simplicity of the answer made Vuillard check his pacing. ‘The port trade?’
‘All of it. Croft, Taylor Fladgate, Burmester, Smith Woodhouse, Dow’s, Savages, Gould, Kopke, Sandeman, all the lodges. I don’t want to own them, I already own Savages, or I will soon, I just want to be the sole shipper.’
Vuillard took a few seconds to understand the scope of the demand. ‘You’d control half the export trade of Portugal!’ he said. ‘You’d be richer than the Emperor!’
‘Not quite,’ Christopher said, ‘because the Emperor will tax me and I can’t tax him. The man who becomes impressively rich, General, is the man who levies the tax, not he who pays it.’
‘You’ll still be wealthy.’
‘And that, General, is what I want.’
Vuillard stared down at the black lawn. Someone was playing a harpsichord in the House Beautiful and there was the sound of women’s laughter. Peace, he thought, would eventually come and maybe this polished Englishman could help bring it about. ‘You’re not telling me the names I want,’ he said, ‘and you’ve given me a list of British forces. But how do I know you’re not deceiving me?’
‘You don’t.’
‘I want more than lists,’ Vuillard said harshly. ‘I need to know, Englishman, that you’re willing to give something tangible to prove that you’re on our side.’
‘You want blood,’ Christopher said mildly. He had been expecting the demand.
‘Blood will do, but not Portuguese blood. British blood.’
Christopher smiled. ‘There is a village called Vila Real de Zedes,’ he said, ‘where Savages have some vineyards. It has been curiously undisturbed by the conquest.’ That was true, but only because Christopher had arranged it with Argenton’s Colonel and fellow plotter whose dragoons were responsible for patrolling that stretch of country. ‘But if you send a small force there,’ Christopher went on, ‘you will find a token unit of British riflemen. There are only a score of them, but they have some Portuguese troops and some rebels with them. Say a hundred men altogether? They’re yours, but in return I ask one thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘Spare the Quinta. It belongs to my wife’s family.’
A grumble of thunder sounded to the north and the cypresses were outlined by a flash of sheet lightning. ‘Vila Real de Zedes?’ Vuillard asked.
‘A village not far from the Amarante road,’ Christopher said, ‘and I wish I could give you something more, but I offer what I can as an earnest of my sincerity. The troops there will give you no trouble. They’re led by a British lieutenant and he didn’t strike me as particularly resourceful. The man must be thirty if he’s a day and he’s still a lieutenant so he can’t be up to much.’
Another crackle of thunder made Vuillard look anxiously to the northern sky. ‘We must get back to quarters before the rain comes,’ he said, but then paused. ‘It doesn’t worry you that you betray your country?’
‘I betray nothing,’ Christopher said, and then, for a change, he spoke truthfully. ‘If France’s conquests, General, are ruled only by Frenchmen then Europe will regard you as nothing but adventurers and exploiters, but if you share your power, if every nation in Europe contributes to the government of every other nation, then we will have moved into the promised world of reason and peace. Isn’t that what your Emperor wants? A European system, those were his words, a European system, a European code of laws, a European judiciary and one nation alone in Europe, Europeans. How can I betray my own continent?’
Vuillard grimaced. ‘Our Emperor talks a lot, Englishman. He’s a Corsican and he has wild dreams. Is that what you are? A dreamer?’
‘I am a realist,’ Christopher said. He had used his knowledge of the mutiny to ingratiate himself with the French, and now he would secure their trust by offering a handful of British soldiers as a sacrifice.
So Sharpe and his men must die, so that Europe’s glorious future could arrive.
The loss of the telescope hurt Sharpe. He told himself it was a bauble, a useful frill, but it still hurt. It marked an achievement, not just the rescue of Sir Arthur Wellesley, but the promotion to commissioned rank afterwards. Sometimes, when he scarcely dared believe that he was a King’s officer, he would look at the telescope and think how far he had travelled from the orphanage in Brewhouse Lane and at other times, though he was reluctant to admit it to himself, he enjoyed refusing to explain the plaque on the telescope’s barrel. Yet he knew other men knew. They looked at him, understood he had once fought like a demon under the Indian sun and were awed.
Now bloody Christopher had the glass.
‘You’ll get it back, sir,’ Harper tried to console him.
‘I bloody will, too. I hear that Williamson got into a fight in the village last night?’
‘Not much of a fight, sir. I pulled him off.’
‘Who was he milling?’
‘One of Lopes’s men, sir. As evil a bastard as Williamson.’
‘Should I punish him?’
‘God, no, sir. I looked after it.’
But Sharpe nevertheless declared the village out of bounds, which he knew would not be popular with his men. Harper spoke for them, pointing out that there were some pretty girls in Vila Real de Zedes. ‘There’s one wee slip of a thing there, sir,’ he said, ‘that would bring tears to your eyes. The lads only want to walk down there of an evening to say hello.’
‘And to leave some babies behind.’
‘That too,’ Harper agreed.
‘And the girls can’t walk up here?’ Sharpe asked. ‘I hear some do.’
‘Some do, sir, I’m told, that’s true.’
‘Including one wee slip of a thing that has red hair and can bring tears to your eyes?’
Harper watched a buzzard quartering the broom-clad slopes of the hill on which the fort was being made. ‘Some of us like to go to church in the village, sir,’ he said, studiously not talking about the red-headed girl whose name was Maria.
Sharpe smiled. ‘So how many Catholics have we got?’
‘There’s me, sir, and Donnelly and Carter and McNeill. Oh, and Slattery, of course. The rest of you are all going to hell.’
‘Slattery!’ Sharpe said. ‘Fergus isn’t a Christian.’
‘I never said he was, sir, but he goes to mass.’
Sharpe could not help laughing. ‘So I’ll let the Catholics go to mass,’ he said.
Harper grinned. ‘That means they’ll all be Catholic by Sunday.’
‘This is the army,’ Sharpe said, ‘so anyone wanting to convert has to get my permission. But you can take the other four to mass and you bring them back by midday, and if I find any of the other lads down there I’ll hold you responsible.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re a sergeant, aren’t you?’
‘But when the lads see Lieutenant Vicente’s men going to the village, sir, they won’t see why they’re not allowed.’
‘Vicente’s Portuguese. His men know the local rules. We don’t. And sooner or later there’s going to be a fight over girls that’ll bring tears to your eyes and we don’t need it, Pat.’ The problem was not so much the girls, though Sharpe knew they could be a problem if one of his riflemen