The armies slept with their weapons loaded and ready. Picquets watched the dark as the big guns cooled. Rats scampered through the fallen stones of Fuentes de Onoro and gnawed at dead men. Few of the living slept well. The British footguards had been infected with Methodism and some of the guardsmen gathered for a midnight prayer meeting until a Coldstreamer officer growled at them to give God and himself a bloody rest. Other men prowled in the dark to seek the dead and wounded for plunder. Now and then an injured man would call out in protest and a bayonet would glint quickly in the starlight and a wash of blood ebb into the soil as the newly dead man's uniform was searched for coins.
Major Tarrant had at last heard about Sharpe's impending ordeal by court of inquiry. He could hardly have avoided learning of it for a succession of officers came to the ammunition park to give Sharpe their condolences and to complain that an army which persecuted a man for killing the enemy must be an army led by idiots and administered by fools. Tarrant did not understand Wellington's decision either. "Surely the two men deserved to die? I agree they hardly endured the proper processes of the law, but even so, can anyone doubt their guilt?" Captain Donaju, who was sharing Tarrant's late supper with Sharpe, nodded agreement.
"It's not about two men dying, sir," Sharpe said, "but about bloody politics. I've given the Spanish reason to distrust us, sir."
"No Spaniards died!" Tarrant protested.
"Aye, sir, but too many good Portuguese did, so General Valverde's claiming that we can't be trusted with other nations' soldiers."
"This is too bad!" Tarrant said angrily. "So what happens to you now?"
Sharpe shrugged. "There's a court of inquiry, I'm blamed, which means a court martial. The worst they can do to me, sir, is take away my commission."
Captain Donaju frowned. "Suppose I speak to General Valverde?"
Sharpe shook his head. "And ruin your career, too? Thank you, but no. What this is really about," he explained, "is who should become Generalisimo of Spain. We reckon it should be Nosey, but Valverde doesn't agree."
"Doubtless because he wants the job himself!" Tarrant said scornfully. "It is too bad, Sharpe, too bad." The Scotsman frowned down at the dish of liver and kidney that Gog and Magog had cooked for his supper. Traditionally the officers received the offal of newly slaughtered cattle, a privilege Tarrant would happily have foregone. He tossed a peculiarly nauseating piece of kidney to one of the many dogs that had attached themselves to the army, then shook his head. "Is there any chance at all that you might avoid this ridiculous court of inquiry?" he asked Sharpe.
Sharpe thought of Hogan's sarcastic remark that Sharpe's only hope lay in a French victory that would obliterate all memories of what had happened at San Isidro. That seemed a dubious solution, yet there was another hope, a very slender hope, but one Sharpe had been thinking about all day.
"Go on," Tarrant said, sensing that the rifleman was hesitant about offering an answer.
Sharpe grimaced. "Nosey's been known to pardon men for good behaviour. There was a fellow in the 83rd who was caught red-handed stealing money from a poor-box in Guarda and he was condemned to be hanged for it, but his company fought so well at Talavera that Nosey let him go."
Donaju gestured with his knife towards the village that was beyond the eastern skyline. "Is that why you fought down there all day?" he asked.
Sharpe shook his head. "We just happened to find ourselves down there," he said dismissively.
"But you took an eagle, Sharpe!" Tarrant protested. "What more gallantry do you need to display?"
"A lot, sir." Sharpe winced as his sore shoulder gave a stab of pain. "I'm not rich, sir, so I can't buy a captaincy, let alone a majority, so I have to survive by merit. And a soldier's only as good as his last battle, sir, and my last battle was San Isidro. I have to wipe that out."
Donaju frowned. "It was my only battle," he said softly and to no one but himself.
Tarrant scorned Sharpe's pessimism. "Are you saying, Sharpe, that you have to perform some ridiculous act of heroism to survive?"
"Yes, sir. Exactly that, sir. So if you've got some horrid errand tomorrow then I want it."
"Good God, man." Tarrant was appalled. "Good God! Send you to your death? I can't do that!"
Sharpe smiled. "What were you doing seventeen years ago, sir?"
Tarrant thought for a second or two. "Ninety-four? Let's see now… " He counted off on his fingers for another few seconds. "I was still at school. Construing Horace in a gloomy schoolroom beneath the walls of Stirling Castle and being beaten every time I made an error."
"I was fighting the French, sir," Sharpe said. "And I've been fighting one bugger or another ever since, so don't you worry about me."
"Even so, Sharpe, even so." Tarrant frowned and shook his head. "Do you like kidney?"
"Love it, sir."
"It's all yours." Tarrant handed his plate to Sharpe. "Get your strength up, Sharpe, it seems you might need it." He twisted around to look at the red flame glow that lit the night above the fires of the French encampments. "Unless they don't attack," he said wistfully.
"The buggers aren't going away, sir, until we drive them away," Sharpe said. "Today was just a skirmish. The real battle hasn't started yet, so the Crapauds will be back, sir, they'll be back."
They slept close to the ammunition wagons. Sharpe woke once as a small shower hissed in the embers of the fire, then slept again until an hour before dawn. He awoke to see a small mist clinging to the plateau and blurring the grey shapes of soldiers tending their fires. Sharpe shared a pot of hot shaving water with Major Tarrant, then pulled on his jacket and weapons and walked westwards in search of a cavalry regiment. He found an encampment of hussars from the King's German Legion and exchanged a half-pint of issue rum for an edge on his sword. The German armourer bent over his wheel as the sparks flew and when he was done the edge of Sharpe's heavy cavalry sword was glinting in the dawn's small light. Sharpe slid the blade carefully into its scabbard and walked slowly back towards the gaunt silhouetted shapes of the wagon park.
The sun rose through a cloud of French cooking smoke. The enemy on the stream's eastern bank greeted the new day with a fusillade of musketry that rattled among Fuentes de Onoro's houses, but died away as no shots were returned. On the British ridge the gunners cut new fuses and piled their ready magazines with case shot, but no French infantry advanced from the distant trees to be the beneficiaries of their work. A large force of French cavalry rode southwards across the marshy plain where they were shadowed by horsemen from the King's German Legion, but as the sun rose higher and the last pockets of mist evaporated from the lowland fields it dawned on the waiting British that Massйna was not planning any immediate attack.
Two hours after dawn a French voltigeur picquet on the stream's eastern bank called out a tentative greeting to the British sentry he knew was hidden behind a broken wall on the west bank. He could not see the British soldier, but he could see the blue haze of his pipe smoke. "Goddam!" he called, using the French nickname for all British troops. "Goddam!"
"Crapaud?"
A pair of empty hands appeared above the French-held wall. No one fired and, a moment later, an anxious moustached face appeared. The Frenchman produced an unlit cigar and mimed that he would like a light.
The greenjacket picquet emerged from hiding just as warily, but when no enemy fired at him he walked out onto the clapper bridge that had lost one of its stone slabs in the previous day's fighting. He held his clay pipe out over the gap. "Come on, Frenchie."