do.
Sharpe reloaded his rifle, knelt by a laurel tree, cocked the weapon and stared at the
French. Most of the dragoons were mounted, though a handful were on foot and trying their
luck with their carbines, but at too long a range. But in a minute or two, Sharpe thought, they
would have a hundred infantrymen ready to charge. It was time to go.
“Senhor.” A very young Portuguese officer appeared beside the tree and bowed to
Sharpe.
“Later!” Sharpe didn’t like to be so rude, but there was no time to waste on courtesies.
“Dan!” He pushed past the Portuguese officer and shouted at Hagman. “Have we got Tarrant’s
kit?”
“Here, sir.” Hagman had the wounded man’s rifle on his shoulder and his cartridge box
dangling from his belt. Sharpe would have hated the French to collect a Baker rifle, they
were trouble enough already without being given the best weapon ever issued to a
skirmisher.
“This way!” Sharpe ordered, going north away from the river.
He deliberately left the road. It followed the river, and the open pastures on the
Douro’s bank offered few obstacles to pursuing cavalry, but a smaller track twisted
north through the trees and Sharpe took it, using the woodland to cover his escape. As the
ground became higher the trees thinned out, becoming groves of squat oaks that were
cultivated because their thick bark provided the corks for Oporto’s wine. Sharpe led a
gruelling pace, only stopping after half an hour when they came to the edge of the oaks and
were staring at a great valley of vineyards. The city was still in sight to the west, the
smoke from its many fires drifting over the oaks and vines. The men rested. Sharpe had feared a
pursuit, but the French evidently wanted to plunder Oporto’s houses and find the
prettiest women and had no mind to pursue a handful of soldiers fleeing into the
hills.
The Portuguese soldiers had kept pace with Sharpe’s riflemen and their officer, who had
tried to talk to Sharpe before, now approached again. He was very young and very slender and
very tall and wearing what looked like a brand-new uniform. His officer’s sword hung from a
white shoulder sash edged with silver piping and at his belt was a bolstered pistol that
looked so clean Sharpe suspected it had never been fired. He was good-looking except for a
black mustache that was too thin, and something about his demeanor suggested he was a
gentleman, and a decent one at that, for his dark and intelligent eyes were oddly
mournful, but perhaps that was no surprise for he had just seen Oporto fall to invaders. He
bowed to Sharpe. “Senhor?”
“I don’t speak Portuguese,” Sharpe said.
“I am Lieutenant Vicente,” the officer said in good English. His dark-blue uniform had
white piping at its hems and was decorated with silver buttons and red cuffs and a high red
collar. He wore a barretina, a shako with a false front that added six inches to his already
considerable height. The number 18 was emblazoned on the barretinds brass front plate. He
was out of breath and sweat was glistening on his face, but he was determined to remember
his manners. “I congratulate you, senhor.”
“Congratulate me?” Sharpe did not understand.
“I watched you, senhor, on the road beneath the seminary. I thought you must surrender,
but instead you attacked. It was”-Vicente paused, frowning as he searched for the right
word-”it was great bravery,” he went on and then embarrassed Sharpe by removing the
barretina and bowing again, “and I brought my men to attack the French because your bravery
deserved it.”
“I wasn’t being brave,” Sharpe said, “just bloody stupid.”
“You were brave,” Vicente insisted, “and we salute you.” He looked for a moment as though
he planned to step smartly back, draw his sword and whip the blade up into a formal salute,
but Sharpe managed to head off the flourish with a question
Aj Harmon, Christopher Harmon