LITMIR.BIZ

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thought you were going back to England,’ Sarah said. She had conceived an idea of travelling with the army, preferably with a family of quality, and making a new start. Quite how she would do that without money, clothes or a written character, she did not know, but nor was she willing to give in to the despair she had felt earlier in the morning.

      ‘We’re not going home till the war’s won,’ Sharpe said, ‘but what are we going to do with you? Send you home?’

      Sarah shrugged. ‘I have no money, Mister Sharpe. No money, no clothes.’

      ‘You’ve got family?’

      ‘My parents are dead. I have an uncle, but I doubt he’ll be willing to help me.’

      ‘The more I see of families,’ Sharpe said, ‘the happier I am to be an orphan.’

      ‘Sharpe!’ Vicente said reprovingly.

      ‘You’ll be all right, miss,’ Harper intervened.

      ‘How?’ Sarah demanded.

      ‘Because you’re with Mister Sharpe now, miss. He’ll see you’re all right.’

      ‘So why did Ferragus lock you in?’ Sharpe asked.

      Sarah blushed and looked down at the table. ‘He…’ she began, but did not know how to finish.

      ‘Was going to?’ Sharpe asked, knowing exactly what she was reluctant to say. ‘Or did?’

      ‘Was going to,’ she said in a low voice, then she recovered her poise and looked up at him. ‘He said he would sell me in Morocco. He said they give a lot of money for…’ Her voice trailed away.

      ‘That bastard has got a right bloody treat coming,’ Sharpe said. ‘Sorry, miss. Bad language. What we’ll do is find him, take his money and give it to you. Simple, eh!’ He grinned at her.

      ‘I said you’d be all right,’ Harper said, as though the deed were already done.

      Vicente had taken no part in this conversation, for a big man had come into the tavern and sat next to the Portuguese officer. The two had been talking and Vicente, his face worried, now turned to Sharpe. ‘This man is called Francisco,’ he said, ‘and he tells me there is a warehouse full of food. It is locked away, hidden. The man who owns it is planning to sell it all to the French.’

      Sharpe looked at Francisco. A rat, he thought, a street rat. ‘What does Francisco want?’ he asked.

      ‘Want?’ Vicente did not understand the question.

      ‘What does he want, Jorge? Why is he telling us?’

      There was a brief conversation in Portuguese. ‘He says,’ Vicente translated, ‘that he does not want the French to get any food.’

      ‘He’s a patriot, is he?’ Sharpe asked sceptically. ‘So how does he know about this food?’

      ‘He helped deliver it. He is, what do you say? A man with a cart?’

      ‘A carter,’ Sharpe said. ‘So he’s a patriotic carter?’

      There was another brief conversation before Vicente interpreted. ‘He says the man did not pay him.’

      That made a lot more sense to Sharpe. Maybe Francisco was a patriot, but revenge was a much more believable motive. ‘But why us?’ he asked.

      ‘Why us?’ Vicente was again puzzled.

      ‘There’s at least a thousand soldiers down at the quay,’ Sharpe explained, ‘and more marching through the city. Why does he come to us?’

      ‘He recognized me,’ Vicente said. ‘He grew up here, like me.’

      Sharpe sipped his wine, staring hard at Francisco who looked, he thought, shifty as hell, but everything made sense if he really had been rooked out of his money. ‘Who’s the man storing the food?’

      Another conversation. ‘He says the man’s name is Manuel Lopez,’ Vicente said. ‘I’ve not heard of him.’

      ‘Pity it’s not bloody Ferragus,’ Sharpe said. ‘Sorry, miss. So how far is this warehouse?’

      ‘Two minutes away,’ Vicente said.

      ‘If there’s as much as he says,’ Sharpe said, ‘then we’ll have to get a battalion up there, but we’d best have a look at the stuff first.’ He nodded at Harper’s volley gun. ‘Is that toy loaded?’

      ‘It is, sir. Not primed, though.’

      ‘Prime her, Pat. If Mister Lopez don’t like us then that should calm him down.’ He gave Vicente some coins for the wine and food, and the Portuguese officer paid while Francisco watched Harper prime the volley gun. Francisco seemed nervous of the weapon, which was hardly surprising for it was fearsome-looking.

      ‘I need more bullets for this,’ Harper said.

      ‘How many have you got?’

      ‘After this load?’ Harper patted the breech, then carefully lowered the flint to make the gun safe. ‘Twenty-three.’

      ‘I’ll filch some from Lawford,’ Sharpe said. ‘His bloody great horse pistol takes half-inch balls and he never fires the bloody thing. Sorry, miss. He doesn’t like firing it, it’s too powerful. God knows why he keeps it. Perhaps to frighten his wife.’ He looked for Vicente. ‘You’re ready? Let’s find this damn food, then you can report it to your Colonel. That should put you in his good books.’

      Francisco was anxious as he led them out of the tavern and down a stepped alleyway. Before arriving at the tavern he had been enquiring about the city for anyone who had seen two men dressed in green uniforms who were with Professor Vicente’s clever son, and it had not taken long to discover they were in the Three Crows. Ferragus would be pleased. ‘Here, senhor,’ Francisco told Vicente and pointed across the street at a great double doorway in a blank stone wall.

      ‘Why don’t I just tell my Colonel?’ Vicente suggested.

      ‘Because if you come back here,’ Sharpe said, ‘and find that this bastard has been lying to us, sorry, miss, you’ll look like an idiot. No, we’ll look inside, you go to your Colonel and we’ll take Miss Fry down to battalion.’

      The door was padlocked. ‘Shoot it?’ Vicente suggested.

      ‘You only mangle the works if you do that,’ Sharpe said, ‘and make it harder.’ He felt through his haversack until he found what he wanted. It was a picklock. He had carried one since he was a child, and he unfolded the hooked levers, selected the one he wanted and stooped to the lock.

      Vicente looked aghast. ‘You know how to do that?’

      ‘I was a thief once,’ Sharpe said. ‘Earned my living that way.’ He saw the shock on Sarah’s face. ‘I wasn’t always an officer and a gentleman,’ he told her.

      ‘But you are now?’ she asked anxiously.

      ‘He’s an officer, miss,’ Harper said, ‘he’s certainly an officer.’ He unslung the volley gun and cocked it. He glanced up and down the street, but there was no one taking any interest in them. A shopkeeper was stacking clothes on a handcart, a woman was shouting at two children, and a small group of people were struggling with bags, boxes, dogs, goats and cows downhill towards the river.

      The lock clicked and Sharpe tugged it out of the staple. Then before opening the door, he took the rifle from his shoulder and cocked it. ‘Grab hold of Francisco,’ he told Harper, ‘because if there’s nothing inside here I’m going to shoot the big bastard. Sorry, miss.’

      Francisco tried to pull away, but Harper held him fast as Sharpe dragged one of the huge gates open. He walked through into the darkness, watching for movement, seeing none, and as his eyes became accustomed to the shadows he saw the boxes, barrels and sacks piled up towards the beams and rafters of the high roof.

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