`La Puta Dorado?’ 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 girl laughed at him. `Eat.’
`I’m trying!’ Both hands were bandaged. He was bruised all over. His head was bandaged. `What day is it?’
`Tuesday.’
`What date?’
`How do I know? Eat.’
This, he knew, was the house of the carpenter who had hit him so effectively with the mallet. The man was eager to make amends, had given Sharpe this room, had even sharpened the sword on a stone and propped it beside Sharpe’s bed. The girl was a housemaid, black-haired and plump, with a bright smile and a teasing manner. One of her eyes was blind, a white blankness where there should have been a pupil. `Eat!’
The doctor came, a gloomy man in a long, stained black coat. He bled Sharpe’s thigh. He had raised his eyebrows on his first visit, scarcely believing the scars on Sharpe’s body. Beyond the doctor, through the window, Sharpe could see the smoke still hazing the grey clouds above the castle. Rain was soft on the window. It seemed to have been raining ever since he had woken in this room. The doctor wiped the small cut and pulled the sheet down. `Another two days, Major Vaughn.’
`I want to go now.’
The man shook his head. `You’re weak, Major. You lost much btood. The bruises.’ He shrugged. Two days of Pedro’s food and you’ll be better.’
`I need a horse.’
`The French took them all.’ The doctor threw the cupful of blood into the fireplace and wiped the bowl on the skirts of his coat. `There may be a mule for sale tomorrow at the market.’