Harper appeared beside him, his rifle slung. „Jesus,” he said, staring at the ferry, „that’s not a lot of good to man or beast, is it now?”
„Any of our boys hurt?”
„Not a one, sir, not even a scratch. The Portuguese are the same, all alive. They did well, didn’t they?” He looked at the burning boat again. „Sweet Jesus, was that the ferry?”
„It was Noah’s bloody ark,” Sharpe snapped. „What do you goddamned think it was?” He was angry because he had hoped to use the ferry to get all his men safe across the Douro, but now it seemed he was stranded. He stalked away, then turned back just in time to see Harper making a face at him. „Have you found the taverns?” he asked, ignoring the grimace.
„Not yet, sir,” Harper said.
„Then find them, put a guard on them, then send a dozen more men to the far side of the paddock.”
„Yes, sir!”
The French had set more fires among sheds on the river bank and Sharpe now ducked beneath the billowing smoke to kick open half-burned doors. There was a pile of tarred nets smoldering in one shed, but in the next there was a black-painted skiff with a fine spiked bow that curved up like a hook. The shed had been fired, but the flames had not reached the skiff and Sharpe managed to drag it halfway out of the door before Lieutenant Vicente arrived and helped him pull the boat all the way out of the smoke. The other sheds were too well alight, but at least this one boat was saved and Sharpe reckoned it could hold about half a dozen men safely, which meant that it would take the rest of the day to ferry everyone across the wide river. Sharpe was about to ask Vicente to look for oars or paddles when he saw that the young man’s face was white and shaken, almost as if the Lieutenant was on the point of tears. „What is it?” Sharpe asked.
Vicente did not answer, but merely pointed back to the village.
„The French were having games with the ladies, eh?” Sharpe asked, setting off for the houses.
„I would not call it games,” Vicente said bitterly, „and there is also a prisoner.”
„Only one?”
„There are two others,” Vicente said, frowning, „but this one is a lieutenant. He had no breeches which is why he was slow to run.”
Sharpe did not ask why the captured dragoon had no breeches. He knew why. „What have you done with him?”
„He must go on trial,” Vicente said.
Sharpe stopped and stared at the Lieutenant. „He must what?” he asked, astonished. „Go on trial?”
„Of course.”
„In my country,” Sharpe said, „they hang a man for rape.”
„Not without a trial,” Vicente protested and Sharpe guessed that the Portuguese soldiers had wanted to kill the prisoner straight away and that Vicente had stopped them out of some high-minded idea that a trial was necessary.
„Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, „you’re a soldier now, not a lawyer. You don’t give them a trial. You chop their hearts out.”
Most of Barca d’Avintas’s inhabitants had fled the dragoons, but some had stayed and most of them were now crowded about a house guarded by a half-dozen of Vicente’s men. A dead dragoon, stripped of shirt, coat, boots and breeches, lay face down in front of the church. He must have been leaning against the church wall when he was shot for he had left a smear of blood down the limewashed stones. Now a dog sniffed at his toes. The soldiers and villagers parted to let Sharpe and Vicente into the house where the young dragoon officer, fair-haired, thin and sullen-faced, was being guarded by Sergeant Macedo and another Portuguese soldier. The Lieutenant had managed to pull on his breeches, but had not had time to button them and he was now holding them up by the waist. As soon as he saw Sharpe he began gabbling in French. „You speak French?” Sharpe asked Vicente.
„Of course,” Vicente said.
But Vicente, Sharpe reflected, wanted to give this fair-haired Frenchman a trial and Sharpe suspected that if Vicente interrogated the man he would not learn the real truth, merely hear the excuses, so Sharpe went to the house door. „Harper!” He waited till the Sergeant appeared. „Get me Tongue or Harris,” he ordered.