LITMIR.BIZ

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hung over his head, its light showing the map that was spread on a makeshift table made from an overturned byre.

      A man sat opposite him. The man was a Jew named Rodrigues. He was a corn dealer who travelled with the army, unpopular with the quartermasters who dealt with him, suspected by them, because of his rapacity, to be sympathetic with the French. Why not, they said? Everyone knew the Spanish church hated the Jews. Surely, they reasoned, Rodrigues would have a better life if the French ruled in Spain?

      Hogan knew better. Rodrigues drove a harsh bargain, but so did every other corn factor who travelled with the army, Jewish or not. Yet this corn merchant, this despised man, had a genius of a memory and ears that seemed to hear the quietest whispers from far away. He talked now of one such whisper, and Hogan listened.

      ‘A man broke into a convent.’ Rodrigues smiled slyly. ‘That must have surprised the sisters.’

      ‘What kind of a man?’

      ‘Some say English, some say American! Others say French. He was rescued from the Partisans by the French.’

      ‘And you say?’

      Rodrigues smiled. He was a thin man who wore his hair, summer and winter, beneath a fur hat. ‘I say he was your man. He took the woman.’ He held up a hand to stop Hogan interrupting. ‘But the news is not good, Major.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘He went to Burgos with the woman, but he was killed there.’

      ‘Killed?’

      Rodrigues saw the look on Hogan’s face and suspected, rightly, that the unnamed Englishman had been a friend of the Major’s. ‘There are a dozen stories; I tell you what I think.’ The corn merchant fidgeted with the coiled whip he always carried. It was not much of a weapon, but enough to deter the children who tried to steal from his carts. ‘They say he was in the castle and that he killed a man. Then they say that he was treated with respect.’ Rodrigues shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What I do know is that he was still in the castle when it blew up. He died with the others.’

      ‘They found his body?’

      ‘Who can tell? It was difficult to tell what was a body in that place.’

      Hogan said nothing for a while. He was wondering if it was true, but he had learned to trust Rodrigues and so he feared that it must be so. He had heard that the explosion in the castle had been an accident that had taken the lives of scores of Frenchmen, but was it possible, he found himself wondering, that Sharpe had engineered it? He could believe that. ‘And the woman?’

      ‘La Puta Dorada?’ Rodrigues smiled. ‘She went with the French army. Escorted by lancers.’

      Hogan thought of Wellington’s fear that Sharpe would break into the convent. It appeared he had done just that. ‘What do people say about the convent?’

      The Jew laughed. ‘They say it must be the French. After all the man rescued a Frenchwoman and went off with French cavalry.’

      So it was over, Hogan thought, all over. Sharpe had failed. But it had been a better death than hanging, he reflected.

      ‘So what happens now, Major?’

      ‘Now? We march. Either the French try to stop us or they don’t.’

      ‘They will.’

      Hogan nodded. ‘In which case there’ll be a battle.’

      ‘Which you’ll win.’ Rodrigues smiled. ‘And if you do, Major, what then?’

      ‘We’ll pursue them to the frontier.’

      ‘And then?’

      Hogan smiled. Rodrigues never asked for payment for information, at least not payment in gold. The Irishman tapped his map. ‘A new supply port. There.’

      Rodrigues smiled. The information was worth a small fortune. He would have men at that port, and warehouses ready, before his competitors even knew that the British supplies no longer were being dragged up the long roads from Lisbon. ‘Thank you, Major.’ He stood.

      Hogan saw Rodrigues to the door, safely past the sentries, and he leaned on the doorpost and watched the rain seethe in the light of the campfires. Sharpe dead? He had thought that before and been wrong. He stared into the eastern darkness, thinking of ghosts, knowing Sharpe to be dead, yet not believing it.

      And in the morning, when the rain still fell and the wind felt more like winter in Ireland than summer in Spain, the army marched on. They marched willingly, going towards the battle that would end the march, marching towards the city of golden spires; Vitoria.

      ‘You eat!’

      Sharpe nodded. The girl spooned soup into his mouth; a thick, warm, tasty soup. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Horse. Now sit up! The doctor’s coming.’

      ‘I’m all right.’

      ‘You’re not. You’re lucky to be alive. Eat!’

      His uniform hung against the wall, the uniform that had saved his life. Dozens of lone Frenchmen had been beaten to death in Burgos after the explosion, but Sharpe, just as the knife was about to cut his uniform away, had been recognised as an English officer. The men had not been certain. They had argued, some saying that the man’s overalls and boots were French, but other men were sure that the dark green jacket was British. The buttons, with their black crowns, decided the day. No Frenchman had crowns on his buttons, and so they had let Sharpe live.

      The girl laughed at him. ‘Eat.’

      ‘I’m trying!’ Both hands were bandaged. He was bruised all over. His head was bandaged. ‘What day is it?’

      ‘Tuesday.’

      ‘What date?’

      ‘How do I know? Eat.’

      This, he knew, was the house of the carpenter who had hit him so effectively with the mallet. The man was eager to make amends, had given Sharpe this room, had even sharpened the sword on a stone and propped it beside Sharpe’s bed. The girl was a housemaid, black-haired and plump, with a bright smile and a teasing manner. One of her eyes was blind, a white blankness where there should have been a pupil. ‘Eat!’

      The doctor came, a gloomy man in a long, stained black coat. He bled Sharpe’s thigh. He had raised his eyebrows on his first visit, scarcely believing the scars on Sharpe’s body. Beyond the doctor, through the window, Sharpe could see the smoke still hazing the grey clouds above the castle. Rain was soft on the window. It seemed to have been raining ever since he had woken in this room. The doctor wiped the small cut and pulled the sheet down. ‘Another two days, Major Vaughn.’

      ‘I want to go now.’

      The man shook his head. ‘You’re weak, Major. You lost much blood. The bruises.’ He shrugged. ‘Two days of Pedro’s food and you’ll be better.’

      ‘I need a horse.’

      ‘The French took them all.’ The doctor threw the cupful of blood into the fireplace and wiped the bowl on the skirts of his coat. ‘There may be a mule for sale tomorrow at the market.’

      ‘There must be a horse! They’re feeding me horsemeat soup!’

      ‘That horse died in the explosion.’ The doctor spat on his lancet and wiped it on his cuff. ‘I will come tomorrow if God wills it.’ He turned to go, but Sharpe called him back.

      ‘Señor?’

      Sharpe grimaced as he tried to sit up on the bolster. ‘Did you ask about the Inquisitor, Doctor?’

      ‘I did, señor.’

      ‘So?’

      The doctor shrugged. ‘His house is at Vitoria. There was a time when the family had land throughout Spain, but now?’ He shrugged and hefted his small bag. ‘Vitoria. That is all our priest knew.

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