Free Sharpe's Eagle by Bernard Cornwell Page A

a touchy ally. But what if the bridge should already be occupied by the

French? He looked at the Riflemen, grim in their dark uniforms, and then at the Spanish who

lolled in the roadway smoking cigarettes. "Very well."
    "Sir." Sharpe turned away to Harper. "Four ranks, Sergeant."
    Harper took a deep breath. "Company! Double files to the right!"
    There were times when Sharpe's men, for all their tattered uniforms, knew how to startle a

Militia Colonel. With a snap and a precision that would have done credit to the Guards, the

even-numbered files stepped backwards; the whole company, without another word of command, turned

to the right and instead of two ranks there were now four facing towards the Spanish. Harper had

paused for a second while the movement was carried out. "Quick march!"
    They marched. Their boots crashed onto the road scattering mules and muleteers before them.

The priest took one look, kicked his heels, and the donkey bolted into the field.
    "Come on, you bastards!" Harper shouted. "March as if you mean it!"
    They did. They pushed their tempo up to the Light Infantry quick march and stamped with their

boots so that the dust flew up. Behind them the South Essex were formed and following, before

them the Regimienta split apart into the fields, the officers running from the white-walled inn

and screaming at the Riflemen. Sharpe ignored them. The Spanish Colonel, a vision of golden lace,

appeared at the inn doorway to see his Regiment in tatters. The men had scattered into the fields

and the British were on their way to the bridge. The Colonel was without his boots and in his

hand he held a glass of wine. As they drew level with the inn Sharpe turned to his men.
    "Company! To the right! Salute!"
    He drew the long blade, held it in the ceremonial salute, and his men grinned as they

presented their arms towards the Colonel. There was little he could do. He wanted to protest but

honour was honour, and the salute should be returned. The Spaniard was in a quandary. In one

hand, the wine, and in the other a long cigar. Sharpe watched the debate on the Spanish Colonel's

face as he looked from one hand to the other, trying to decide which to abandon, but in the end

the Colonel of the Santa Maria stood to attention in his stockings and held the wine glass and

cigar at a dutifully ceremonious angle.
    "Eyes front!"
    Hogan laughed out loud. "Well done, Sharpe!" He looked at his watch. "We'll make the bridge

before night-fall. Let's hope the French don't."
    Let's hope the French don't make it at all, thought Sharpe. Defeating an ally was one thing

but his doubts about the ability of the South Essex to face the French were as real as ever. He

looked at the white, dusty road stretching over the featureless plain and in a fleeting, horrid

moment wondered whether he would return. He pushed the thought away and gripped the stock of his

rifle. With his other hand he unconsciously felt the lump over his breastbone. Harper saw the

gesture. Sharpe thought it was a secret that round his neck he had a leather bag in which he kept

his worldly wealth, but all his men knew it was there, and Sergeant Harper knew that

when
    Sharpe touched the bag with its few gold coins looted from old battlefields then the

Lieutenant was worried. And if Sharpe was worried? Harper turned to the Riflemen. "Come on, you

bastards! This isn't a funeral! Faster!"

CHAPTER 6
    Valdelacasa did not exist as a place where human beings lived, loved, or traded, it was simply

a ruined building and a great stone bridge that had been built to span the river at a time when

the Tagus was wider than the flow which now slid darkly between the three central arches of the

Roman stonework. And from the bridge, with its attendant building, the land spread outwards in a

vast, shallow bowl bisected by the river in one direction and the road which led to and from the

bridge in the other. The Battalion had marched down