„And this road, sir,” Hogan went on, tracing his pencil from the Ponte Nova to Montalegre, „is a real devil. It’s a twister, sir. You have to walk five miles to go a half-mile forward. And better still, sir, it crosses a couple of rivers, small ones, but in deep gorges with quick water, and that means high bridges, sir, and if the Portuguese can cut one of those bridges then Monsieur Soult is lost, sir. He’s trapped. He can only lead his men across the mountains and they’ll have the devil on their heels all the way.”
„God speed the Portuguese,” Wellesley grunted, grimacing at the sound of the rain which he kriew would slow his allies who were advancing inland in an attempt to sever the roads by which the French could reach Spain. They had already cut them off at Amarante, but now they would need to march further north while Wellesley’s army, fresh from its triumph at Oporto, would have to chase the French. The British were the beaters driving their game toward the Portuguese guns. Wellesley stared at the map. „You drew this, Hogan?”
„I did, sir.”
„And it’s reliable?”
„It is, sir.“
Sir Arthur grunted. If it were not for the weather, he thought, he would bag Soult and all his men, but the rain would make it a damned difficult pursuit. Which meant the sooner it began the better and so aides were sent with orders that would start the British army on its march at dawn. Then, the orders given, Sir Arthur yawned. He badly needed some sleep before the morning and he was about to turn in when the big doors were thrown open and a very wet, very ragged and very unshaven rifleman entered. He saw General Wellesley, looked surprised and instinctively came to attention.
„Good God,” Wellesley said sourly.
„I think you know Lieutenant … „ Hogan began.
„Of course I know Lieutenant Sharpe,” Wellesley snapped, „but what I want to know is what the devil is he doing here? The 95th aren’t with us.”
Hogan removed the candlesticks from the corners of the map and let it roll up. „That’s my doing, Sir Arthur,” he said calmly. „I found Lieutenant Sharpe and his men wandering like lost sheep and took them into my care, and ever since he’s been escorting me on my journeys to the frontier. I couldn’t have coped with the French patrols on my own, Sir Arthur, and Mister Sharpe was a great comfort.”
Wellesley, while Hogan offered the explanation, just stared at Sharpe. „You were lost?” he demanded coldly.
„Cut off, sir,” Sharpe said.
„During the retreat to Corunna?”
„Yes, sir,” Sharpe said. In fact his unit had been retreating toward Vigo, but the distinction was not important and Sharpe had long learned to keep replies to senior officers as brief as possible.
„So where the devil have you been these last few weeks?” Wellesley asked tartly. „Skulking?”
„Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, and the staff officers stiffened at the whiff of insolence that drifted through the room.
„I ordered the Lieutenant to find a young Englishwoman who was lost, sir,” Hogan hurried to explain. „In fact I ordered him to accompany Colonel Christopher.”
The mention of that name was like a whip crack. No one spoke though the young civilian who had been pretending to sleep in the armchair and who had opened his eyes wide with surprise when Sharpe’s name was first mentioned now paid very close attention. He was a painfully thin young man and pallid, as though he feared the sun, and there was something feline, almost feminine, in his delicate appearance. His clothes, so very elegant, would have been well suited to a London drawing room or a Paris salon, but here, amidst the unwashed uniforms and suntanned officers of Wellesley’s staff, he looked like a pampered lapdog among hounds. He was sitting up straight now and staring intently at Sharpe.
„Colonel Christopher.” Wellesley broke the silence. „So you’ve been with him?” he demanded of Sharpe.
„General Cradock ordered me to stay with him, sir,” Sharpe said, and took the General’s order from his pouch and laid it on the table.