Sharpes Escape   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

He trained his glass farther south and saw there was still gun smoke in the valley where the main road ran beside the river. The rearguard was evidently holding its own, but they would have to retreat soon for, farther east, he could now see the main enemy army that showed as dark columns marching in fields. They were a very long way off, scarce visible even through the glass, but they were there, a shadowed horde coming to drive the British out of central Portugal. L'Armee de Portugal, the French called it, the army that was meant to whip the redcoats clear to Lisbon, then out to sea, so that Portugal would at last be placed under the tricolor, but the army of Portugal was in for a surprise. Marshal Massena would march into an empty land and then find himself facing the Lines of Torres Vedras.

"See anything, Sharpe?" Slingsby stepped closer, plainly wanting to borrow the telescope.

"Have you been drinking rum?" Sharpe asked, again getting a whiff of the spirit.

Slingsby looked alarmed, then offended. "Put it on the skin," he said gruffly, slapping his face, "to keep off the flies."

"You do what?"

"Trick I learned in the islands."

"Bloody hell," Sharpe said, then collapsed the glass and put it into his pocket. "There are Frogs over there," he said, pointing southeast, "thousands of goddamn bloody Frogs."

He left the Lieutenant gazing at the distant army and went back to chivvy the redcoats who had formed a chain to sling the sacks out onto the hillside which now looked as though it were ankle deep in snow. Flour drifted like powder smoke from the summit, fell softly, made mounds, and still more sacks were hurled out the door. Sharpe reckoned it would take a couple of hours to empty the shrine. He ordered ten riflemen to join the work and sent ten of the redcoats to join Slingsby's piquet. He did not want his redcoats to start whining that they did all the work while the riflemen got the easy jobs. Sharpe gave them a hand himself, standing in the line and tossing sacks through the door as the collapsed telegraph burned itself out, its windblown cinders staining the white flour with black spots.

Slingsby came just as the last sacks were being destroyed. "Dragoons have gone, Sharpe," he reported. "Reckon they saw us and rode off."

"Good." Sharpe forced himself to sound civil, then went to join Harper who was watching the dragoons ride away. "They didn't want to play with us, Pat?"

"Then they've more sense than that big Portuguese fellow," Harper said. "Give him a headache, did you?"

"Bastard wanted to bribe me."

"Oh, it's a wicked world," Harper said, "and there's me always dreaming of getting a wee bribe.