Sharpe’s Fury: The Battle of Barrosa, March 1811

‘Begging your pardon, sir, I am. If I might, sir, with respect?’

‘Go on, man.’

‘It’s just, sir, as Mister Sharpe says, sir, that they don’t speak English, being benighted papists, sir, and they were only discussing whether it might be possible to build a boat or a raft, sir, and they do that best in their own language, sir, because they have the words, if you follow me, sir.’

The brigadier, thoroughly buttered up by Harris, thought about it. ‘You speak their wretched language?’ he asked.

‘I do, sir,’ Harris said, ‘and French, sir, and Portuguese and Spanish, sir, and some Latin.’

‘Good God incarnate,’ the brigadier said, after staring at Harris for a few heartbeats, ‘but you are English?’

‘Oh yes, sir. And proud of it.’

‘Quite right. Then I can depend on you to tell me if the teagues brew trouble?’

‘The teagues, sir? Oh, the Irish! Yes, sir, of course, sir, a pleasure, sir,’ Harris said enthusiastically.

Just before dawn there came the sound of explosions from upriver. Sharpe stared north, but could see nothing. At first light he could see thick smoke above the river valley, but he had no way of knowing what had caused that smoke so he sent Noolan and two of his men to discover what had happened. ‘Stay on the hilltops,’ he told the 88th’s sergeant, ‘and keep a lookout for Crapaud patrols.’

‘That was a damn fool decision,’ the brigadier said when the three rangers had gone.

‘It was, sir?’

‘You’ll not see those men again, will you?’

‘I think we will, sir,’ Sharpe said mildly.

‘Damn it, man, I know the teagues. My first commission was with the 18th. I managed to escape to the fusiliers when I became a captain.’ Meaning, Sharpe thought, that the brigadier had purchased out of the Irish 18th to the more congenial fusiliers of his home county.

‘I think you’ll see Sergeant Noolan soon, sir,’ Sharpe said stubbornly, ‘and while we’re waiting I’m going south. I’ll be looking for food, sir.’

Sharpe took Harris and the two of them walked the high ground above the river. ‘How much Gaelic do you speak, Harris?’ Sharpe asked.

‘About three words, sir,’ Harris said, ‘and none of them repeatable in high company.’ Sharpe laughed. ‘So what do we do, sir?’ Harris went on.

‘Cross the bloody river,’ Sharpe said.

‘How, sir?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘And if we can’t?’

‘Keep going south, I suppose,’ Sharpe said. He tried to remember the maps he had seen of southern Spain and had an idea that the Guadiana joined the sea well to the west of Cadiz. There was no point in trying to reach Cadiz by road, for that great port was under French siege, but once at the river’s mouth he could find a ship to carry them north to Lisbon. The only ships off the coast were allied vessels, and he reckoned that the Royal Navy patrolled the shore. It would take time, he knew, but once they reached the sea they would be as good as home. ‘But if we have to walk to the sea,’ he added, ‘I’d rather do it on the far bank.’

‘Because it’s Portugal?’

‘Because it’s Portugal,’ Sharpe said, ‘and they’re friendlier than the Spanish, and because there are more Frogs on this side.’

Sharpe’s hopes of crossing the river rose after a couple of miles when they came to a place where the hill dropped to a wide basin where the Guadiana broadened so that it looked like a lake. A smaller river flowed from the east and in the basin, where the two rivers joined, there was a small town of white houses. Two bell towers broke the tiled roofs. ‘There has to be a ferry there,’ Harris said, ‘or fishing boats.’

‘Unless the Frogs burned everything.’

‘Then we float over on a table,’ Harris said, ‘and at least we’ll find food down there, sir, and his lordship will like that.’

‘You mean Brigadier Moon will like that,’ Sharpe said in mild reproof.

‘And he’ll like that place too, won’t he?’ Harris said, pointing to a large house with stables that stood just to the north of the small town. The house was of two storeys, was painted white and had a dozen windows on each floor, while at its eastern end was an ancient castle tower, now in ruins. Smoke drifted from the house’s chimneys.

Sharpe took out his telescope and examined the house. The windows were shuttered and the only signs of life were some men repairing a terrace wall in one of the many vineyards that covered the nearby slopes and another man bending over a furrow in a kitchen garden that lay beside the Guadiana. He edged the glass sideways and saw what looked like a boathouse on the river bank. Sharpe gave the telescope to Harris. ‘I’d rather go to the town,’ he said.

‘Why’s that, sir?’ Harris asked, staring at the house through Sharpe’s glass.

‘Because that house hasn’t been plundered, has it? Kitchen garden all nice and tidy. What does that suggest?’

‘The owner has shaken hands with the French?’

‘Like as not.’

Harris thought about that. ‘If they’re friends with the Crapauds, sir, then perhaps there’s a boat in that shed by the river?’

‘Perhaps,’ Sharpe said dubiously. A door in the courtyard by the old castle ruin opened and he saw someone emerge into the sunlight. He nudged Harris, pointed, and the rifleman swung the telescope.

‘Just a frow hanging out the washing,’ Harris said.

‘We can get our shirts laundered,’ Sharpe said. ‘Come on, let’s fetch the brigadier.’

They walked back across the high hills to find Moon in a triumphant mood because Sergeant Noolan and his men had failed to return.

‘I told you, Sharpe!’ Moon said. ‘You can’t trust them. That sergeant looked decidedly shifty.’

‘How’s your leg, sir?’

‘Bloody painful. Can’t be helped, eh? So you say there’s a decent-sized town?’

‘Large village anyway, sir. Two churches.’

‘Let’s hope they have a doctor who knows his business. He can look at this damned leg, and the sooner the better. Let’s get on the march, Sharpe. We’re wasting time.’

But just then Sergeant Noolan reappeared to the north and the brigadier had no choice but to wait as the three men from the 88th rejoined. Noolan, his long face more lugubrious than ever, brought grim news. ‘They blew up the fort, sir,’ he told Sharpe.

‘Talk to me, man, talk to me!’ Moon insisted. ‘I command here.’

‘Sorry, your honour,’ Noolan said, snatching off his battered shako. ‘Our lot, sir, blew up the fort, sir, and they’ve gone.’

‘Fort Joseph, you mean?’ Moon asked.

‘Is that what it’s called, sir? The one on the other side of the river, sir, they blew it up proper, they did! Guns tipped over the parapet and nothing left on the hill but smitherings.’