‘I know.’ And then she was gone, her horse’s hooves echoing in the dark, curving tunnel of the gateway, and he watched as the Portuguese soldiers wound down the portcullis and slammed the inner gates. He was alone; no, not really alone, for Harper waited for him up the street, but he felt alone. At least he believed that Teresa would be safe. Merchants were still trading from Badajoz, their convoys still going north, east and south, and Teresa would circle the city, find such a convoy, and ride safely back to the house with the two orange trees. It was just eleven miles away, an easy walk, but he felt as if it were on the far side of the world.
Harper fell into step beside him, his face long. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
The Sergeant sighed. ‘I know you wanted to make a good impression on the Colonel. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. I should have killed that bastard in the stable. ‘
Harper grinned. ‘Aye, you should. Do you want me to?’
‘No. He’s mine, and in public.’ They edged past ox carts loaded high with spades, gabions and great timber baulks that would become gun platforms. Elvas was filling with material for the siege; only the guns were missing, still being dragged on the roads from the River Tagus and bringing with them the promise of another breach, another Forlorn Hope.
‘Sir?’ Harper was embarrassed.
‘Yes?’
‘Is it true, sir?’
‘Is what true?’
The Irishman looked down on Sharpe from his huge height. ‘That you’re losing the Company? I hear there’s a new Captain, some youngster from the 51st?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The lads won’t like it, sir, nor will they.’
‘The lads will just have to bloody put up with it.’
‘God save Ireland.’ They climbed a few paces in silence, up towards the town’s centre. ‘So it is true?’
‘Probably.’
Harper shook his head, massively and slowly. ‘God save Ireland. I would never have believed it. Will you talk to the General?’
Sharpe shook his head. He had thought of it, but instantly dismissed the thought. He had once saved Wellington’s life, but the debt had long been repaid and the General had already promoted him Captain once. It was not Wellington’s fault that the gazette had been refused, if it had, or that a lawyer had sold a commission illegally. It happened all the time. ‘I can’t run to him every time there’s trouble.’ He shrugged. ‘Something’ll turn up, Patrick, it always does.’
Harper, unappeased, slammed a fist against a wall, startling a sleeping dog. ‘I don’t believe it! They can’t do it!’
‘They can.’
Then they’re fools.’ Harper thought for a second. ‘Would you be thinking of moving on?’
‘Where?’
‘Back to the Rifles?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing’s certain yet. Anyway, the Rifles have all the officers they need, and then more.’
‘So you have thought about it.’ Harper nodded to himself. ‘Would you promise me something?”
Sharpe smiled. ‘I know, and the answer’s yes.’
‘By God, I’ll not stay on here without you. I’ll go back to the Rifles with you. You need someone sensible near you.’
They parted at the officers’ house, just as the great cloud bank engulfed Elvas in shadow and a promise of rain. Sharpe paused in the archway. ‘I’ll see you at four.’
‘Aye, sir, I hope it’s you.’ There was to be a parade at four at which Colonel Windham would inspect his new battalion.
Sharpe nodded. ‘So do I. Make it a good turn-out.’
He did not know where Windham would be, so he paused in the hallway and saw the array of clean, new shakoes on the table. He could not face the big room, the Mess, the pitying glances of his fellow-officers and the inevitable confrontation with Rymer, so he stayed in the hall and stared at a huge, gloomy painting of a white-cassocked priest who was being burned at a stake. The soldiers who stoked the faggots were mean-faced, weaselly, and obviously intended to be the English, while the suffering priest had an ethereal look of forgiveness and martyrdom. Sharpe hoped the bastard had hurt.
‘Captain Sharpe?’ He turned. A small Major with a clipped moustache was looking at him from a doorway.