He led Sharpe a few paces down the hill.
"Know what I'm here to say?" Leroy asked.
"I can guess."
"And?"
"No, sir."
"Reckoned as much," Leroy said. "Jesus Christ, who is that?" He was looking back at the women and Sharpe knew the Major had to be referring to an attractive, long-haired Portuguese girl who had joined the battalion the week before.
"Sergeant Enables found her," Sharpe explained.
"Christ! She can't be more than eleven," Leroy said, then stared at the other women for a moment. "Damn," he went on, "but that Sally Clayton is pretty."
"Pretty well married, too," Sharpe said.
Leroy grinned. "You ever read the story of Uriah the Hittite, Sharpe?"
"Hittite? A prizefighter?" Sharpe guessed.
"Not quite, Sharpe. Fellow in the Bible. Uriah the Hittite, Sharpe, had a wife and King David wanted her in his bed, so he sent Uriah to war and ordered the general to put the poor bastard in the front line so some other bastard would kill him. Worked, too."
"I'll remember that," Sharpe said.
"Can't remember the woman's name," Leroy said. "Weren't Sally. So what shall I tell the Colonel?"
"That he's just got himself the best damned quartermaster in the army."
Leroy chuckled and walked uphill. He paused and turned after a few paces. "Bathsheba," he called back to Sharpe.
"Bath what?"
"That was her name, Bathsheba."
"Sounds like another prizefighter."
"But Bathsheba hit below the belt, Sharpe," Leroy said, "well below the belt!" He raised his hat again to the battalion wives and walked on.
"He's thinking about it," he told the Colonel a few moments later.
"Let us hope he thinks clearly," Lawford said piously.
But if Sharpe was thinking about it, no apology came. Instead, as evening fell, the army was ordered to ready itself for a retreat. The French could be seen leaving, evidently going towards the road that looped about the ridge's northern end and so the gallopers pounded along the ridge with orders that the army was to march towards Lisbon before dawn. The South Essex, alone among the British battalions, received different orders. "It seems we're to retreat, gentlemen," Lawford said to the company commanders as his tent was taken down by orderlies. There was a murmur of surprise that Lawford stilled with a raised hand. "There's a route round the top of the ridge," he explained, "and if we stay the French will outflank us. They'll be up our backsides, so we're dancing backwards for a few days. Find somewhere else to bloody them, eh?" Some of the officers still looked surprised that, having won a victory, they were to yield ground, but Lawford ignored their puzzlement. "We have our own orders, gentlemen," he went on. "The battalion is to leave tonight and hurry to Coimbra. A long march, I fear, but necessary. We're to reach Coimbra with all dispatch and aid the commissary officers in the destruction of the army's supplies on the river quays. A Portuguese regiment is being sent as well. The two of us are the vanguard, so to speak, but our responsibility is heavy. The General wants those provisions brought to ruin by tomorrow night."
"We're expected to reach Coimbra tonight?" Leroy asked skeptically. The city was at least twenty miles away and, by any reckoning, that was a very ambitious march, especially at night.
"Wagons are being provided for baggage," Lawford said, "including the men's packs. Walking wounded will guard those packs, women and children go with the wagons. We march light, we march fast."
"Advance party?" Leroy wanted to know.
"I'm sure the quartermaster will know what to do," Lawford said.
"Dark night," Leroy said, "probably chaotic in Coimbra. Two battalions looking for quarters and the commissary people will mostly be drunk. Even Sharpe can't do that alone, sir. Best let me go with him."
Lawford looked indignant for he knew Leroy's suggestion was an expression of sympathy for Sharpe, but the American's objections had been cogent and so, reluctantly, Lawford nodded. "Do that, Major," he said curtly, "and as for the rest of us? I want to be the first battalion into Coimbra, gentlemen! We can't have the Portuguese beating us, so be ready to march in one hour."
"Light company to lead?" Slingsby asked. He was fairly bursting with pride and efficiency.
"Of course, Captain."
"We'll set a smart pace," Slingsby promised. "Do we have a guide?" Forrest asked.
"We can find one, I'm sure," Lawford said, "but it's not a difficult route. West to the main road, then turn south."
"I can find it," Slingsby said confidently.
"Our wounded?" Forrest asked.
"More wagons will be provided. Mister Knowles? You'll determine those arrangements? Splendid!" Lawford smiled to show that the battalion was one happy family. "Be ready to leave in one hour, gentlemen, one hour!"
Leroy found Sharpe, who had not been invited to the company commanders' meeting. "You and I are for Coimbra, Sharpe," the Major said. "You can ride my spare horse and my servant can walk."
"Coimbra?"
"Billeting. Battalion's following tonight."
"You don't need to come," Sharpe said. "I've done billeting before."
"You want to walk there on your own?" Leroy asked, then grinned. "I'm coming, Sharpe, because the battalion is marching twenty goddamn miles in the twilight and it's going to be a shambles. Twenty miles at night? They'll never do it, and two battalions on one narrow road? Hell, I don't need that. You and I can go ahead, mark the place up, find a tavern, and ten guineas says the battalion won't be there before the sun's up."
"Keep your money," Sharpe said.
"And when they do get there," Leroy went on happily, "they're going to be in one hell of a God-awful temper. That's why I'm appointing myself as your assistant, Sharpe."
They rode down the hill. The sun was low and the shadows long. It was almost the end of September and the days were drawing in. The first wagons loaded with wounded British and Portuguese soldiers were already on the road and Leroy and Sharpe had to edge past them. They went through half-deserted villages where Portuguese officers were persuading the remaining folk to leave. The arguments were shrill in the dusk. A black-dressed woman, her gray hair covered in a black scarf, beat at an officer's horse with a broom, evidently screaming at the rider to go away. "You can't blame them," Leroy said. "They hear we won the battle, now they want to know why the hell they have to leave home. Nasty business leaving home."
His tone was bitter and Sharpe glanced at him. "You've done it?"
"Hell, yes. We were thrown out by the damned rebels. Went to Canada with nothing but the shirts on our backs. The bastards promised restitution after the war, but we never saw a goddamned penny. I was only a kid, Sharpe. I thought it was all exciting, but what do kids know?"
"Then you went to England?"
"And we thrived, Sharpe, we thrived. My father made his money trading with the men he once fought." Leroy laughed, then rode in silence for a few yards, ducking under a low tree branch. "So tell me about these fortifications guarding Lisbon."
"I only know what Michael Hogan told me."
"So what did he tell you?"
"That they're the biggest defenses ever made in Europe," Sharpe said. He saw Leroy's skepticism. "Over a hundred and fifty forts," Sharpe went on, "connected by trenches. Hills reshaped to make them too steep to climb, valleys filled with obstacles, streams dammed to flood the approaches, the whole lot filled with cannon. Two lines, stretching from the Tagus to the ocean."
"So the idea is to get behind them and thumb our noses at the French?"
"And let the bastards starve," Sharpe said.
"And you, Sharpe, what will you do? Apologize?" Leroy laughed at Sharpe's expression. "The Colonel ain't going to give in."