Chapter One: The Promotion

Richard Sharpe was ecstatic.

His hands shook as he read the Commission from the top to the bottom. He read it again, scarcely believing its contents, then read it a third time before the realisation finally began to sink in.

"Christ!" He said the word unknowingly.

Major General Nairn, resplendent in a scarlet and gold dressing gown, grinned broadly as he grasped Sharpe's hand in congratulation.

"Prinny's mad, Sharpe! I told you! Mad as a hatter!" His face was delighted as he beamed at Sharpe.

Sharpe's legs trembled as he read the Commission a fourth time, holding the paper in front of his face. He collapsed into his chair, feeling light-headed as his head touched the backrest. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw the words flashing in front of him. 'We do by these Presents, Constitiute and Appoint you to be'. He opened his eyes and stared hard at the paper. 'a Brigadier General in our army now in Portugal and Spain.'

A Brigadier General! A Brigadier bloody General! Christ in heaven!

"Only army rank, Sharpe," Nairn grinned. "I still outrank you, Brevet General or no."

Sharpe didn't care. So what if he was still technically a Colonel? It did not matter that once he returned to the South Essex he would be Colonel again, he was a General! Brigadier General Sharpe!

Nairn leaned forward in his chair, his eyes twinkling with anticipation. Sharpe noticed the movement and set the paper aside.

"Sir?"

Nairn grinned.

"Expecting it, aren't you?"

"The Commission, sir? No." Sharpe said, puzzled.

"Good God, Sharpe!" Nairn shook his head. "You're as daft as a bloody pudding!"

"I am, sir?" Sharpe said.

"You think we summoned you all the way across Spain just to give you an undeserved promotion?" Nairn's voice was incredulous. "Even the army wouldn't be ridiculous enough to do that, and we've all got better things to do than dawdle around with half-brevet Colonels anyway. No." Nairn's grin returned. "Where there's a Brigadier General, Sharpe, there's always a brigade."

Sharpe could not believe his ears. He stared, stunned for a moment, at Nairn, then the words sank in and his eyes went wide as gun muzzles. Dear God! Dear, sweet God! A brigade! His own Brigade!

"Don't expect to keep it," Nairn said, seeing the elation on the Rifleman's face. "It's only a temporary command."

There was a hint of bitterness in his voice and Sharpe remembered that Nairn himself had never commanded a brigade despite his long-standing generalship.

"Who are they?" he heard himself ask, only half-registering the words.

"It's all here," Nairn handed him a sheaf of papers from the mess of documents on the coffee table. "Four battalions, the usual deal. And your orders, too."

"Orders?"

Nairn's grin faded a little.

"Your 'brigade' isn't a regular one. It's made up of battalions scraped together from God knows where. Hogan arranged it. I haven't the slightest idea how he did it, but he managed to squeeze battalions from all the different divisions and marched them here to form this temporary brigade."

"But what for?" Sharpe interrupted.

He sensed the conversation was heading towards its real purpose and wanted to know what it was.

Nairn pulled a new paper from the coffee table, cursing as the movement sent two others flying off the table. Sharpe caught them as Nairn smoothed the first paper over.

"There's a rumour the French are planning an attack on the Douro." he said. "It's only a divisionary assault a corps at best. A feint, but it's got the Peer worried like hell itself is at his door."

Sharpe frowned.

"Why?"

"We're planning something different this spring," Nairn said, his voice low. "I can't tell you what or how, but word is the Douro has something to do with it, so the French must not be allowed to reach it at all costs."

"Why me?" Sharpe asked. "You've got the whole Light Division at your disposal."

Nairn shook his head.

"If the Douro attack is a diversion, then the real attack will come from somewhere else, and there can only be one other place."

"The roads," Sharpe guessed.

Nairn nodded.

"A surprise attack might well succeed in crossing the Coa, even capturing Ciudad Rodrigo or Almeida if they move fast enough. And if they are attempting to do that, which is what we suspect, then we'll need every battalion available to stop them."

Sharpe realised what he was saying.

"I'll have to hold the Douro on my own," He already half-knew the answer.

Nairn shrugged.

"The Portugese are moving. We've told them about it. They might be able to send some reinforcements."

"How soon can they get here?"

"Damn snow is slowing everything down." Nairn said, waving a hand at the window. "Hopefully it'll slow the French as well, but all the same I'd say you'll have to hold for at least two days before they can get to you."

"Against a divisionary assault?"

"It's all we can do."

Sharpe shook his head.

"They won't serve! We'll be torn to pieces! It isn't enough."

"We can't spare anyone else!" Nairn said, sounding apologetic. "The whole of the Light Division is marching. The Peer wants us to guard the east. The rest of the army is days away, and even then they're being ordered towards Ciudad Rodrigo."

"There must be some troops you can give me!" Sharpe protested. "One company? Two? Christ, we'll be rolled over like a bloody barrel!"

Nairn sighed and picked up a paper. He stared hard at the contents, frowning, then sighed again as he threw it down.

"I've got two companies of the 60th Rifles. I'll attach them to your brigade, but that's it."

Sharpe knew two companies of rifles would make as much difference as two companies of toads, but nevertheless there was nothing he could do and reluctantly nodded before picking up his orders.

"When do we march?"

"Today," Nairn said. "The Light Division's marching tomorrow, and since we're going in opposite directions it's best you don't leave at the same time or there'll be bloody chaos and we'll all end up marching in the wrong directions. The day after tomorrow will be too late, so it'll have to be today." Nairn sounded gloomy. "And just when I was starting to settle down in this place, too. I'll send you your Riflemen this afternoon, Sharpe."

"Where am I going?" Sharpe asked.

Nairn reached across the table and loosened the drawstring of a heavy map. He unrolled it, the four corners curling around the edges of the map until he weighted them down, then pointed to a spot along the Douro.

"There," he said. "Town called Barca de Alva along the Douro. It's not beside the river itself, but very close."

"How close?"

"Several hundred feet?" Nairn guessed. "There's a bridge, though, so you can expect the Frogs to try and use it."

"Infantry won't hold a bridge against a divisionary assault," Sharpe said, shaking his head. "Their artillery will shred us like paper."

"Indeed they will," Nairn said. "Which is why I've attached a battery of artillery to your brigade. Company of dragoons, too. God knows, you'll need them."

"I'll need the rest of the bloody division," Sharpe growled. "Along with another two or three."

"I know, I know," Nairn said, his tone placatory. "We'll be marching to your aid as soon as we can."

"How about tomorrow?"

Nairn ignored Sharpe's last statement, turning towards a clock on the wall instead.

"Good God!" he said, sitting up in shock. "It's already four! I've spent half this bloody afternoon talking to you!"

More like half an hour, Sharpe thought. He doubted that Nairn was really concerned about the loss of time, but the surprise on his face did not look feigned and he genuinely seemed not to have realised it.

"Well, off you go, Sharpe," he said, standing up and collecting papers off the unruly pile on the table. "You'll find your brigade parading on the outskirts of the town, all ready for march. I've to be off too. If I don't get these papers in order the French will waltz straight into Lisbon and we'll all be sitting in a French prison by the new year."

He crossed to the door and opened it.

"I wish you the joy of the battle, Sharpe," he said gloomily.

And so Sharpe went to meet his brigade.