Foraging parties went out the next day, returning with a herd of skinny bullocks and a flock of pregnant ewes and fractious goats. Sir Thomas fretted, eager to be moving, and, for want of other activity, he rode with a squadron of German cavalry to find that the hills north and east were lively with enemy horsemen. A troop of Spanish cavalry cantered down a stream bank to join Sir Thomas’s men. Their commander was a captain who wore yellow breeches, a yellow waistcoat, and a blue jacket with red facings. He touched his hat to Sir Thomas. “They’re watching us,” he spoke in French, assuming that Sir Thomas could not speak Spanish.
“That’s their job,” Sir Thomas answered in Spanish. He had taken care to learn the language when he was first posted to Cádiz.
“Captain Sarasa.” The Spaniard named himself, then took a cigar from his saddlebag. One of his men struck a light with a tinderbox and Sarasa bent over the flame until the cigar was drawing properly. “I have orders,” he said, “not to engage the enemy.”
Sir Thomas heard the sullen tone and understood that Sarasa was frustrated. He wanted to take his men up to the crests of the low hills and match them against the French vedettes. “You have orders?” Sir Thomas inquired tonelessly.
“General Lapeña’s orders. We are to protect the forage parties, no more.”
“You would rather fight?”
“Is that not why we are here?” Sarasa asked truculently.
Sir Thomas liked Sarasa. He was a young man, probably not yet thirty, and he had a belligerence that encouraged Sir Thomas, who believed that the Spaniards would fight like devils if they were given a chance and, perhaps, some leadership. At Bailén, three years before, a Spanish force had outfought a whole French corps and forced a surrender. They had even taken an eagle so they could fight well enough and, if Captain Sarasa was an example, they wanted to fight, but for once Sir Thomas found himself agreeing with Lapeña. “What’s across the hill, Captain?” he asked.
Sarasa stared at the nearest crest where two vedettes were visible. A vedette was a sentry post of cavalrymen who were posted to watch an enemy. There were twelve men in the two vedettes while Sir Thomas, reinforced now by Sarasa’s swordsmen, had more than sixty. “We don’t know, Sir Thomas,” he admitted.
“There’s probably nothing across the hill,” Sir Thomas said, “and we could chase those fellows off, and if we did we’d see them on a farther hill and we’d think there’s no harm in chasing them off that, and so it would go on until we’re five miles north of here and the forage parties are dead.”
Sarasa drew on his cigar. “They offend me,” he said vehemently.
“They disgust me,” Sir Thomas said, “but we fight them where we choose or where we must, not always when we want.”
Sarasa gave a quick smile as if to say he had learned his lesson. He tapped ash from his cigar. “The rest of my regiment, Sir Thomas,” he said, “is ordered to reconnoiter the road to Conil.” He spoke very flatly.
“Conil?” Sir Thomas asked and Sarasa nodded. The Spaniard was still watching the distant dragoons, but he was very aware as Sir Thomas took a folded map from his saddlebag. It was a bad map, but it did show Gibraltar and Cádiz, and between them it marked Medina Sidonia and Vejer, the town which lay just to the south. Sir Thomas drew a finger westward from Vejer until he reached the Atlantic coast.
“Conil?” he asked again, tapping the map.
“Conil de la Frontera.” Sarasa confirmed the location by giving the town its full name. “Conil beside the sea,” he added in an angrier voice.
Beside the sea. Sir Thomas stared at the map. Conil was indeed on the shore. Ten miles north of it was a village called Barrosa, and from there a road led east to Chiclana, which was the base of the French siege lines, but Sir Thomas already knew that General Lapeña had no intention of using that road, because, just a couple of miles north of Barrosa was the Rio Sancti Petri where, supposedly, the Spanish garrison was making a pontoon bridge. Cross that bridge and the army would be back on the Isla de León, and another two hours’ marching would have Lapeña’s men back in Cádiz and safe from the French. “No,” Sir Thomas said angrily and his horse stirred nervously.
The road north from Vejer was the one to take. Break through the French cordon of vedettes and march hard. Victor would be defending Chiclana, of course, but by skirting east of the city the allied army could maneuver the French marshal out of his prepared position and force him to fight on ground of their own choosing. But instead the Spanish general was thinking of a stroll by the sea? He was thinking of retreating to Cádiz? Sir Thomas could hardly believe it, but he knew that an attack on Chiclana from Barrosa was untenable. It would be an advance over poor country tracks against an army in prepared positions and Lapeña would never contemplate such a risk. Doña Manolito just wanted to go home, but to get home he would march his army along a coastal road and all the French needed to do was advance on that road to trap the allies against the sea. “No!” Sir Thomas said again, then turned his horse toward the distant encampment. He spurred away, then abruptly curbed the stallion and turned back to Sarasa. “You’re not to engage, those are your orders?”
“Yes, Sir Thomas.”
“But of course, if those bastards threaten you, then your duty is to kill them, isn’t it?”
“Is it, Sir Thomas?”
“Assuredly yes! And I am sure you will do your duty, Captain, but don’t pursue them! Don’t abandon the foragers! No further than the skyline, you hear me?” Sir Thomas spurred on and reckoned that if one Frenchman of the vedette even raised a hand, then Sarasa would attack. So at least some enemy would die, even if Doña Manolito apparently wanted the rest to live forever. “Bloody man,” Sir Thomas growled to himself, “bloody, bloody man,” and rode to save the campaign.
“I SAW your friend last night,” Captain Galiana said to Sharpe.
“My friend?”
“Dancing at Bachica’s.”
“Oh, Caterina?” Sharpe said. Caterina had returned to Cádiz, traveling there in a hired carriage and with a valise filled with money.
“You didn’t tell me she was a widow,” Galiana said reprovingly. “You called her señorita!”
Sharpe gaped at Galiana. “A widow!”
“She was dressed in black, with a veil,” Galiana said. “She didn’t actually dance, of course, but she watched the dancing.” He and Sharpe were on a patch of shingle at the edge of the bay. The north wind brought the stench of the prison hulks moored off the salt flats. Two guard boats rowed slowly down the hulks.
“She didn’t dance?” Sharpe asked.
“She’s a widow. How could she? It is too soon. She told me her husband has only been dead for three months.” Galiana paused, evidently remembering Caterina riding on the beach where her dress and demeanor had been anything but bereaved. He decided to say nothing of that. “She was most gracious to me,” he said instead. “I like her.”
“She’s very likable,” Sharpe said.
“Your brigadier was also there,” Galiana said.
“Moon? He’s not my brigadier,” Sharpe said, “and I don’t suppose he was dancing either.”
“He was on crutches,” Galiana said, “and he gave me orders.”
“You! He can’t give you orders!” Sharpe spun a stone into the water, hoping it would skip across the small waves, but it sank instantly. “I hope you told him to go to hell and stay there.”