Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold by Bernard Cornwell

urging the men to shed their uniforms and desert.”
    “You did the right thing,” Sharpe said, astonished.
    Vicente bowed again. “You flatter me, senhor .”
    “And stop calling me senhor ,” Sharpe said. “I’m a lieutenant like you.”
    Vicente took a half step back, unable to hide his surprise. “You are a…?” he began to ask, then understood that the question was rude. Sharpe was older than he was, maybe by ten years, and if Sharpe was still a lieutenant then presumably he was not a good soldier, for a goodsoldier, by the age of thirty, must have been promoted. “But I am sure, senhor ,” Vicente went on, “that you are senior to me.”
    “I might not be,” Sharpe said.
    “I have been a lieutenant for two weeks,” Vicente said.
    It was Sharpe’s turn to look surprised. “Two weeks!”
    “I had some training before that, of course,” Vicente said, “and during my studies I read the exploits of the great soldiers.”
    “Your studies?”
    “I am a lawyer, senhor .”
    “A lawyer!” Sharpe could not hide his instinctive disgust. He came from the gutters of England and anyone born and raised in those gutters knew that most persecution and oppression was inflicted by lawyers. Lawyers were the devil’s servants who ushered men and women to the gallows, they were the vermin who gave orders to the bailiffs, they made their snares from statutes and became wealthy on their victims and when they were rich enough they became politicians so they could devise even more laws to make themselves even wealthier. “I hate bloody lawyers,” Sharpe growled with a genuine intensity for he was remembering Lady Grace and what had happened after she died and how the lawyers had stripped him of every penny he had ever made, and the memory of Grace and her dead baby brought all the old misery back and he thrust it out of mind. “I do hate lawyers,” he said.
    Vicente was so dumbfounded by Sharpe’s hostility that he seemed to simply blank it out of his mind. “I was a lawyer,” he said, “before I took up my country’s sword. I worked for the Real Companhia Velha , which is responsible for the regulation of the trade of port wine.”
    “If a child of mine wanted to become a lawyer,” Sharpe said, “I’d strangle it with my own hands and then piss on its grave.”
    “So you are married then, senhor ?” Vicente asked politely.
    “No, I’m bloody not married.”
    “I misunderstood,” Vicente said, then gestured toward his tired troops. “So here we are, senhor , and I thought we might join forces.”
    “Maybe,” Sharpe said grudgingly, “but make one thing clear, lawyer.If your commission is two weeks old then I’m the senior man. I’m in charge. No bloody lawyer weaselling around that.”
    “Of course, senhor ,” Vicente said, frowning as though he was offended by Sharpe’s stating of the obvious.
    Bloody lawyer, Sharpe thought, of all the bloody ill fortune. He knew he had behaved boorishly, especially as this courtly young lawyer had possessed the courage to kill a sergeant and lead his men to Sharpe’s rescue, and he knew he should apologize for his rudeness, but instead he stared south and west, trying to make sense of the landscape, looking for any pursuit and wondering where in hell he was. He took out his fine telescope which had been a gift from Sir Arthur Wellesley and trained it back the way they had come, staring over the trees, and at last he saw what he expected to see. Dust. A lot of dust being kicked up by hooves, boots or wheels. It could have been fugitives streaming eastward on the road beside the river, or it could have been the French, Sharpe could not tell.
    “You will be trying to get south of the Douro?” Vicente asked.
    “Aye, I am. But there’s no bridges on this part of the river, is that right?”
    “Not till you reach Amarante,” Vicente said, “and that is on the River Tamega. It is a…how do you say? A side river? Tributary, thank you, of the Douro, but