had been scenting that victory for days. Many had expected to fight at Burgos, but the plume of smoke which marked the French retreat had driven the army on another stage. It was rumoured the French would guard the crossings of the Ebro, the last great river line before the Pyrenees, but the French were nowhere to be seen when, on a cold, chill day, the columns crossed the river unopposed and heard, at last, the orders given for the swing south and east, the swoop down to the enemy.
The columns closed up. A Spanish column stayed to the north, fending off any approach by the French troops on the Biscay shore, but the other columns merged about a single road so they could concentrate swiftly for battle. The infantry, as ever, had the worst of it. The road had to be left for the baggage, the guns, the cavalry, and so the infantry marched on the hills either side, the slopes thick with men and mules, the air noisy with their marching songs.
That they had the energy to sing was astonishing, that they sang so well was more so, that they wanted a fight was obvious. Rumours had gone through the army that the enemy guarded a convoy of gold, that each man would be rich if he did his duty, and perhaps that rumour, more than pride, drove them on. They joked that the froggies were on the run now, that Johnny-Frenchman would not stand till he was past Paris, that this army would march on and on and on till every man jack in it had a Parisian girl on his elbow and a bag of gold in his hand, and the General, who would sometimes just sit on his horse and watch them pass, would feel his soul full of pride and love for these ranks that he led, that marched in such spirits to a battle that would leave some of them broken like bloody rag dolls on a Spanish field.
Three nights after the Burgos explosion, Major Michael Hogan sat in the uncomfortable stable that was his billet. He was lucky, he knew, to have even this place to sleep. A lantern hung over his head, its light showing the map that was spread on a makeshift table made from an overturned byre.
A man sat opposite him. The man was a Jew named Rodrigues. He was a corn dealer who travelled with the army, unpopular with the quartermasters who dealt with him, suspected by them, because of his rapacity, to be sympathetic with the French. Why not, they said? Everyone knew the Spanish church hated the Jews. Surely, they reasoned, Rodrigues would have a better life if the French ruled in Spain?
Hogan knew better. Rodrigues drove a harsh bargain, but so did every other corn factor who travelled with the army, Jewish or not. Yet this corn merchant, this despised man, had a genius of a memory and ears that seemed to hear the quietest whispers from far away. He talked now of one such whisper, and Hogan listened.
‘A man broke into a convent.’ Rodrigues smiled slyly. ‘That must have surprised the sisters.’
‘What kind of a man?’
‘Some say English, some say American! Others say French. He was rescued from the Partisans by the French.’
‘And you say?’
Rodrigues smiled. He was a thin man who wore his hair, summer and winter, beneath a fur hat. ‘I say he was your man. He took the woman.’ He held up a hand to stop Hogan interrupting. ‘But the news is not good, Major.’
‘Go on.’
‘He went to Burgos with the woman, but he was killed there.’
‘Killed?’
Rodrigues saw the look on Hogan’s face and suspected, rightly, that the unnamed Englishman had been a friend of the Major’s. ‘There are a dozen stories; I tell you what I think.’ The corn merchant fidgeted with the coiled whip he always carried. It was not much of a weapon, but enough to deter the children who tried to steal from his carts. ‘They say he was in the castle and that he killed a man. Then they say that he was treated with respect.’ Rodrigues shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What I do know is that he was still in the castle when it blew up. He died with the others.’
‘They found his body?’
‘Who can tell? It was difficult to tell what was a body in that place.’
Hogan said nothing for a while. He was wondering if it was true, but he had learned to trust Rodrigues and so he feared that it must be so. He had heard that the explosion in the castle had been an accident that had taken the lives of scores of Frenchmen, but was it possible, he found himself wondering, that Sharpe had engineered it? He could believe that. ‘And the woman?’
‘La Puta Dorada?’ Rodrigues smiled. ‘She went with the French army. Escorted by lancers.’
Hogan thought of Wellington’s fear that Sharpe would break into the convent. It appeared he had done just that. ‘What do people say about the convent?’
The Jew laughed. ‘They say it must be the French. After all the man rescued a Frenchwoman and went off with French cavalry.’
So it was over, Hogan thought, all over. Sharpe had failed. But it had been a better death than hanging, he reflected.
‘So what happens now, Major?’
‘Now? We march. Either the French try to stop us or they don’t.’
‘They will.’
Hogan nodded. ‘In which case there’ll be a battle.’
‘Which you’ll win.’ Rodrigues smiled. ‘And if you do, Major, what then?’
‘We’ll pursue them to the frontier.’
‘And then?’
Hogan smiled. Rodrigues never asked for payment for information, at least not payment in gold. The Irishman tapped his map. ‘A new supply port. There.’
Rodrigues smiled. The information was worth a small fortune. He would have men at that port, and warehouses ready, before his competitors even knew that the British supplies no longer were being dragged up the long roads from Lisbon. ‘Thank you, Major.’ He stood.
Hogan saw Rodrigues to the door, safely past the sentries, and he leaned on the doorpost and watched the rain seethe in the light of the campfires. Sharpe dead? He had thought that before and been wrong. He stared into the eastern darkness, thinking of ghosts, knowing Sharpe to be dead, yet not believing it.
And in the morning, when the rain still fell and the wind felt more like winter in Ireland than summer in Spain, the army marched on. They marched willingly, going towards the battle that would end the march, marching towards the city of golden spires; Vitoria.
‘You eat!’
Sharpe nodded. The girl spooned soup into his mouth; a thick, warm, tasty soup. ‘What is it?’
‘Horse. Now sit up! The doctor’s coming.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘You’re not. You’re lucky to be alive. Eat!’
His uniform hung against the wall, the uniform that had saved his life. Dozens of lone Frenchmen had been beaten to death in Burgos after the explosion, but Sharpe, just as the knife was about to cut his uniform away, had been recognised as an English officer. The men had not been certain. They had argued, some saying that the man’s overalls and boots were French, but other men were sure that the dark green jacket was British. The buttons, with their black crowns, decided the day. No Frenchman had crowns on his buttons, and so they had let Sharpe live.
The
