"Drink?"

"He was liquored to the gills on the night of the battle. Staggering, he was. Fine next morning."

They reached Coimbra long after dark and it was close to midnight before they discovered the office of the Town Major, the British officer responsible for liaison with the town authorities, and the Major himself was not there, but his servant, wearing a tasseled nightcap, opened the door and grumbled about officers keeping unseasonable hours. "What is it you want, sir?"

"Chalk," Sharpe said, "and you've got two battalions arriving before dawn."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," the servant said, "two battalions? Chalk?"

"At least four sticks. Where are the commissary officers?"

"Up the street, sir, six doors on the left, but if it's rations you're after help yourself from the town quay. Bloody tons there, sir."

"A lantern would be useful," Major Leroy put in.

"Lantern, sir. There is one somewhere."

"And we need to stable two horses."

"Round the back, sir. Be safe there."

Once the horses were stabled and Leroy was equipped with the lantern they worked their way up the street chalking on the doors. SE, Sharpe chalked, meaning South Essex, 4–6, which said six men of number four company would be billeted in the house. They used the small streets close to the bridge over the Mondego, and after a half-hour they encountered two Portuguese officers chalking up for their battalion. Neither of the battalions had arrived by the time the work was done, so Sharpe and Leroy found a tavern on the quay where lights still glowed and ordered themselves wine, brandy and food. They ate salt cod and, just as it was served, the sound of boots echoed in the street outside. Leroy leaned over, pulled open the tavern door and peered out. "Portuguese," he said laconically.

"So they beat us?" Sharpe said. "Colonel won't be pleased."

"The Colonel is going to be one very unhappy man about that," Leroy said and was about to close the door when he saw the legend chalked on the woodwork. SE, CO, ADJ, LCO, it said, and the American grinned. "Putting Lawford and the light company officers in here, Sharpe?"

"I thought the Colonel might want to be with his relative, sir. Friendly like."

"Or are you putting temptation in Mister Slingsby's path?"

Sharpe looked shocked. "Good lord," he said, "I hadn't thought of that."

"You lying bastard," Leroy said, closing the door. He laughed. "I don't think I'd want you as an enemy."

They slept in the taproom and, when Sharpe woke at dawn, the South Essex had still not reached the city. A sad procession of wagons, all with men wounded on Bussaco's slope, was crossing the bridge and Sharpe, going to the quayside, saw that the sills of the wagon beds were stained where blood had dripped from the vehicles. He had to wait to cross to the river bank because the convoy of wounded was followed by a smart traveling coach, drawn by four horses and heaped with trunks, accompanied by a wagon piled with more goods on which a half-dozen unhappy servants clung, and both vehicles were escorted by armed civilian horsemen. Once they were gone Sharpe crossed to the vast heaps of army provisions that had been brought to Coimbra. There were sacks of grain, barrels of salt meat, puncheons of rum, boxes of biscuit, all unloaded from the river boats that were tied to the wharves. Each boat had a number painted on its bow beneath the owner's name and town. The Portuguese authorities had ordered the boats to be numbered and labeled, then listed town by town, so they could be sure that all the craft would be destroyed before the French arrived. The name Ferreira was painted on a half-dozen of the larger vessels, and Sharpe assumed that meant the craft belonged to Ferragus. The boats were all under the guard of redcoats, one of whom, seeing Sharpe, slung his musket and walked along the quay. "Is it true we're retreating, sir?"

"We are."

"Bloody hell." The man gazed at the vast heaps of provisions. "What happens to this lot?"

"We have to get rid of it. And those boats."

"Bloody hell," the man said again, then watched as Sharpe marked dozens of boxes of biscuit and barrels of meat as rations for the South Essex.

The battalion arrived two hours later. They were, as Leroy had forecast, irritable, hungry and tired. Their march had been a nightmare, with wagons obstructing the road, clouds across the moon and at least two wrong turns that had wasted so much time that in the end Lavvford had ordered the men to get some sleep in a pasture until dawn gave them some light to find their way. Major Forrest, sliding wearily from his saddle, looked askance at Sharpe. "Don't tell me you and Leroy came straight here?"

"We did, sir. Had a night's sleep too."

"What a detestable man you are, Sharpe."

"Can't see how you could get lost," Sharpe said. "The road was pretty well straight. Who was leading?"

"You know who was leading, Sharpe," Forrest said, then turned to gaze at the great piles of food. "How do we destroy that lot?"

"Shoot the rum barrels," Sharpe suggested, "and sling the flour and grain into the river."

"Got it all worked out, haven't you?"

"That's what a good night's sleep does for a man, sir."

"Damn you, too."

The Colonel would clearly have liked to rest his battalion, but the brown-jacketed Portuguese troops were starting work and it was unthinkable that the South Essex should collapse while others labored, and so he ordered each company to start on the piles. "You can send men to make tea," he suggested to his officers, "but breakfast must be eaten as we work. Mister Sharpe, good morning."

"Good morning, sir."

"I hope you have had time to consider your predicament," Lawford said, and it took a deal of courage to say it for it stirred up an unhappy situation, and the Colonel would have been much happier if Sharpe had simply volunteered to apologize and so clear the air.

"I have, sir," Sharpe said with a surprising willingness.

"Good!" Lawford brightened. "And?"

"It's the meat that's the problem, sir."

Lawford stared incomprehensibly at Sharpe. "The meat?"

"We can shoot the rum barrels, sir," Sharpe said cheerfully, "throw the grain and flour into the river, but the meat? Can't burn it." He turned and stared at the huge barrels. "If you give me a few men, sir, I'll see if I can find some turpentine. Soak the stuff. Even the Frogs won't eat meat doused in turpentine. Or souse it in paint, perhaps?"

"A problem for you," Lawford said icily, "but I have battalion business to do. You have quarters for me?"

"The tavern on the corner, sir," Sharpe pointed, "all marked up."

"I shall see to the paperwork," Lawford said loftily, meaning he wanted to lie down for an hour, and he nodded curtly at Sharpe and, beckoning his servants, went to find his billet.

Sharpe grinned and walked down the vast piles. Men were slitting grain sacks and levering the tops from the meat barrels. The Portuguese were working more enthusiastically, but they had reached the city late at night and so managed to sleep for a few hours. Other Portuguese soldiers had been sent into the narrow streets to tell the remaining inhabitants to flee, and Sharpe could hear women's voices raised in protest. It was still early. A small mist clung to the river, but the west wind had gone around to the south and it promised to be another hot day. The sharp crack of rifles sounded, startling birds into the air, and Sharpe saw that the Portuguese were shooting the rum barrels. Closer by, Patrick Harper was stoving in the barrels with an axe he had filched. "Why don't you shoot them, Pat?" Sharpe asked.

"Mister Slingsby, sir, he won't let us."

"He won't let you?"

Harper swung the axe at another barrel, releasing a flood of rum onto the cobbles. "He says we're to save our ammunition, sir."