he consoled himself that no one else was likely to be out in this vile weather. The evening light was fading fast and early, stolen by the black, thick-bellied clouds that scraped against the jagged outcrop of the ruined watchtower. Sharpe was following a path that would lead around the western side of the watchtower’s hill and he glanced up at the old masonry as they emerged from the trees and thought ruefully of all that work.
He called a halt to let the rear of the line catch up. Daniel Hagman was evidently holding up well. Harper, two smoked legs of goat hanging from his belt, climbed up to join Sharpe, who was watching the arriving men from a vantage point a few feet higher than the path. ‘Bloody rain,’ Harper said.
‘It’ll stop eventually.’
‘Is that so?’ Harper asked innocently.
It was then Sharpe saw the gleam of light in the vineyards. It was not lightning, it was too dull, too small and too close to the ground, but he knew he had not imagined it and he cursed Christopher for stealing his telescope. He gazed at the spot where the light had shown so briefly, but saw nothing.
‘What is it?’ Vicente had climbed to join him.
‘Thought I saw a flash of light,’ Sharpe said.
‘Just rain,’ Harper said dismissively.
‘Perhaps it was a piece of broken glass,’ Vicente suggested. ‘I once found some Roman glass in a field near Entre-os-Rios. There were two broken vases and some coins of Septimus Severus.’
Sharpe was not listening. He was watching the vineyards.
‘I gave the coins to the seminary in Porto,’ Vicente went on, raising his voice to make himself heard over the seething rain, ‘because the Fathers keep a small museum there.’
‘The sun doesn’t reflect off glass when it’s raining,’ Sharpe said, but something had reflected out there, more like a smear of light, a damp gleam, and he searched the hedgerow between the vines and suddenly saw it again. He swore.
‘What is it?’ Vicente asked.
‘Dragoons,’ Sharpe said, ‘dozens of the bastards. Dismounted and watching us.’ The gleam had been the dull light reflecting from one of the brass helmets. There must have been a tear in the helmet’s protective cloth cover and the man, running along the hedge, had served as a beacon, but now that Sharpe had seen the first green uniform among the green vines, he could see dozens more. ‘The bastards were going to ambush us,’ he said, and he felt a reluctant admiration for an enemy who could use such vile weather, then he worked out that the dragoons must have approached Vila Real de Zedes during the day and somehow he had missed them, but they would not have missed the significance of the work he was doing on the hilltop and they must know that the hog-backed ridge was his refuge. ‘Sergeant!’ he snapped at Harper. ‘Up the hill now! Now!’ And pray they were not too late.
Colonel Christopher might have rewritten the rules, yet the chess pieces could still only move in their accustomed ways, but his knowledge of the moves allowed him to look ahead and, he fancied, he did that with more perspicacity than most men.
There were two possible outcomes to the French invasion of Portugal. Either the French would win or, far less likely, the Portuguese with their British allies would somehow evict Soult’s forces.
If the French won then Christopher would be the owner of Savages’ lodge, the trusted ally of the country’s new masters, and rich beyond belief.
If the Portuguese and their British allies won then he would use Argenton’s pathetic conspiracy to explain why he had remained in enemy territory, and use the collapse of the proposed mutiny as an excuse for the failure of his schemes. And then he would need to move a couple of pawns to remain the owner of Savages which would be enough to make him a rich man, if not rich beyond belief.
So he could not lose, so long as the pawns did what they were supposed to do, and one of those pawns was Major Henri Dulong, the second in command of the 31st Léger, one of the crack French light infantry units in Portugal. The 31st knew it was good, but none of its soldiers was the equal of Dulong, who was famous throughout the army. He was tough, daring and ruthless, and on this early May evening of wind and rain and low cloud, Major Dulong’s job was to lead his voltigeurs up the southern path that led to the watch-tower on the hill above the Quinta. Take that height, Brigadier Vuillard explained, and the scrappy forces in Vila Real de Zedes had nowhere to go. So while the dragoons made a noose about the village and the Quinta, Dulong would capture the hill.
It had been Brigadier Vuillard’s idea to attack at dusk. Most soldiers would expect an assault at dawn, but it was Vuillard’s notion that men’s guard was lower late in the day. ‘They’re looking forward to a skin of wine, a wench and a hot meal,’ he had told Christopher, then he had fixed the time for the assault at a quarter to eight in the evening. The sun would actually set a few moments before, but the twilight would stretch until half past eight, though the clouds had proved so thick that Vuillard doubted there would be any twilight to speak of. Not that it mattered. Dulong had been lent a good Breguet watch and he had promised that his men would be on the watchtower’s peak at a quarter to eight just as the dragoons converged on the village and the Quinta. The remaining companies of the 31st Léger would first climb up to the wood and then sweep down onto the Quinta from the south. ‘I doubt Dulong will see any action,’ Vuillard told Christopher, ‘and he’ll be unhappy about that. He’s a bloodthirsty rascal.’
‘You’ve given him the most dangerous task, surely?’
‘But only if the enemy are on the hilltop,’ the Brigadier explained. ‘I hope to catch them off guard, Colonel.’
And it seemed to Christopher as though Vuillard’s hopes were justified for, at a quarter to eight, the dragoons charged into Vila Real de Zedes and met almost no opposition. A clap of thunder was the accompaniment to the attack and a stab of lightning split the sky and reflected silver white from the dragoons’ long swords. A handful of men resisted, some muskets were fired from a tavern beside the church and Vuillard later discovered, through questioning the survivors, that a band of partisans had been recuperating in the village. A handful of them escaped, but eight others were killed and a score more, including their leader, who called himself the Schoolteacher, were captured. Two of Vuillard’s dragoons were wounded.
A hundred more dragoons rode to the Quinta. They were commanded by a captain who would rendezvous with the infantry coming down through the woods and the Captain had promised to make certain the property was not looted. ‘You don’t want to go with them?’ Vuillard asked.
‘No.’ Christopher was watching the village girls being pushed towards the largest tavern.
‘I don’t blame you,’ Vuillard said, noticing the girls, ‘the sport will be here.’
And Vuillard’s sport began. The villagers hated the French and the French hated the villagers and the dragoons had discovered partisans in the houses and they all knew how to treat such vermin. Manuel Lopes and his captured partisans were taken to the church where they were forced to break up the altars, rails and images, then ordered to heap all the shattered timber in the centre of the nave. Father Josefa came to protest at the vandalism and the dragoons stripped him naked, tore his cassock into strips and used the strips to lash the priest to the big crucifix that hung above the main altar. ‘The priests are the worst,’ Vuillard explained to Christopher, ‘they encourage their people to fight us. I swear we’ll have to kill every last priest in Portugal before we’re through.’
Other captives were being brought to the church. Any villager whose house contained a firearm or who had defied the dragoons was taken there. A man who had tried to protect his thirteen-year-old daughter was dragged to the church and, once inside, a dragoon sergeant broke the mens’ arms and legs with a great sledgehammer taken from the blacksmith’s forge. ‘It’s a lot easier than tying them up,’ Vuillard explained. Christopher flinched as the big hammer snapped the bones. Some men whimpered, a few screamed, but most stayed obstinately silent. Father Josefa said the prayer for the dying until a dragoon quietened him by breaking his jaw with a sword.
It