The Portuguese soldiers had kept pace with Sharpe’s riflemen and their officer, who had tried to talk to Sharpe before, now approached again. He was very young and very slender and very tall and wearing what looked like a brand-new uniform. His officer’s sword hung from a white shoulder sash edged with silver piping and at his belt was a bolstered pistol that looked so clean Sharpe suspected it had never been fired. He was good-looking except for a black mustache that was too thin, and something about his demeanor suggested he was a gentleman, and a decent one at that, for his dark and intelligent eyes were oddly mournful, but perhaps that was no surprise for he had just seen Oporto fall to invaders. He bowed to Sharpe. „Senhor?”
„I don’t speak Portuguese,” Sharpe said.
„I am Lieutenant Vicente,” the officer said in good English. His dark-blue uniform had white piping at its hems and was decorated with silver buttons and red cuffs and a high red collar. He wore a barretina, a shako with a false front that added six inches to his already considerable height. The number 18 was emblazoned on the barretinds brass front plate. He was out of breath and sweat was glistening on his face, but he was determined to remember his manners. „I congratulate you, senhor.”
„Congratulate me?” Sharpe did not understand.
„I watched you, senhor, on the road beneath the seminary. I thought you must surrender, but instead you attacked. It was”-Vicente paused, frowning as he searched for the right word-”it was great bravery,” he went on and then embarrassed Sharpe by removing the barretina and bowing again, „and I brought my men to attack the French because your bravery deserved it.”
„I wasn’t being brave,” Sharpe said, „just bloody stupid.”
„You were brave,” Vicente insisted, „and we salute you.” He looked for a moment as though he planned to step smartly back, draw his sword and whip the blade up into a formal salute, but Sharpe managed to head off the flourish with a question about Vicente’s men. „There are thirty-seven of us, senhor,” the young Portuguese answered gravely, „and we are from the eighteenth regiment, the second of Porto.” He gave Oporto its proper Portuguese name. The regiment, he said, had been defending the makeshift palisades on the city’s northern edge and had retreated toward the bridge where it had dissolved into panic. Vicente had gone eastward in the company of these thirty-seven men, only ten of whom were from his own company. „There were more of us,” he confessed, „many more, but most kept running. One of my sergeants said I was a fool to try and rescue you and I had to shoot him to stop him from spreading, what is the word? Desesperanga? Ah, despair, and then I led these volunteers to your assistance.”
For a few seconds Sharpe just stared at the Portuguese Lieutenant. „You did what?” he finally asked.
„I led these men back to give you aid. I am the only officer of my company left, so who else could make the decision? Captain Rocha was killed by a cannonball up on the redoubt, and the others? I do not know what happened to them.”
„No,” Sharpe said, „before that. You shot your Sergeant?”
Vicente nodded. „I shall stand trial, of course. I shall plead necessity.” There were tears in his eyes. „But the Sergeant said you were all dead men and that we were beaten ones. He was urging the men to shed their uniforms and desert.”
„You did the right thing,” Sharpe said, astonished.
Vicente bowed again. „You flatter me, senhor.”
„And stop calling me senhor,” Sharpe said. „I’m a lieutenant like you.”
Vicente took a half step back, unable to hide his surprise. „You are a … ?” he began to ask, then understood that the question was rude. Sharpe was older than he was, maybe by ten years, and if Sharpe was still a lieutenant then presumably he was not a good soldier, for a good soldier, by the age of thirty, must have been promoted. „But I am sure, senhor” Vicente went on, „that you are senior to me.”
„I might not be,” Sharpe said.