Sharpe’s Enemy: The Defence of Portugal, Christmas 1812

A second man appeared, as wary as the first, and this man dragged saddlebags behind him. He was in the uniform of a French officer, a senior officer, his red-collared blue jacket bright with gold insignia. Was this Pot-au-Feu? He carried a cavalry carbine, despite his infantry uniform, and at his side, slung on silver chains, was a cavalry sabre.

The two Frenchmen stared round the cloister. Nothing moved, nobody.

‘Allons.’ The Sergeant took the saddlebag and froze, pointing. He had seen Harper’s bag beside the pool.

‘Stop!’ Sharpe yelled, kicking the door open with his right foot as he stood up. ‘Stop!’ the rifle pointed at them. They turned.

‘Don’t move!’ He could see their eyes judging the distance of the rifle shot fired from the hip. ‘Sergeant!’

Harper appeared to their flank, a vast man moving like a cat, grinning, the huge gun gaping its bunched barrels at them.

‘Keep them there, Sergeant.’

‘Sir!’

Sharpe moved past them, skirting them, and went into the tunnel. Five horses were tied outside the convent beside the three he and Harper had brought and, having noticed them, he pushed the Convent door shut, then went back to look at the two prisoners. The Sergeant was huge, built like an oak tree, with a tanned skin behind his vast black moustache. He stared hatred at Sharpe. His hands looked large enough to strangle an ox.

The man in officer’s uniform had a thin face, sharp eyed and sharp featured, with intelligent eyes. He looked at Sharpe with disdain and condescension.

Sharpe kept the rifle pointing between them. ‘Take their guns, Sergeant.’

Harper came behind them, plucked the carbine from the officer then pulled the musket from the Sergeant. Sharpe sensed the massive resistance of the huge Sergeant, twitched his rifle towards the brute of a man, and the Sergeant reluctantly let the musket go. Sharpe looked back to the officer. ‘Who are you?’

The reply was in good English. ‘My name is not for deserters.’

Sharpe said nothing. Five horses, but just two riders. Saddlebags just as he and Harper had carried. He stepped forward, his eyes on the officer, and kicked the saddlebags. Coins sounded inside. The French officer’s thin face sneered at him. ‘You will find it all there.’

Sharpe stepped back three paces and lowered his rifle. He sensed Harper’s surprise. ‘My name is Major Richard Sharpe, 95th Regiment, an officer of his Britannic Majesty. Sergeant!’

‘Sir?’

‘Put the gun down.’

‘Sir?’

‘Do as I say.’

The French officer watched the seven barrels sink down, then looked at Sharpe. ‘Your honour, M’sieu?’

‘My honour.’

The Frenchman’s heels clicked together. ‘I am Chef du Battalion Dubreton, Michel Dubreton. I have the honour to command a Battalion of the Emperor’s 54th of the Line.’

Chef du Battalion, two heavy gold epaulettes, a full Colonel no less. Sharpe saluted and it felt strange. ‘My apologies, sir.’

‘Not at all. You were rather impressive.’ Dubreton smiled at Harper. ‘Not to mention your Sergeant.’

‘Sergeant Harper.’

Harper nodded familiarly at the French officer. ‘Sir!’

Dubreton smiled. ‘I think mine’s taller.’ He looked from his own Sergeant to Harper and shrugged. ‘Maybe not. You will find his name appropriate. Sergeant Bigeard.’

Bigeard, reassured by his officer’s tone of voice, stiffened to attention and nodded fiercely at Sharpe. The Rifleman gestured to Harper. ‘Their guns, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, Major.’ Dubreton smiled courteously. ‘I assume that gesture means we are enjoying a truce, yes?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘How wise.’ Dubreton slung the carbine on his shoulder. He might be a Colonel, but he looked as if he could use the weapon with skill and familiarity. He looked at Harper. ‘Do you speak French, Sergeant?’

‘Me, sir? No, sir. Gaelic, English and Spanish, sir.’ Harper seemed to find nothing odd in meeting two enemy in the Convent.

‘Good! Bigeard speaks some Spanish. Can I suggest the two of you stand guard while we talk?’

‘Sir!’ Harper seemed to find nothing odd in taking orders from the enemy.

The French Colonel turned his charm onto Sharpe. ‘Major?’ He gestured towards the centre of the cloister, bent down and dragged his saddlebags until they rested beside the one Sharpe had brought. Dubreton nodded at it. ‘Yours?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Gold?’

‘Five hundred guineas.’

Dubreton raised his eyebrows. ‘I presume you have hostages here, yes?’

‘Just one, sir.’

‘An expensive one. We have three.’ His eyes were looking at the roofline, searching down into the shadows, while his hands brought out a ragged cheroot that he lit from his tinder box. It took a few seconds for the charred linen to catch fire. He offered a cheroot to Sharpe. ‘Major?’

‘No thank you, sir.’

‘Three hostages. Including my wife.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘So’m I.’ The voice was mild, light even, but the face was hard as flint. ‘Deron will pay.’

‘Deron?’

‘Sergeant Deron, who now styles himself Marshal Pot-au-Feu. He was a cook, Major, and rather a good one. He’s quite untrustworthy.’ The eyes came down from the roofline to look at Sharpe. ‘Do you expect him to keep his word?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Nor I, but it seemed worth the risk.’

Neither spoke for a moment. There was still silence beyond the Convent, and silence within the walls. Sharpe pulled the watch out of his pocket. Twenty-five minutes to twelve. ‘Were you ordered here at a specific time, sir?’