to present Miss Fry, sir,’ Sharpe said. ‘This is Colonel Lawford, miss, our commanding officer.’
‘You’re English!’ Lawford said brightly.
‘They took everything!’ Sarah rounded on the stable boy and screamed at him, though it was hardly his fault.
‘Miss Fry, sir, was the governess here,’ Sharpe explained over the noise, ‘and somehow got left behind when the family left.’
‘The governess, eh?’ Lawford’s enthusiasm for Sarah Fry noticeably diminished as he understood her status. ‘You’d best ready yourself to leave the city, Miss Fry,’ he said. ‘The French will be here in a day or two!’
‘I have nothing!’ Sarah protested.
Harper, who had brought the Colonel and his entourage to the house, now led Lawford’s four horses into the yard. ‘You want me to rub Lightning down, sir?’ he asked the Colonel.
‘My fellows will do that. You’d best get back to Captain Slingsby.’
‘Yes, sir, at once, sir, of course, sir,’ Harper said, not moving.
‘Everything!’ Sarah wailed. The cook came into the yard and shouted at the English girl to be silent and Sarah, in fury, turned on her.
‘If you’ll permit it, sir,’ Sharpe said, raising his voice over the din, ‘Major Forrest told me to find some turpentine. He wants it to ruin the salt meat, sir, and Sergeant Harper will be a great help to me.’
‘A help?’ Lawford, distracted by Sarah’s grief and the cook’s protest, was not really paying attention.
‘He’s a better sense of smell than me, sir,’ Sharpe said.
‘He’s a better sense of…’ the Colonel began to ask, then frowned at Sarah who was shouting at the cook in Portuguese. ‘Do whatever you want, Sharpe,’ Lawford said, ‘whatever you want, and for God’s sake take Miss whatever-her-name-is away, will you?’
‘He promised to take the trunk off the wagon!’ Sarah appealed to Lawford. She was angry and, because he was a colonel, she seemed to expect him to do something.
‘I’m sure it can all be sorted out,’ Lawford said, ‘things usually can. Will you escort Miss, er, the lady away, Sharpe? Perhaps the battalion wives can assist her. You really do have to leave, my dear.’ The Colonel knew he would get no sleep while this woman protested about her missing possessions. Any other time he would have been happy enough to entertain her, for she was a pretty young thing, but he needed some rest. He ordered his servants to carry his valise upstairs, told Lieutenant Knowles to post a pair of sentries on the house and another pair in the stable yard, then turned away, immediately looking back. ‘And about that proposition of yours, Sharpe,’ he said. ‘Don’t do anything rash.’
‘About the turpentine, sir?’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ Lawford said testily. ‘The Portuguese, Sharpe, the Portuguese. Oh, my God!’ This last was because Sarah had begun to cry.
Sharpe tried to soothe her, but she was devastated by the loss of her trunk and her small savings. ‘Miss Fry,’ Sharpe said, and she ignored him. ‘Sarah!’ He put his hands gently on her shoulders. ‘You’ll get everything back!’
She stared up at him, said nothing.
‘I’ll sort Ferragus out,’ Sharpe said, ‘if he’s still here.’
‘He is!’
‘Then calm down, lass, and leave it to me.’
‘My