Chapter 3

Sharpe leant against the wall of what he would term the Castillo's upper battery; he didn't know what the Spanish might call it, watching the sunrise. Jackson would have been eager to paint this moment, 'capture it in oils' as he liked to say. They had exchanged scraps of personal history now and then during the long march following the victory of Torre Vedras, leaving behind a grateful capital city to pass through a largely uncomprehending countryside.

The young man had apparently never imagined himself a soldier, though Sharpe hadn't the opportunity to discover exactly what had prompted Jackson to enlist. He had stood to inherit a profitable estate in Shropshire, with no real need to pursue any profession. Jackson Senior had suggested medicine or law as being worthy of study, but his son had yearned to pursue the life of a dissolute (he hoped) artist, keeping a studio and a mistress amid the bustle of London's Covent Garden.

Not wishing to disillusion him, Sharpe had wisely kept his memories of the great city to himself; the squalid alleyways leading down to the dockside, the flophouses and brothels, the dog fights in the yards behind the taverns, the knife fights in the gutter afterward over some drunken insult, and the orphanage where, unlike many of his fellows, he had survived long enough to escape it all.

Jackson had escaped too, in a way, courtesy of a French bullet. If it had been a French bullet.

Sharpe wondered why the circumstances of Jackson's death still nagged at him. After all, it wouldn't have been the first time that men had settled their differences under cover of combat. He and Harper had done the same thing themselves, dispatching that arrogant bastard Gibbons without ceremony, leaving him to be found behind enemy lines with his throat cut, and no questions asked.

Sharpe had spared Jane Gibbons that particular detail of her brother's death during a brief visit to England. Better that she believed the account inscribed on the stone tablet in the village church, even though her uncle, Colonel Henry Simmerson had claimed Sharpe's capture of the French Eagle as his own.

"Richard, my boy. There you are."

Sharpe turned to find Hogan beaming at him. The Engineer spared the eastern sky a passing glance. "Never mind gaping at the sunrise, lad. There'll be plenty more like that for you to look at. We must be on our way."

Sharpe straightened and followed Hogan across the courtyard to where a pair of horses waited, saddled and bridled, beside the main gate. Hogan gestured toward the larger of the two, a grey. "Richard, meet Esperanca."

Sharpe eyed his prospective mount warily. His distrust of horses was well known in the ranks and Esperanca's look of utter disdain suggested that this information had reached the equine community.

Hogan busied himself stowing a bulky cloth-wrapped bundle behind his horse's saddle. "Esperanca's a local girl," he grunted, struggling to fasten a buckle, "so she only understands commands made in Spanish." Hogan looked over his shoulder, grinning at the sight of Esperanca, who now leaned nonchalantly against Sharpe while attempting to tread on his foot. "Mind you, whether she'll obey them is another matter."

With some misgivings, Sharpe hoisted himself into the saddle as the sentries hauled open the Castillo's heavy gates.

"You'll find that the proprietor of this establishment is a woman of impressive girth and unswerving loyalty to our cause. The ale she serves is also… well, it's… palatable," Hogan said, sliding out of his saddle.

To Sharpe's eyes, the village they had arrived at was little more than a scattering of stucco lean-tos strung out along a cart track, and the inn, pointed out to him by Hogan, its centrepiece, only by reason of size; the sagging roof and shuttered windows suggesting neglect if not complete abandonment.

Sharpe looked around. A scrawny chicken scratched in the dust beside a handcart, while a somewhat threadbare dog dozed in the shade of a wooden shack that seemed on the verge of collapse. Hogan unclasped his saddlebag and nodded an affable greeting to an elderly groom who had appeared from the rear of the inn yard.

Sharpe, following the innkeeper along a narrow corridor, found himself mesmerized by the undulating hips beneath their covering of coarsely woven drab which grazed the wainscoting at every step. She was, as Hogan had promised, a woman of daunting dimension. The quantity of cloth required for her dress could have comfortably curtained the average drawing room.

Sharpe averted his eyes, lest she sense his scrutiny, but the woman continued on her way, oblivious, eventually swerving through a doorway at the end of the corridor with surprising agility for someone of her generous proportions.

He and Hogan were invited to enter what Sharpe assumed was a private room belonging to the innkeeper and her family. The dark wood panelling, reaching from floor to ceiling, had been buffed to a high gloss, while gold-framed portraits of lugubrious ancestors regarded the visitors with glazed derision from above the fireplace.

Hogan crossed to a solidly built refectory table, unwrapping the bundle he had retrieved from his saddlebag. He emptied its contents onto the polished surface and picked out a velvet frock coat from the assortment of clothing now revealed and held it up against his own blue uniform jacket.

Sharpe had rather expected the innkeeper to leave them to their own devices, but the lady seemed in no hurry to depart, and now arranged herself comfortably in a window seat.

Since Sharpe was hanging back, Hogan gestured to the jumble of fabrics piled on the table. "Help yourself, Richard." Sharpe prodded a pair of mulberry velvet breeches. "Since when do we have to dress up to meet with the partisans?"

Hogan shrugged into the frock coat, and then looked over at Sharpe, bland-faced. "Oh, did I not tell you, Richard? There's been a change of plan. We're to play the part of wine merchants, on a trip to town to meet one of our wealthier customers. I shall be Senor Herrero, and you… you can be Senor Afilado."

"Very funny."

As the exchange of one coat for another had effectively completed Hogan's transformation, the Engineer took a seat at the table, nodding encouragement to Sharpe, whose appearance still required attention.

Sharpe pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, then reached for a heavily embroidered frock coat, which lay in wait for him on the table.

Hogan eyed Sharpe's grubby shirt despairingly. Sharpe followed the look.

"What?"

Hogan sighed. "Wine merchant, Richard, not farm labourer."

Muttering darkly, Sharpe dragged the offending garment over his head, emerging from its folds to find the innkeeper eyeing his physique, head tilted and lips pursed, as if appraising the display of oranges on a market stall. Sharpe snatched up a pristine white shirt of fine lawn, finished at the neck and cuff with a generous fall of lace, and struggled into it.

Hogan's critical gaze now assessed Sharpe's second-hand cavalry trousers; perfectly serviceable for a Rifleman in King George's army, but hardly in keeping with Senor Afilado's position in society. Sharpe stole a glance at the innkeeper who was now leaning forward in anticipation of the high point of this morning's entertainment.

"Come now, Richard. Don't be shy," Hogan urged. "You've nothing that the Senora hasn't seen before."

Sharpe shot the engineer a murderous look. "We've not been introduced."

Hogan turned around and beamed at the innkeeper. "Mi amigo desearia saber su nombre."

Sharpe gaped at him. "Why did you tell her that?"

Instantly girlish, the innkeeper twirled a strand of hair around her finger and smoothed her skirt over her knees. "Felecia," she replied, smiling at Sharpe.

Hogan the matchmaker, looked from one to the other, and then directed a rapid stream of Spanish toward the simpering Felicia. Sharpe's grasp of the language, despite Teresa's frequently exasperated instruction, was rudimentary and he could only follow their exchange at a distance. 

At last, Felecia rose to her feet majestically and sashayed toward the door, pausing to favour Sharpe with a coquettish glance over one ample shoulder, before sweeping out of the room.

"What was that all about?" Sharpe demanded as the door closed behind her.

Hogan shrugged. "I merely said that you were such a gentleman that you insisted on sparing her blushes."

Sharpe eyed him suspiciously. "No you didn't!"

"All right, I confess. I told her you thought she was a fine looking woman, and that you'd like to pay her a visit after church next Sunday," Hogan replied, eyes twinkling with amusement. Glowering, Sharpe began to unbutton his trousers.

Hogan leant back in his chair and contemplated the whitewashed ceiling with an innocent expression. "Did I mention that she's a widow? Three times over, so I understand."

Sharpe snatched up a pair of velvet breeches, not trusting himself to respond.

They reached their destination at a little after noon, Hogan slowing his horse to a walk as they approached the walled city of Saldana. As expected, Esperanca responded to Sharpe's determined tug on the reins by reducing speed only when the mood took her.

They had made good time, despite Senora Felecia's insistence that they enjoy some bread and cheese and a pitcher of the house speciality before continuing their journey. Hogan had accepted her kind offer, smiling broadly, but warned Sharpe privately not to indulge in more than two measures of Felecia's home brew, since it was known to be of the insidious type that would have the innocent imbiber 'waking up in the gutter with no memory of the previous week.'

The Senora had accompanied Sharpe and Hogan to the stable yard and waited with them until the groom returned with their horses, admonishing them at length against venturing out in the midday sun without a hat, or falling in with strangers on lonely roads.

Sharpe had been particularly uneasy about parting company with his beloved green jacket, but Hogan had hinted that it would be the worse for them if they were apprehended and found to have British army uniforms among their baggage. The Senora, he was told, would guard it with her life.

Seeing Sharpe's dubious expression, Hogan had encouraged him to look on the bright side. "You could well return to find that those disreputable breeches of yours have been washed and pressed."

Judging by the look she gave him as she 'helped' him up into his saddle, Sharpe was convinced that Senora Felecia would be more than happy to press his trousers for him; preferably while he was still wearing them.

For the past few miles they had overtaken a varied selection of farm carts and exchanged greetings with other travellers on horseback. It seemed that merchants and market traders were descending on Saldana from far afield, and Hogan's explanation for their journey was accepted without question; their borrowed finery, incongruous in Senora Felecia's dining room proving unremarkable among the other visitors to this ancient and prosperous city.

They encountered the inevitable bottleneck as they drew closer to the city gate, becoming hemmed in by drays and handcarts as well as those on foot, who threaded their way through the stalled traffic, hailing friends and rival traders at full volume.

Tempers began to fray when a heavily laden cart suddenly lurched sideways and became wedged in a pothole in front of the gate. Sharpe watched as the carter, ambling back to assess the situation was accosted on all sides by those offering solutions, but little in the way of practical assistance.

Since leaving the inn, Sharpe had tried unsuccessfully to extract more information from Hogan about this mysterious change of plan, but the Engineer had merely wagged a finger and advised patience. Now he turned to Hogan again, still fishing.

"I don't suppose this 'wealthy customer' of ours will be too happy if we arrive late?"

Hogan waved a hand dismissively. "He'll wait for us, Richard, don't you worry."

Esperanca, unsettled by the crush of bodies and vehicles, strained against the harness. Sharpe tried to calm her, but she continued with her skittering side step each time a cart drew alongside, and when a dray lumbered past, jostling them vigorously, Esperanca finally decided that enough was enough and jostled it right back. Startled from his catnap, the driver turned around to glare at Sharpe.

Sharpe sighed. This was all he needed. They were stuck in this sweltering press, he was sweating inside a ridiculously heavy frock coat, and now the bloody horse had picked a fight. He smiled hesitantly at the indignant driver and offered what he hoped was an innocuous remark about the weather.

Hogan came to his rescue, leaning casually on the pommel of his saddle to engage the man in an animated discussion about the price of vegetables, the likely poor harvest ('wasn't it always?') and the possibility of rain before sundown, until Esperanca's bad manners were forgotten.  

Finally, they reached the city gates and passed through the short tunnel that connected Saldana to the outside world. As the sound of hooves on cobblestones echoed around him, Sharpe straightened in the saddle to ease his aching back, grateful for the momentary respite from the heat.

All too soon, they emerged once more into bright sunlight and joined the stream of market traffic as it laboured up a steep incline toward the main square. The winding street teemed with townspeople, who, heedless of wheels and hooves, darted across the road and ducked beneath the canvas awnings of the shops that lined the route. Sharpe gazed about him, amazed to find the city's everyday routine continuing, seemingly untouched by the destruction and bloodshed outside its walls.

Hogan indicated a side turning ahead, and moments later, they entered a tree-lined street where an avenue of spreading boughs shielded the imposing mansions of Saldana's first families from the common eye. 

The courtyard of La Casa Santa Pilar was a dazzling white square of burning hot paving stone. Sharpe and Hogan regarded it idly from the relative cool of the portico while they waited for news of their arrival to be conveyed to the villa's inhabitants. Fig trees in large planters surrounded a small fountain that plashed desultorily in the middle of the enclosure. The ripples from its bubbling centre spread outward to lap the rim of the marble pedestal and set a cluster of water lilies bobbing in their wake.

Sharpe imagined dipping a hand into the ice-cold bowl to splash his sunburned face and neck, or more likely, succumbing to heat exhaustion during the dozen paces it would take to reach it. In any case, effecting a wash and brush up in their host's water feature would not be appropriate behaviour from Senor Afilado, no matter that he was baking inside his absurd costume.

There had been water lilies on the lake inside the mountain fortress of Gawilghur. Sharpe recalled seeing mounds of fleshy leaves the size of dinner plates, mired in the half-drained reservoir, its slanted walls thickly coated in a stinking green slime. How long ago was that? Nine years? No, ten.

The renegade Englishman, William Dodd had ambitions to be Lord of Gawilghur by usurping the rightful heirs to the kingdom of Berar. But Ensign Richard Sharpe had an even greater incentive to acquit himself in the fierce battle to claim the 'unassailable' hilltop citadel. With the threat of court martial hanging over him, a suicidal mission to attack the heavily guarded gatehouse with just a handful of similarly reckless men was Sharpe's only option. Dodd suffered a traitor's death, his plans in ruins.

Sharpe had received his telescope from Lord Wellington some time afterward, his reward for saving the peer's life during the battle of Assaye. Sharpe smiled at the memory of the great man's muttered thanks, offered seemingly to the empty air beside his left ear. An aide had grinned sympathetically. Recognition from their commander-in-chief was a two-edged sword, capable of attracting admiration or enmity, had Sharpe used his celebrity to gain further favours.

As it was, a captaincy and transfer to the newly formed 95th Rifles had proved a mixed blessing. A belligerent Sergeant Harper had initially defied Sharpe's every order; the Chosen Men had regarded his elevation from the ranks as a personal insult, and the senior officers had seriously doubted his ability to lead the regimental bandsmen in a verse of God Save the King, let alone a detachment of battle hardened greenjackets against Napoleon's forces. 

Sharpe was returned to the present by a nudge from Hogan. He looked over to see a footman in charcoal grey livery skirting the courtyard; a shadowy figure flickering in and out of view as the man scuttled along the colonnaded walkway to join them.

Moments later, Sharpe and Hogan were being led along shaded corridors of polished marble by this deferential but monosyllabic guide, their route lined with heavily ornamented doors, closed against silent rooms. Sharpe expected the footman to halt at any moment and usher them into one of these salons, but he kept up a brisk pace, pattering ahead of them in neat black pumps, taking them up a wide stone staircase and along a second almost identical corridor.

The fronds on a potted palm quivered in the slight breeze created by their passage. Sharpe glanced aside, hearing the soft sound of women's voices from beyond one of the doors; a lazy fall of notes from some stringed instrument behind another. It was easy to imagine that the three of them were the only ones in the entire household actually on their feet during siesta.

As they mounted a narrow wooden staircase, Sharpe turned back to direct a quizzical glance at Hogan. The Engineer shrugged apologetically. The elaborate arrangements were not of his making.

Finally, as he negotiated a tight turn around a bulky ottoman, Sharpe caught sight of a lone Redcoat standing guard before a door at the far end of the passage.