Free Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold by Bernard Cornwell Page A

Vicente said.
    But Vicente, Sharpe reflected, wanted to give this fair-haired Frenchman a trial and Sharpe suspected that if Vicente interrogated the man he would not learn the real truth, merely hear the excuses, so Sharpe went to the house door. “Harper!” He waited till the Sergeant appeared. “Get me Tongue or Harris,” he ordered.
    “I will talk to the man,” Vicente protested.
    “I need you to talk to someone else,” Sharpe said and he went to the back room where a girl—she could not have been a day over fourteen—was weeping. Her face was red, eyes swollen and her breath came in fitful jerks interspersed with grizzling moans and cries of despair. She was wrapped in a blanket and had a bruise on her left cheek. An older woman, dressed all in black, was trying to comfort the girl who began to cry even louder the moment she saw Sharpe, making him back out of the room in embarrassment. “Find out from her what happened,” he told Vicente, then turned as Harris came through the door. Harris and Tongue were Sharpe’s two educated men. Tongue had been doomed to the army by drink, while the red-haired, ever cheerful Harris claimed to be a volunteer who wanted adventure. He was getting plenty now, Sharpe reflected. “This piece of shit,” Sharpe told Harris, jerking his head at the fair-haired Frenchman, “was caught with his knickers round his ankles and a young girl under him. Find out what his excuse is before we kill the bastard.”
    He went back to the street and took a long drink from his canteen. The water was warm and brackish. Harper was waiting by a horse trough in the center of the street and Sharpe joined him. “All well?”
    “There’s two more Frogs in there.” Harper flicked a thumb toward the church behind him. “Live ones, I mean.” The church door was guarded by four of Vicente’s men.
    “What are they doing in there?” Sharpe asked. “Praying?”
    The tall Ulsterman shrugged. “Looking for sanctuary, I’d guess.”
    “We can’t take the bastards with us,” Sharpe said, “so why don’t we just shoot them?”
    “Because Mister Vicente says we mustn’t,” Harper said. “He’s very particular about prisoners is Mister Vicente. He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?”
    “He seems halfway decent for a lawyer,” Sharpe admitted grudgingly.
    “The best lawyers are six feet under the daisies, so they are,” Harper said, “and this one won’t let me go and shoot those two bastards. He says they’re just drunks, which is true. They are. Skewed to the skies, they are.”
    “We can’t cope with prisoners,” Sharpe said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, then pulled his shako back on. The visor was coming away from the crown, but there was nothing he could do about that here. “Get Tongue,” he suggested, “and see if he can find out what these two were up to. If they’re just drunk on communion wine then march them out west, strip them of anything valuable and boot them back where they came from. But if they raped anyone…”
    “I know what to do, sir,” Harper said grimly.
    “Then do it,” Sharpe said. He nodded to Harper, then walked on past the church to where the stream joined the river. The small stone bridge carried the road eastward through a vineyard, past a walled cemetery and then twisted through pastureland beside the Douro. It was all open land and if more French came and he had to retreat from the village then he dared not use that road and he hoped to God he had time to ferry his men over the Douro and that thought made him go back up the street to look for oars. Or maybe he could find a rope? If the rope were long enough he could rig a line across the river and haul the boat back and forth and that would surely be quicker than rowing.
    He was wondering if there were bell ropes in the small church that might stretch that far when Harris came out of the house and said that the prisoner’s name was Lieutenant Olivier and he was in the 18th Dragoons and that