Ferragus spat to show his opinion of Sharpe.
"He will go back to his army," Ferreira answered his own question.
"And say you are a traitor?"
"Then it will be his word against mine," Ferreira said, "and if I am there, then his word will not carry much weight."
Ferragus stared up at the cellar roof. "We could say the food was poisoned," he suggested, "say it was a trap for the French?"
Ferreira nodded, acknowledging the usefulness of the suggestion. "What is important," he said, "is for us to reach Lisbon. Beatriz and the children are there. My money is there." He thought about going north and hiding, but the longer he was absent from the army, the greater would be the suspicions about that absence. Better to go back, bluff it out and reclaim his possessions. Then, with money, he could survive whatever happened. Besides, he missed his family. "But how do we reach Lisbon?"
"Go east," one of the men suggested. "Go east to the Tagus and float down."
Ferreira stared at the man, thinking, though in truth there was nothing really to think about. He could not go directly south for the French would be there, but if he and his brother struck east across the mountains, traveling through the high lands where the French would not dare go for fear of the partisans, they would eventually reach the Tagus and the money they carried would be more than sufficient to buy a boat. Then, in two days, they could be in Lisbon. "I have friends in the mountains," Ferreira said.
"Friends?" Ferragus had not followed his brother's thinking.
"Men who have taken weapons from me." Ferreira, as part of his duties, had distributed British muskets among the hill folk to encourage them to become partisans. "They will give us horses," he went on confidently, "and they will know whether the French are in Abrantes. If they're not, we find our boat there. And the men in the hills can do something else for us. If Sharpe is alive…»
"He's dead by now," Ferragus insisted.
"If he's alive," Major Ferreira went on patiently, "then he will have to take the same route to reach his army. So they can kill him for us." He made the sign of the cross, for it was all so suddenly clear. "Five of us will go to the Tagus," he said, "and then go south. When we reach our army we shall say we destroyed the provisions in the warehouse and if the French arrive we shall sail to the Azores."
"Only five of us?" Miguel asked. There were eight men in the cellar.
"Three of you will stay here," Ferreira suggested and looked to his brother for approval, which Ferragus gave with a nod. "Three men must stay here," Ferreira said, "to guard my house and make any repairs necessary before we return. And when we do return those three men will be well rewarded."
The Major's suspicion that his house would need repairs was justified for, just a hundred and fifty yards away, dragoons were searching for him. The French believed they had been cheated by Major Ferreira and his brother and now took their revenge. They beat down the front door, but found no one except the cook who was drunk in the kitchen and when she swung a frying pan at the head of a dragoon she was shot. The dragoons tossed her body into the yard, then systematically destroyed everything they could break. Furniture, pictures, porcelain, pots, everything. The banisters were torn from the stairs, windows were smashed, and the shutters ripped from their hinges. They found nothing except the horses in the stables and those they took away to become French cavalry remounts.
Dusk came, and the sun flared crimson above the far Atlantic and then sank. The fires in the city burned on to light the smoky sky. The first fury of the French had subsided, but there were still screams in the dark and tears in the night, for the Eagles had taken a city.
Sharpe leaned on the door frame, shadowed by a small timber porch up which a plant twined and fell. The small garden was neatly planted in rows, but what grew there Sharpe did not know, though he did recognize some runner beans that he picked and stored in a pocket ready for the hungry days ahead. He leaned on the door frame again, listening to the shots in the lower city and to Harper's snores coming from the kitchen. He dozed, unaware of it until a cat rubbed against his ankles and startled him awake. Shots still sounded in the city, and still the smoke churned overhead.
He petted the cat, stamped his boots, tried to stay awake, but again fell asleep on his feet and woke to see a French officer sitting in the entrance to the garden with a sketch pad. The man was drawing Sharpe and, when he saw his subject had woken, he held up a hand as if to say Sharpe should not be alarmed. He drew on, his pencil making quick, confident strokes. He spoke to Sharpe, his voice relaxed and friendly, and Sharpe grunted back and the officer did not seem to mind that his subject made no sense. It was dusk when the officer finished and he stood and brought the picture to Sharpe and asked his opinion. The Frenchman was smiling, pleased with his work, and Sharpe gazed at the drawing of a villainous-looking man, scarred and frightening, leaning in shirtsleeves against the doorway with a rifle propped at his side and a sword hanging from his waist. Had the fool not seen they were British weapons? The officer, who was young, fair-haired and good-looking, prompted Sharpe for a response, and Sharpe shrugged, wondering if he would have to draw the sword and fillet the man.
Then Sarah appeared and said something in fluent French and the officer snatched off his forage cap, bowed and showed the picture to Sarah who must have expressed delight, for the man tore it from his big book and gave it to her with another bow. They spoke for a few more minutes, or rather the officer spoke and Sarah seemed to agree with everything he said, adding very few words of her own and then, at last, the officer kissed her hand, nodded amicably to Sharpe, and disappeared up the steps through the far archway. "What was that all about?" Sharpe asked.
"I told him we were Dutch. He seemed to think you were a cavalryman."
"He saw the sword, overalls and boots," Sharpe explained. "He wasn't suspicious?"
"He said you were the very picture of a modern soldier," Sarah said, looking at the drawing.
"That's me," Sharpe said, "a work of art."
"He actually said that you were the image of a people's fury released on an old and corrupt world."
"Bloody hell," Sharpe said.
"And he said it was a shame what was being done in the city, but that it was unavoidable."
"What's wrong with discipline?"
"Unavoidable," Sarah ignored Sharpe's question, "because Coimbra represents the old world of superstition and privilege."
"So he was another Crapaud full of… " Sharpe started.
"Shit?" Sarah interrupted him.
Sharpe looked at her. "You're a strange one, love."
"Good," she said.
"Did you sleep?" Sharpe asked her.
"I slept. Now you must."
"Someone has to stand guard," Sharpe said, though he had not done a particularly good job. He had been fast asleep when the French officer came and it had only been pure luck that it had been a man with a sketch book instead of some bastard looking for plunder. "What you could do," he suggested, "is see if the fire in the kitchen can be revived and make us some tea."
"Tea?"
"There are some leaves in my haversack," Sharpe said. "You have to scoop them out, and they get a bit mixed up with loose gunpowder, but most of us like that taste."
"Sergeant Harper's in the kitchen," Sarah said diffidently.
"Worried what you might see?" Sharpe asked with a smile. "He won't mind. There's not a lot of privacy in the army. It's an education, the army."
"So I'm discovering," Sarah said, and she went to the kitchen, but came back to report that the stove was cold.