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

in making him look younger. “Tell me something, Lieutenant,” he said.
    “Jorge,” Vicente interrupted him, “my name is Jorge. Like your saint.”
    “So tell me something, Jorge. You said you had some training as a soldier. What kind of training was it?”
    “We had lectures in Porto.”
    “Lectures?”
    “On the history of warfare. On Hannibal, Alexander and Caesar.”
    “Book learning?” Sharpe asked, not hiding his derision.
    “Book learning,” Vicente said bravely, “comes naturally to a lawyer, and a lawyer, moreover, who saved your life, Lieutenant.”
    Sharpe grunted, knowing he had deserved that mild reproof. “What did happen back there,” he asked, “when you rescued me? I know you shot one of your sergeants, but why didn’t the French hear you do that?”
    “Ah!” Vicente frowned, thinking. “I shall be honest, Lieutenant, and tell you it is not all to my credit. I had shot the Sergeant before I saw you. He was telling the men to strip off their uniforms and run away. Some did and the others would not listen to me so I shot him. It was very sad. And most of the men were in the tavern by the river, close to where the French made their barricade.” Sharpe had seen no tavern; he had been too busy trying to extricate his men from the dragoons to notice one. “It was then I saw you coming. Sergeant Macedo”—Vicente gestured toward a squat, dark-faced man stumping along behind—“wanted to stay hidden in the tavern and I told the men that it was time to fight for Portugal. Most did not seem to listen, so I drew my pistol, senhor , and I went into the road. I thought I would die, but I also thought I must set an example.”
    “But your men followed you?”
    “They did,” Vicente said warmly, “and Sergeant Macedo fought very bravely.”
    “I think,” Sharpe said, “that despite being a bloody lawyer you’re a remarkable bloody soldier.”
    “I am?” The young Portuguese sounded amazed, but Sharpe knew it must have taken a natural leader to bring men out of a tavern to ambush a party of dragoons.
    “So did all your philosophers and poets join the army?” Sharpe asked.
    Vicente looked embarrassed. “Some joined the French, alas.”
    “The French!”
    The Lieutenant shrugged. “There is a belief, senhor , that the future of mankind is prophesied in French thought. In French ideas. In Portugal, I think, we are old-fashioned and in response many of us are inspired by the French philosophers. They reject the church and the oldways. They dislike the monarchy and despise unearned privilege. Their ideas are very exciting. You have read them?”
    “No,” Sharpe said.
    “But I love my country more than I love Monsieur Rousseau,” Vicente said sadly, “so I shall be a soldier before I am a poet.”
    “Quite right,” Sharpe said, “best choose something useful to do with your life.” They crossed a small rise in the ground and Sharpe saw the river ahead and a small village beside it and he checked Vicente with an upraised hand. “Is that Barca d’Avintas?”
    “It is,” Vicente said.
    “God damn it,” Sharpe said bitterly, because the French were there already.
    The river curled gently at the foot of some blue-tinged hills, and between Sharpe and the river were meadows, vineyards, the small village, a stream flowing to the river and the goddamned bloody French. More dragoons. The green-coated cavalrymen had dismounted and now strolled about the village as if they did not have a care in the world and Sharpe, dropping back behind some gorse bushes, waved his men down. “Sergeant! Skirmish order along the crest.” He left Harper to get on with deploying the rifles while he took out his telescope and stared at the enemy.
    “What do I do?” Vicente asked.
    “Just wait,” Sharpe said. He focused the glass, marveling at the clarity of its magnified image. He could see the buckle holes in the girth straps on the dragoons’ horses which were picketed in a small field just to the