His men were laughing now, but Sharpe had intended to go to the river bank anyway to see what kind of challenge his raft would face and so he let Ronnie pull him along. The idiot made conversation all the way, but none of it made any sense. He took Sharpe right to the river bank and, when Sharpe tried to detach his surprisingly strong grip, Ronnie shook his head and tugged Sharpe on through some poplars, down through thick bushes and then at last he relinquished his grip on Sharpe’s arm and clapped his hands.
„You’re not such an idiot after all, are you?” Sharpe said. „In fact you’re a bloody genius, Ronnie.”
There was a boat. Sharpe had seen the ferry burned and sunk on his first visit to Barca d’Avintas, but now realized there must have been two craft and this was the second. It was a flat, wide and cumbersome vessel, the kind of boat that could carry a small flock of sheep or even a carriage and its horses, and it had been weighted with stones and sunk in this wide ditch-like creek that jutted under the trees to make a small backwater. Sharpe wondered why the villagers had not shown it to him before and guessed that they feared all soldiers and so they had hidden their most valuable boat until peaceful times returned. The French had destroyed every other boat and had never guessed that this second ferry still existed. „You’re a bloody genius,” Sharpe told Ronnie again, and he gave him the last of his bread, which was the only gift he had.
But he also had a boat.
And then he had something else for the thunder he had heard so distantly the previous day sounded again. Only this time it was close and it was unmistakable and it was not thunder at all and Christopher had lied and there was no peace in Portugal.
It was cannon fire.
CHAPTER 8
The sound of the firing was coming from the west, channeled up the steep-sided river valley, and Sharpe could not tell whether the battle was being fought on the northern or southern bank of the Douro. Nor could he even tell whether it was a battle. Perhaps the French had established batteries to protect the city against an attack from the sea and those batteries might just be firing at inquisitive frigates. Or maybe the guns were merely practice firing. But one thing was certain, he would never know what the guns were doing unless he got closer.
He ran back to the village, followed by the shambling Ronnie who was bellowing his inarticulate achievement to the world. Sharpe found Vicente. „The ferry’s still here,” Sharpe said, „he showed me.” He pointed to Ronnie.
„But the guns?” Vicente was bemused.
„We’re going to find out what they’re doing,” Sharpe said, „but ask the villagers to raise the ferry. We might yet need it. But we’ll go toward the city.”
„All of us?” Vicente asked.
„All of us. But tell them I want that boat floating by mid-morning.”
Ronnie’s mother, a shrunken and bent woman swathed in black, retrieved her son from Sharpe’s side and berated him in a shrill voice. Sharpe gave her the last chunk of cheese from Harper’s pack, explained that Ronnie was a hero, then led his motley group westward along the river bank.
There was plenty of cover. Orchards, olive groves, cattle sheds and small vineyards were crowded on the narrow piece of level land beside the Douro’s northern bank. The cannons, hidden by the loom of the great hill on which the flat-roofed building stood, were sporadic. Their firing would swell to a battle intensity then fade away. For minutes at a time there would be no shots, or just a single gun would fire and the sound of it would echo off the southern hills, rebound from the northern and bounce its way down the valley.
„Perhaps,” Vicente suggested, pointing up to the great white building, „we should go to the seminary.”
„Frogs will be there,” Sharpe said. He was crouching beside a hedge and for some reason kept his voice very low. It seemed extraordinary that there were no French picquets, not one, but he was certain the French must have put men into the big building that dominated the river east of the city as effectively as a castle. „What did you say it was?”
„A seminary.” Vicente saw Sharpe was puzzled. „A place where priests are trained. I thought of becoming a priest once.”
„Good God,” Sharpe said, surprised, „you wanted to be a priest?”
„I thought of it,” Vicente said defensively. „Do you not like priests?”
„Not much.”
„Then I’m glad I became a lawyer,” Vicente said with a smile.
„You’re no lawyer, Jorge,” Sharpe said, „you’re a bloody soldier like the rest of us.” He offered that compliment and then turned as the last of his men came across the small meadow to crouch behind the hedge. If the French did have men in the seminary, he thought, then either they were fast asleep or, more likely, they had seen the blue and green uniforms and confused them with their own jackets. Did they think the Portuguese blue were French coats? The Portuguese blue was darker than the French infantry coats and the Rifle green was much darker than the dragoons’ coats, but at a distance the uniforms might be confused. Or was there no one in the building? Sharpe took out the small telescope and stared for a long time. The seminary was huge, a great white block, four stories high, and there had to be at least ninety windows in the south wall alone, but he could see no movement in any of them, nor was anyone on the flat roof which had a red tile coping and surely provided the best lookout post east of the city.
„Shall we go there?” Vicente prompted Sharpe.
„Maybe,” Sharpe responded cautiously. He was tempted because the building would offer a marvelous view of the city, but he still could not believe the French would leave the seminary empty. „We’ll go further along the bank first, though.”
He led with his riflemen. Their green jackets blended better with the leaves, offering them a small advantage if there was a French picquet ahead, but they saw no one. Nor did Sharpe see any activity on the southern bank, yet the guns were still firing and now, over the loom of the seminary hill, he could see a dirty white cloud of gun smoke being pumped into the river valley.
There were more buildings now, many of them small houses built close to the river, and their gardens were a maze offences, vines and olive trees that hid Sharpe’s men as they went on westward. Above Sharpe, to his right, the seminary was a great threat in the sky, its serried windows blank and black, and Sharpe could not rid himself of the fear that a horde of French soldiers were hidden behind that sun-glossed cliff of stone and glass, yet every time he looked he saw no movement.
Then, suddenly, there was a single French soldier just ahead. Sharpe had turned a corner and there the man was. He was in the middle of a cobbled slipway that led from a boat builder’s shed to the river, and he was crouching to play with a puppy. Sharpe desperately beckoned for his men to stop. The enemy was an infantryman, and he was only seven or eight paces away, utterly oblivious, his back to Sharpe and his shako and musket on the cobblestones, letting the puppy playfully nip his right hand. And if there was one French soldier there had to be more. Had to be! Sharpe stared past the man to where a stand of poplars and thick bushes edged the slipway’s far side. Was there a patrol there? He could see no sign of one, nor any activity among the boatyard’s tumbledown sheds.
Then the Frenchman either heard the scuff of a boot or else sensed he was being watched for he stood and turned, then realized his musket was still on the ground and he stooped for it, then froze when Sharpe’s rifle pointed at his face. Sharpe shook his head, then jerked the rifle to indicate that the Frenchman should stand up straight. The man obeyed. He was a youngster, scarce older than Pendleton or Perkins, with a round, guileless face. He looked scared and took an involuntary step back as Sharpe came fast toward him, then he whimpered as Sharpe tugged him by the jacket back around the corner. Sharpe pushed him to the ground, took his bayonet from its scabbard and threw it into the river. „Tie him up,” he ordered Tongue.
„Slit his throat,” Tongue suggested, „it’s easier.”
„Tie him up,” Sharpe insisted, „gag him, and make a good job of it.” He beckoned Vicente forward. „He’s the only one I’ve seen.”
„There must be more,” Vicente declared.
