“The French are up the valley. A lot of them.” Hogan poured himself some wine. “I reckon there’ll be a battle within a week.”
“A week!” Forrest sounded surprised.
“Aye, Major. They’re swarming all over a place called Talavera.” Hogan pronounced it `Tally-verra’, making it sound like some Irish hamlet. “But once you join with Cuesta’s army you’ll far outnumber them.”
“You’ve seen Cuesta’s troops?” Sharpe asked.
“Aye.” The Irishman grinned. “They’re no better than the Santa Maria. The cavalry may be better, but the infantry. , Hogan left the sentence unfinished. He turned back to Sharpe and beamed again. “The last time I saw you, you were under arrest! Now look at you. How’s good Sir Henry?” There was a laugh round the table. Hogan did not wait for an answer but dropped his voice. “I saw Sir Arthur.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“For telling the truth? So what happens now?”
“I don’t know.” Sharpe spoke quietly. Only Hogan could hear him. “Simmerson has written home. I’m told that he has the power to stop the Horse Guards ratifying the gazette, so in six weeks I’ll be a Lieutenant again, probably for ever, and almost certainly transferred to the Fever Islands, or out of the army altogether.” Hogan looked intently at him.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes. One of Sir Arthur’s staff virtually told me as much.”Because of Simmerson?” Hogan frowned in disbelief. Sharpe sighed. “It has to do with Simmerson keeping his credibility in Parliament with the people who oppose Wellesley. I’m the sacrifice. Don’t ask me, it’s way over my head. What about you? You were under arrest too.”
Hogan shrugged. “Sir Henry forgave me. He doesn’t take me seriously, I’m just an Engineer. No, it’s you he’s after. You’re an upstart, a Rifleman, you’re not a Gentle-man but you’re a better soldier than he’ll ever be, so.” He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. “He wants rid of you. Listen.” Hogan leaned even nearer. “There’ll be a battle soon, has to be. The idiot will probably make as big a mess as he did before. They can’t protect him for ever. It’s a terrible thing, God knows, but you should pray he makes as big a mistake again.”
Sharpe smiled. “I doubt if we need to pray.” From one of the upper windows that looked onto the balconies that ran round the courtyard there came a woman’s scream, terrifying and intense, stopping all conversation beneath the trees. Men froze with their cups half lifted to their mouths and stared at the dark doorways that led to the bedrooms. Sharpe got to his feet and reached instinctively for his rifle. Forrest put a hand on his arm. “It’s not our business, Sharpe.”
In the courtyard there was a moment’s silence, some nervous laughter, and then the conversation started again.
Sharpe felt uneasy. It could have been anything; one of the women who lived at the inn could be ill, possibly even a difficult childbirth, but he felt certain it was something else. A rape? He felt ashamed that he had done nothing. Forrest tugged at his arm again. “Sit down. It’s probably nothing.”
Before Sharpe could move there came another scream, this time a man’s, and it turned into a bellow of rage. A door burst open on the top floor spilling yellow candle-light onto the balcony, and a woman ran out of the room and darted towards the stairs. A voice shouted, “Stop her!”
The girl tore down the stairs as though the fiends of hell were after her. The officers in the courtyard cheered her on and shouted abuse at the two figures who emerged after her, Gibbons and Berry. They stood no chance of catching her; both men looked drunk, and as they burst from the room they lurched and blinked round the courtyard.
“It’s Josefina,” Forrest said. Sharpe watched the girl half run, half fall down the stairs until she reached the other side of the courtyard from their table. For a second she looked desperately round as though looking for help. She was carrying a bag, and Sharpe had a glimpse of what could have been a knife in her hand, and then she turned and ran into the darkness, over the stream, towards the lights of the Battalion’s fires. Gibbons stopped halfway down the stairs; he was dressed in trousers and shirt and one hand was clutching the unbuttoned shirt to his stomach; in the other hand was a pistol. “Come back, you lousy bitch!”