scabbard over his own scabbard. He pushed the Kligenthal home. His Kligenthal.
Leroux’s black sabretache was spotted with blood. Sharpe lifted the flap and there, on top, was a small leather notebook. He opened it, saw a star chart surrounded by a strange language, and tossed it to Hogan.“ That’s what we wanted, sir.”
Hogan looked at the dead in the valley, at the prisoners, and he looked at the survivors of the King’s German Legion Heavy Dragoons who walked their horses back from the unsuccessful attack on the remaining two French Battalions. The Germans had won a great victory, at great price, and the valley was stinking of blood. Hogan looked at the book, then at Sharpe. “Thank you, Richard.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Sharpe was taking Leroux’s overalls. He had worn overalls exactly like these until the fight in the Irish College. Now he had killed another Chasseur Colonel. Leroux’s overalls still had the silver buttons down their legs and Sharpe grinned as he held them up. He wiped his sword clean on them.
Leroux’s sister had once asked Sharpe if he enjoyed killing and he had given her no answer. He could have replied that sometimes it was terrible, that often it was sad, that usually it happened without any emotion, but that sometimes, rarely, like this day, there were no regrets. He picked up his own sword, the crude sword that had won the fight, and smiled at Harper. “Breakfast?”
EPILOGUE
Salamanca was honeyed gold in the sunlight. A city built like Rome on hills above a river.
The morning sunlight slanted the shadows long in the Great Plaza. The wounded, two days after the great battle at the Arapiles, still died in the hospital.
Sharpe stood on the Roman Bridge and stared down at the sinuous green weeds. He knew it was foolish to be here, maybe a waste of time, but he waited.
A company of Spanish soldiers was marched across the bridge. The officer grinned at him, waved a cigar. The men looked curiously at the two swords that hung by the grim Rifleman’s side.
A farmer drove cattle past him. Two priests went the other way, arguing violently, and Sharpe paced slowly behind them, stopped at the small fortress arched over the roadway, and walked slowly back.
The clock on the hill struck ten.
A cavalry Sergeant drove a dozen remounts into the river. They drank while he rubbed them down. The edge of the river was very shallow. Children played there, running easily to a small island, and their voices carried up to the bridge.
She might not even come this way, he thought, but she did.
Two liveried servants first, mounted on horseback, then the dark blue coach with its four white horses, and after that another coach that he presumed was for luggage or servants.
He pushed against the stone of the parapet, watched the servants ride past, then the four white horses, and then the barouche, its cover up, was opposite him.
She saw him.
He had to walk a few paces to where the barouche had stopped. He looked up. “I tried to see you.”
“I know.” She was fanning her face.
He felt awkward. The sun was hot on the back of his neck. He could feel sweat trickling below his armpit. “Are you well, Ma’am?”
She smiled. “Yes. I find myself temporarily unpopular in Salamanca.” She shrugged. “Madrid may be more welcoming.”
“You may find our army in Madrid.”
“Then I may go north.”
“A long way?”
She smiled. “A long way.” Her eyes dropped to the two swords, then back to Sharpe’s face. “Did you kill him?”
“In a fair fight.” He was embarrassed again, as he had been at their first meeting. She seemed no different. She was still beautiful, unbearably so, and it seemed impossible that she was an enemy. He shrugged. “Your horse died.”
“Did you kill it?”
“Your brother did.”
She half smiled. “He killed very easily.” Her eyes went back to the sword again, then back to Sharpe. “We were not very fond of each other.” He supposed she meant she and her brother, but he could not be sure she was not talking of himself. She shook her head. “Did you wait for me?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. To tell her he missed her? To tell her that it did not matter that she was French, a spy, released only because she was a Spanish aristocrat and Wellington could not afford the scandal? To tell her that amid all the lies there had been some truth? “To wish you well.”
“And I wish you well.” She mocked him gently. To Sharpe she seemed untouchable, unreachable. “Goodbye, Captain Sharpe.”
“Goodbye, Ma’am.”
She spoke to the coachman, looked back at Sharpe. “Who knows, Richard? Maybe another day.” The coach lurched forward, the last he saw was her golden hair going back into its shadows. He thought to himself that he had nothing of hers to remember her by, only memory which was the worst souvenir.
He felt in his new ammunition pouch and fingered the message that had been delivered that morning from Wellington himself. It thanked him. He supposed that Napoleon would have written similar messages to Leroux and La Marquesa if Sharpe had not taken the notebook from the shattered squares at Garcia Hernandez. After the battle they had found that was the name of the village near to the hill and the valley.
Major Hogan was expansive at lunch. Sharpe was to stay in Hogan’s old lodgings, to be fed well by the landlady, and Hogan drank well before he left. “You’re to stay and recuperate, Richard! General’s orders! We want you fully strong again.”
„Yes, sir.“
“Forrest will wait for you, don’t worry. Your Company’s safe.”
“Any news of a new Colonel?”
Hogan shook his head, belched, and patted his stomach. “Not yet. I think Lawford would like it again, but I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Forrest might get it. I don’t know, Richard.” He pushed a forefinger into Sharpe’s side. “You should be thinking about it.”
“Me! I’m a captain.” Sharpe grinned and bit into cold beef.
Hogan poured more wine. “Think about it! A majority next. Then Lieutenant Colonel. It could happen, Richard. It’s going to be a long bloody war. We just heard the Americans are in now, they may be in Quebec for all we know.“ He sipped his wine. ”Can you afford a Majority?“
“Me!” Sharpe laughed. “They’re two thousand six hundred pounds. Where do you think I can get that kind of money?”
Hogan smiled. “Don’t you usually get what you want, Richard?”
Sharpe shrugged. “I get the rainbows, sir. Never the pots of gold.”
Hogan twisted his glass in his hands. “There was one other thing, Richard, a smallish thing. I’ve been talking to Father Curtis and he did say something odd. He says that notebook was well hidden, truly well hidden, and he can’t imagine how Leroux could have found it.”
“Leroux was a clever man, sir.”
“Aye, maybe. But Curtis was sure it was too well hidden. Only Lord Spears, he says, knew where it was.” His shrewd eyes were on Sharpe.
“Really, sir?” Sharpe poured more wine.
