‘Don’t worry, Batten, there’s not much farther to go.’
The suspicious eyes looked up at Sharpe. ‘It’s a hot day, sir.’
‘You’d complain if it was any colder.’ The men nearby grinned. ‘Anyway, you’ll be in Almeida tomorrow and back with the Battalion the day after.”
He spoke loudly for the escort’s benefit, and as he spoke he knew that the decision had been taken. They would not be in Almeida tomorrow, or the day after, but back in Casatejada, where there was some grave digging to do. It was the only way to allay the suspicions, but by doing it Sharpe knew he was taking on enemies that were more dangerous than the French. If the gold were there, and for a second his mind sneered away from the terrifying prospect that it was not, then the Company would have to carry it across twenty miles of hostile country, avoiding the French, but, worse than that, fighting off the Partisans, who knew the territory and how to fight it. For the moment all he could do was to convince the surly Jose that he had every intention of going straight back to the army, and Sharpe, to his men’s surprise, suddenly waxed voluble and jolly.
‘Boiled beef tomorrow, lads. No more vegetable stew! Army rum, your wives, the Regimental Sergeant Major, all the things you’ve missed. Aren’t you looking forward to it?’ They grinned at him, happy that he was happy. ‘And for us unmarried men the best women in Portugal!’ There were rude cheers for that and the Partisan, resting in his saddle, looked on disapprovingly.
‘Your men fight for women, Captain?’
Sharpe nodded cheerfully. ‘And for drink. Plus a shilling a day with deductions.’
Knowles walked up from the rear with his watch open. ‘Ten minutes are up, sir.’
‘On your feet!’ Sharpe clapped his hands. ‘Come on, lads! Let’s go home. Parades, rations, and Mrs Roach to do the washing!’
The men stood up in good moods, heaved on their packs, shouldered their weapons, and Sharpe saw Jose’s disdainful look. He had created the impression, a fairly accurate impression, that the Light Company cared only for drink and women, and such allies were not to Jose’s taste. Sharpe wanted to be despised, to be under-rated, and if the Spaniard went back to Casatejada thinking that the men of the South Essex were clumsy, crude, and hell-bent on reaching the cat-houses of Lisbon, then that suited Sharpe.
Patrick Harper, the seven-barrelled gun hitched high on his shoulder, fell into step with Sharpe once more. ‘So we’re going back?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Not that anyone else needs to know. How did you guess?’
Harper laughed. He looked shrewdly at Sharpe, as if gauging the wisdom of his answer, but he seemed to think it safe. ‘Because you want the bastard’s woman.’
Sharpe smiled. ‘And the gold, Patrick. Don’t forget the gold.”
They reached the Agueda at dusk, when gnats gathered in clouds over the slow northward flow of the river. Sharpe was tempted to bivouac on the eastern bank, but knew that such an action would arouse the Partisans’ suspicions, so the Light Company waded the river and went half a mile into the trees that fringed the western hills. The escort did not leave but stood on the far bank watching them, and for a moment Sharpe wondered if the Spaniards suspected that the British soldiers would try to return to Casatejada in the night. He turned to a shivering Lieutenant Knowles. ‘Light a fire.’
‘A fire?’ Knowles looked astonished. ‘But the French -‘
‘I know. Light it. A big one.’
The men were enthusiastic. Those who had the wicked saw-backed bayonets attacked cork-oak branches, others gathered kindling, and within minutes the blue wood-smoke rose like a wavering signal in the evening sky. Patrick Harper, standing in dripping shirt-tails and holding his sodden trousers to the fire, cocked an inquisitive look towards his Captain as if suggesting that the blaze was dangerous. It was deliberately so, because seeing it would further convince the Partisans of the ineptness of the British infantry. Any man who lit a fire in countryside patrolled by the enemy could not expect to live long.