me.’ Jorge Vicente, whom Sharpe had last seen in the wild country north east of Oporto, held out his hand. ‘Mister Sharpe,’ he said.
‘Jorge!’
‘Capitão Vicente now.’ Vicente clasped Sharpe and then, to the rifleman’s embarrassment, gave his friend a kiss on both cheeks. ‘And you, Richard, a major by now, I expect?’
‘Bloody hell, no, Jorge. They don’t promote the likes of me. It might spoil the army’s reputation. How are you?’
‘I am–how do you say?–flourishing. But you?’
Vicente frowned at Sharpe’s bruised face. ‘You are wounded?’
‘Fell down some steps,’ Sharpe said.
‘You must be careful,’ Vicente said solemnly, then smiled. ‘Sergeant Harper! It is good to see you.’
‘No kissing, sir, I’m Irish.’
Vicente greeted the other men he had known in the wild pursuit of Soult’s army across the northern frontier, then turned back to Sharpe. ‘I’ve orders to knock those things out of the rocks.’ He gestured towards the French.
‘It’s a good idea,’ Sharpe said, ‘but there aren’t enough of you.’
‘Two Portuguese are equal to one Frenchman,’ Vicente said airily, ‘and you might do the honour of helping us?’
‘Bloody hell,’ Sharpe said, then evaded an answer by nodding at the Baker rifle on Vicente’s shoulder. ‘And what are you doing carrying a rifle?’
‘Imitating you,’ Vicente said frankly, ‘and besides, I am now the captain of a atirador company, the how do you say? marksmen. We carry rifles, the other companies have muskets. I transferred from the 18th when we raised the cazador battalions. So, shall we attack?’
‘What do you think?’ Sharpe countered.
Vicente smiled uncertainly. He had been a soldier for less than two years; before that he had been a lawyer and when Sharpe first met him the young Portuguese had been a stickler for the supposed rules of warfare. That might or might not have changed, but Sharpe suspected Vicente was a natural soldier, brave and decisive, no fool, yet he was still nervous of showing his skills to Sharpe who had taught him most of what he knew about fighting. He glanced at Sharpe, then shadowed his eyes to stare at the French. ‘They won’t stand,’ he suggested.
‘They might,’ Sharpe said, ‘and there are at least a hundred of the bastards. How many are we? A hundred and thirty? If it was up to me, Jorge, I’d send in your whole battalion.’
‘My Colonel ordered me to do it.’
‘Does he know what he’s doing?’
‘He’s English,’ Vicente said drily. The Portuguese army had been reorganized and trained in the last eighteen months and huge numbers of British officers had volunteered into its ranks for the reward of a promotion.
‘I’d still send in more men,’ Sharpe said.
Vicente had no chance to answer because there was the sudden thump of hooves on the springy turf and a stentorian voice shouting at him. ‘Don’t hang about, Vicente! There are Frogs to kill! Get on with it, Captain, get on with it! Who the devil are you?’ This last question was directed at Sharpe and came from a horseman who had trouble curbing his gelding as he tried to rein in beside the two officers. The rider’s voice betrayed he was English, though he was wearing Portuguese brown to which he had added a black cocked hat that sported a pair of golden tassels. One tassel shadowed his face that looked to be red and glistening.
‘Sharpe, sir,’ Sharpe answered the man’s bad-tempered question.
‘95th?’
‘South Essex, sir.’
‘That bloody mob of yokels,’ the officer said. ‘Lost a colour a couple of years back, didn’t you?’
‘We took one back at Talavera,’ Sharpe said harshly.
‘Did you now?’ The horseman did not seem particularly interested. He took out a small telescope and stared at the rocky knoll, ignoring some musket balls which, fired at extreme range, fluttered impotently by.
‘Allow me to name Colonel Rogers-Jones,’ Vicente said, ‘my Colonel.’
‘And the man, Vicente,’ Rogers-Jones said, ‘who ordered you to turf those buggers out of the rocks. I didn’t tell you to stand here and chatter, did I?’
‘I was seeking Captain Sharpe’s advice, sir,’ Vicente said.
‘Reckon he’s got any to offer?’ The Colonel sounded amused.
‘He took a French Eagle,’ Vicente pointed out.
‘Not by standing around talking, he didn’t,’ Rogers-Jones said. He collapsed his telescope. ‘I’ll tell the gunners to open fire,’ he went on, ‘and you advance, Vicente. You’ll help him, Sharpe.’ He added the order carelessly. ‘Winkle them out, Vicente, then stay there to make sure the bastards don’t come back.’ He turned his horse and spurred away.
‘Jesus bloody wept,’ Sharpe said. ‘Does he know how many of them there are?’
‘I still have my orders,’ Vicente said bleakly.
Sharpe took the rifle off his shoulder and loaded it. ‘You want advice?’
‘Of course.’
‘Send our rifles up the middle,’ Sharpe said, ‘in skirmish order. They’re to keep firing, hard and fast, no patches, just keeping the bastards’ heads down. The rest of our lads will come up behind in line. Bayonets fixed. Straightforward battalion attack, Jorge, with three companies, and hope your bastard Colonel is satisfied.’
‘Our lads?’ Vicente picked those two words out of Sharpe’s advice.
‘Not going to let you die alone, Jorge,’ Sharpe said.
‘You’d probably get lost trying to find the pearly gates.’ He glanced northwards and saw the cannon smoke thickening as the French attack closed on the village beneath the ridge’s summit, then the first of the guns close to the knoll fired and a shell banged smoke and casing scraps just beyond the rocky knoll. ‘So let’s do it,’ Sharpe said.
It was not wise, he thought, but it was war. He cocked the rifle and shouted at his men to close up. Time to fight.
The village of Sula, which was perched on the eastward slope of the ridge very close to where the northernmost road crossed the summit, was a small and unremarkable place. The houses were cramped, the dungheaps large, and for a long time the village had not even possessed a church, which had meant that a priest must be fetched from Moura, at the ridge’s foot, or else a friar summoned from the monastery, to give extreme unction to the dying, but the sacraments had usually arrived
