Free Sharpe's Fury - 11 by Bernard Cornwell

long scrubbed table.
    Harper grinned at Sharpe, then gestured at the cheeses, hams, and the two fat wine barrels on their stands. “You wouldn’t think there was a war going on, sir, would you now?”
    “You’ve forgotten something, Sergeant.”
    “And what would that be, sir?”
    “There’s a battalion of French infantry within half a day’s march.”
    “So there is.”
    Sharpe walked to the twin wine barrels and rapped the nearest. “You know the rules,” he told the watching soldiers. “If any of you get drunk I’ll make you wish you hadn’t been born.” They stared at him solemnly. What he should do, he knew, was take the two barrels outside and stave them in, but if they wanted to get drunk they would still find liquor in a house this size. Put a British soldier in a wilderness and he would soon discover a taproom. “We might have to get out of here fast,” he explained, “so I don’t want you drunk. When we get to Lisbon, I promise I’ll fill you all so full of rum that you won’t be able to stand for a week. But today, lads? Today you stay sober.”
    They nodded and he slung his rifle on his shoulder. “I’m going to stand watch until you’ve eaten,” he told Harper. “Then you and two others take over from me. You saw that old castle tower?”
    “Couldn’t miss it, sir.”
    “That’s where I’ll be. And Harris? You’re to be an interpreter for the brigadier.”
    Harris shuddered. “Do I have to, sir?”
    “Yes, you bloody do. And you’re to smarten yourself up first.”
    “Three bags full, sir,” Harris said.
    “And Harris!” Sergeant Harper called.
    “Sergeant?”
    “Make sure to tell His Lordship if us teagues are causing trouble.”
    “I’ll do that, Sergeant, I promise.”
    Sharpe went to the tower that formed the eastern end of the stable yard. He climbed to the parapet that was some forty feet above the ground and from there he had a good view of the road that ran eastward along the smaller river. It was the road the French would use if they decided to come here. Would they come? They knew a handful of British troops was stranded on the Spanish bank of the river, but would they bother to pursue? Or perhaps they might just send a forage party. It was evident that this large house had been spared the usual French cruelties and that was doubtless because the Marquesa was anfrancesado, and that meant she must be supplying the French garrisons with provisions. So had the French refrained from plundering the town as well? If so, was there a boat? And if there was, then they could cross the river as soon as the brigadier had seen a doctor, if any doctor was available. Though once across the river, what then? The brigadier’s troops had blown up Fort Joseph and were withdrawing westward, going back to the Tagus, and as long as Moon had a broken leg there was no hope of catching them. Sharpe worried for a moment, then decided it was not his problem. Brigadier Moon was the senior officer, so all Sharpe had to do was wait for orders. In the meantime he would have his men make some crutches for the brigadier.
    He stared eastward. The sides of the valley were thick with grapevines and a few men worked there, shoring up one of the stone walls holding the terraces in place. A horseman ambled eastward and a child drove two goats down the road, but otherwise nothing moved except a hawk that glided across the cloudless sky. It was winter still, but the sun had a surprising warmth. By turning around he could just see a sliver of the river beyond the house and, on the Guadiana’s far side, the Portuguese hills.
    Harper relieved him, bringing Hagman and Slattery. “Harris is back, sir. Seems the lady speaks English so he isn’t needed. Is anything happening?”
    “Nothing. The lady?”
    “The Marquesa, sir. An old biddy.”
    “I think the brigadier was hoping for something young and luscious.”
    “We were all hoping for that, sir. So what do we do if we see a Frenchie?”
    “We get