"He helped deliver it. He is, what do you say? A man with a cart?"
"A carter," Sharpe said. "So he's a patriotic carter?" There was another brief conversation before Vicente interpreted. "He says the man did not pay him."
That made a lot more sense to Sharpe. Maybe Francisco was a patriot, but revenge was a much more believable motive. "But why us?" he asked.
"Why us?" Vicente was again puzzled.
"There's at least a thousand soldiers down at the quay," Sharpe explained, "and more marching through the city. Why does he come to us?"
"He recognized me," Vicente said. "He grew up here, like me." Sharpe sipped his wine, staring hard at Francisco who looked, he thought, shifty as hell, but everything made sense if he really had been rooked out of his money. "Who's the man storing the food?"
Another conversation. "He says the man's name is Manuel Lopez," Vicente said. "I've not heard of him."
"Pity it's not bloody Ferragus," Sharpe said. "Sorry, miss. So how far is this warehouse?"
"Two minutes away," Vicente said.
"If there's as much as he says," Sharpe said, "then we'll have to get a battalion up there, but we'd best have a look at the stuff first." He nodded at Harper's volley gun. "Is that toy loaded?"
"It is, sir. Not primed, though."
"Prime her, Pat. If Mister Lopez don't like us then that should calm him down." He gave Vicente some coins for the wine and food, and the Portuguese officer paid while Francisco watched Harper prime the volley gun. Francisco seemed nervous of the weapon, which was hardly surprising for it was fearsome-looking.
"I need more bullets for this," Harper said.
"How many have you got?"
"After this load?" Harper patted the breech, then carefully lowered the flint to make the gun safe. "Twenty-three."
"I'll filch some from Lawford," Sharpe said. "His bloody great horse pistol takes half-inch balls and he never fires the bloody thing. Sorry, miss. He doesn't like firing it, it's too powerful. God knows why he keeps it. Perhaps to frighten his wife." He looked for Vicente. "You're ready? Let's find this damn food, then you can report it to your Colonel. That should put you in his good books."
Francisco was anxious as he led them out of the tavern and down a stepped alleyway. Before arriving at the tavern he had been enquiring about the city for anyone who had seen two men dressed in green uniforms who were with Professor Vicente's clever son, and it had not taken long to discover they were in the Three Crows. Ferragus would be pleased. "Here, senhor," Francisco told Vicente and pointed across the street at a great double doorway in a blank stone wall.
"Why don't I just tell my Colonel?" Vicente suggested.
"Because if you come back here," Sharpe said, "and find that this bastard has been lying to us, sorry, miss, you'll look like an idiot. No, we'll look inside, you go to your Colonel and we'll take Miss Fry down to battalion."
The door was padlocked. "Shoot it?" Vicente suggested.
"You only mangle the works if you do that," Sharpe said, "and make it harder." He felt through his haversack until he found what he wanted. It was a picklock. He had carried one since he was a child, and he unfolded the hooked levers, selected the one he wanted and stooped to the lock.
Vicente looked aghast. "You know how to do that?"
"I was a thief once," Sharpe said. "Earned my living that way." He saw the shock on Sarah's face. "I wasn't always an officer and a gentleman," he told her.
"But you are now?" she asked anxiously.
"He's an officer, miss," Harper said, "he's certainly an officer." He unslung the volley gun and cocked it. He glanced up and down the street, but there was no one taking any interest in them. A shopkeeper was stacking clothes on a handcart, a woman was shouting at two children, and a small group of people were struggling with bags, boxes, dogs, goats and cows downhill towards the river.
The lock clicked and Sharpe tugged it out of the staple. Then before opening the door, he took the rifle from his shoulder and cocked it. Grab hold of Francisco," he told Harper, "because if there's nothing inside here I'm going to shoot the big bastard. Sorry, miss."
Francisco tried to pull away, but Harper held him fast as Sharpe dragged one of the huge gates open. He walked through into the darkness, watching for movement, seeing none, and as his eyes became accustomed to the shadows he saw the boxes, barrels and sacks piled up towards the beams and rafters of the high roof. "Jesus Christ!" he said in amazement. "Sorry, miss."
"Blasphemy," Sarah said, staring up at the huge stacks, "is worse than mere swearing."
"I'll try to remember that, miss," Sharpe said, "I really will. Good Christ Almighty! Just look at this!"
"Is it food?" Vicente asked.
"Smells like it," Sharpe said. He uncocked his rifle, slung it and drew his sword, which he jabbed into a sack. Grain trickled out. "Jesus wept, sorry, miss." He sheathed the sword and stared around the vast room. "Tons of food!"
"Does it matter?" Sarah asked.
"Oh, it matters," Sharpe said. "An army can't fight if it doesn't have food. The trick of this campaign, miss, is to let the Frogs march south, stop them in front of Lisbon, and watch them get hungry. This damn lot could keep them alive for weeks!"
Harper had let go of Francisco who backed away and suddenly darted out into the street and Harper, amazed at the piles of food, did not notice. Sharpe, Vicente and Sarah were walking down the central aisle, gazing up in astonishment. The stores were stacked in neat squares, each pile about twenty feet by twenty feet, and divided by alleys. Sharpe counted a dozen stacks. Some of the barrels were stamped with the British government's broad arrow, meaning they had been stolen. Harper was following the other three, then remembered Francisco and turned to see men coming from the house across the street. There were half a dozen of them and they were filling the warehouse's wide entrance and he saw, too, that they carried pistols in their hands. "Trouble!" he shouted.
Sharpe turned, saw the shadows in the entrance, knew instinctively that Francisco had betrayed them and knew too that he was in trouble. "Back here, Pat!" he shouted and at the same time he shoved Sarah hard, pushing her into one of the alleys between the sacks. The warehouse's open door was being tugged shut, darkening the huge room, and Sharpe was unslinging his rifle as the first shots came from the closing door. A ball thumped into a sack by his head, another ricocheted from an iron barrel hoop to smack into the back wall, and a third hit Vicente who spun back, dropping his rifle. Sharpe kicked the gun towards Sarah and dragged Vicente into the narrow space, then went back into the central aisle and aimed towards the door. He saw nothing, dodged back into cover. Some small light came through a handful of dirty skylights in the high roof, but not much. There was movement at the alley's far end and he turned, rifle going into his shoulder, but it was Harper who had sensibly avoided the central aisle by running around the flank of the high stacks.
"There's six of them, sir," Harper said, "maybe more."
"Can't stay here," Sharpe said. "Mister Vicente's hit."
"Christ," Harper said.
"Sorry, miss," Sharpe said on Harper's behalf and glanced at Vicente who was conscious, but hurt. He had fallen when the ball struck him, but that had been shock as much as anything else, and he was on his feet now, leaning against some boxes.
"It's bleeding," he said.
"Where?"
"Left shoulder."
"Are you spitting blood?"
"No."
"You'll live," Sharpe said and gave Vicente's rifle to Harper. "Give me the volley gun, Pat," he said, "and take Mister Vicente and Miss Fry to the back. See if there's a way out. Wait a second, though."