„It’ll be dark tonight, sir. Lucky even to find the way.”
„For God’s sake,” Sharpe said, irritated with Harper’s pessimism, „we’ve been patrolling this place for a bloody month! We can find our way south.”
By evening they had two sacks of bread, some rock-hard smoked goat meat, two cheeses and a bag of beans that Sharpe distributed among the men, then he had an inspiration and went to the Quinta’s kitchen and stole two large tins of tea. He reckoned it was time Kate did something for her country and there were few finer gestures than donating good China tea to riflemen. He gave one tin to Harper and shoved the other into his pack. It had started to rain, the drops pounding on the stable roof and cascading off the tiles into the cobbled yard. Daniel Hagman watched the rain from the stable door. „I feel just fine, sir,” he reassured Sharpe.
„We can make a stretcher, Dan, if you feel poorly.”
„Lord, no, sir! I’m right as rain, right as rain.”
No one wanted to leave in this downpour, but Sharpe was determined to use every hour of darkness to make his way toward the Douro. There was a chance, he thought, of reaching the river by midday tomorrow and he would let the men rest while he scouted the river bank for a means to cross. „Packs on!” he ordered. „Ready yourselves.” He watched Williamson for any sign of reluctance, but the man got a move on with the rest. Vicente had distributed wine corks and the men pushed them into the muzzles of their rifles or muskets. The weapons were not loaded because in this rain the priming would turn to gray slush. There was more grumbling when Sharpe ordered them out of the stables, but they hunched their shoulders and followed him out of the courtyard and up into the wood where the oaks and silver birches thrashed under the assault of wind and rain. Sharpe was soaked to the skin before they had gone a quarter-mile, but he consoled himself that no one else was likely to be out in this vile weather. The evening light was fading fast and early, stolen by the black, thick-bellied clouds that scraped against the jagged outcrop of the ruined watchtower. Sharpe was following a path that would lead around the western side of the watchtower’s hill and he glanced up at the old masonry as they emerged from the trees and thought ruefully of all that work.
He called a halt to let the rear of the line catch up. Daniel Hagman was evidently holding up well. Harper, two smoked legs of goat hanging from his belt, climbed up to join Sharpe, who was watching the arriving men from a vantage point a few feet higher than the path. „Bloody rain,” Harper said.
„It’ll stop eventually.”
„Is that so?” Harper asked innocently.
It was then Sharpe saw the gleam of light in the vineyards. It was not lightning, it was too dull, too small and too close to the ground, but he knew he had not imagined it and he cursed Christopher for stealing his telescope. He gazed at the spot where the light had shown so briefly, but saw nothing.
„What is it?” Vicente had climbed to join him.
„Thought I saw a flash of light,” Sharpe said.
„Just rain,” Harper said dismissively.
„Perhaps it was a piece of broken glass,” Vicente suggested. „I once found some Roman glass in a field near Entre-os-Rios. There were two broken vases and some coins of Septimus Severus.”
Sharpe was not listening. He was watching the vineyards.
„I gave the coins to the seminary in Porto,” Vicente went on, raising his voice to make himself heard over the seething rain, „because the Fathers keep a small museum there.”
„The sun doesn’t reflect off glass when it’s raining,” Sharpe said, but something had reflected out there, more like a smear of light, a damp gleam, and he searched the hedgerow between the vines and suddenly saw it again. He swore.
„What is it?” Vicente asked.
„Dragoons,” Sharpe said, „dozens of the bastards. Dismounted and watching us.” The gleam had been the dull light reflecting from one of the brass helmets. There must have been a tear in the helmet’s protective cloth cover and the man, running along the hedge, had served as a beacon, but now that Sharpe had seen the first green uniform among the green vines, he could see dozens more. „The bastards were going to ambush us,” he said, and he felt a reluctant admiration for an enemy who could use such vile weather, then he worked out that the dragoons must have approached Vila Real de Zedes during the day and somehow he had missed them, but they would not have missed the significance of the work he was doing on the hilltop and they must know that the hog-backed ridge was his refuge. „Sergeant!” he snapped at Harper. „Up the hill now! Now!” And pray they were not too late.