„Oh,” Sharpe said inadequately. He stood stricken, blinking. He had thought once that he could leave the army and live with Astrid and so make a new life in the clean decencies of Denmark. „I’m sorry,” he said.
„As am I,” Lord Pumphrey said easily, „so very sorry. But tell me, Richard, about Miss Savage. Might one assume she is beautiful?”
„Yes,” Sharpe said, „she is.”
„I thought so,” Lord Pumphrey said resignedly.
„And she’ll be dead,” Hogan snarled at Sharpe, „if you and me don’t hurry.”
„Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, and hurried.
Hogan and Sharpe walked through the night rain, going uphill to a schoolhouse that Sharpe had commandeered as quarters for his men. „You do know,” Hogan said with considerable irritation, „that Lord Pumphrey is a molly?”
„Of course I know he’s a molly.”
„He can be hanged for that,” Hogan observed with indecent satisfaction.
„I still like him,” Sharpe said.
„He’s a serpent. All diplomats are. Worse than lawyers.”
„He ain’t stuck up,” Sharpe said.
„There is nothing,” Hogan said, „nothing in all the world that Lord Pumphrey wants more than to be stuck up with you, Richard.” He laughed, his spirits restored. „And how the hell are we to find that poor wee girl and her rotten husband, eh?”
„We?” Sharpe asked. „You’re coming too?”
„This is far too important to be left to some lowly English lieutenant,” Hogan said. „This is an errand that needs the sagacity of the Irish.”
Once in the schoolhouse, Sharpe and Hogan settled in the kitchen where the French occupiers of the city had left an undamaged table and, because Hogan had left his good map at the General’s headquarters, he used a piece of charcoal to draw a cruder version on the table’s scrubbed top. From the main schoolroom, where Sharpe’s men had spread their blankets, came the sound of women’s laughter. His men, Sharpe reflected, had been in the city less than a day yet they had already found a dozen girls. „Best way to learn the language, sir,” Harper had assured him, „and we’re all very short on education, sir, as you doubtless know.”
„Right!” Hogan kicked the kitchen door shut. „Look at the map, Richard.” He showed how the British had come up the coast of Portugal and dislodged the French from Oporto and how, at the same time, the Portuguese army had attacked in the east. „They’ve retaken Amarante,” Hogan said, „which is good because it means Soult can’t cross that bridge. He’s stuck, Richard, stuck, so he’s got no choice. He’ll have to strike north through the hills to find a wee road up here”-the charcoal scratched as he traced a wiggly line on the table-”and it’s a bastard of a road, and if the Portuguese can keep going in this God-awful weather then they’re going to cut the road here.” The charcoal made a cross. „It’s a bridge called Ponte Nova. Do you remember it?”
Sharpe shook his head. He had seen so many bridges and mountain roads with Hogan that he could no longer remember which was which.
„The Ponte Nova,” Hogan said, „means the new bridge and naturally it’s as old as the hills and one tub of powder will send it crashing down into the gorge and then, Richard, Monsieur Soult is properly buggered. But he’s only buggered if the Portuguese can get there.” He looked gloomy, for the weather was not propitious for a swift march into the mountains. „And if they can’t stop Soult at the Ponte Nova then there’s a half-chance they’ll catch him at the Saltador. You remember that, of course?”
„I do remember that, sir,” Sharpe said.
The Saltador was a bridge high in the mountains, a stone span that leaped across a deep and narrow gorge, and the spectacular arch had been nicknamed the Leaper, the Saltador. Sharpe remembered Hogan mapping it, remembered a small village of low stone houses, but chiefly remembered the river tumbling in a seething torrent beneath the soaring bridge.
„If they get to the Saltador and cross it,“ Hogan said, „then we can kiss them goodbye and wish them luck. They’ll have escaped.” He flinched as a crash of thunder reminded him of the weather. „Ah, well,” he sighed, „we can only do our best.”