Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold by Bernard Cornwell Page A

with dragoons, but instead they chopped up the skiff that Sharpe had rescued and then set the fragments alight. “They’re closing off the river,” Sharpe said to Vicente.
    “Closing the river?” Vicente did not understand.
    “Making sure they’ve got the only boats. They don’t want British or Portuguese troops crossing the river, attacking them in the rear. Which means it’s going to be bloody hard for us to go the other way.” Sharpe turned as Harper came near, and saw that the big Irish Sergeant’s hands were bloody. “How is he?”
    Harper shook his head. “He’s in a terrible bad way, sir,” he said gloomily. “I think the bloody ball’s in his lung. Coughing red bubbles he is, when he can cough at all. Poor Dan.”
    “I’m not leaving him,” Sharpe said obstinately. He knew he had left Tarrant behind, and there were men like Williamson who had been friends of Tarrant who would resent that Sharpe was not doing the same with Hagman, but Tarrant had been a drunk and a troublemaker while Dan Hagman was valuable. He was the oldest man among Sharpe’s riflemen and he had a wealth of common sense that made him a steadying influence. Besides, Sharpe liked the old poacher. “Make a stretcher, Pat,” he said, “and carry him.”
    They made a stretcher out of jackets that had their sleeves threaded onto two poles cut from an ash tree and while it was being fashioned Sharpe and Vicente watched the French and discussed how they were to escape them. “What we must do,” the Portuguese Lieutenant said, “is go east. To Amarante.” He smoothed a patch of bare earth and scratched a crude map with a splinter of wood. “This is the Douro,” he said, “and here is Porto. We are here”—he tapped the river very close to the city—“and the nearest bridge is at Amarante.” He made a cross mark well to the east. “We could be there tomorrow or perhaps the day after.”
    “So can they,” Sharpe said grimly, and he nodded toward the village.
    A gun had just appeared from among the trees where the French had waited so long before attacking Sharpe’s men. The cannon was drawn by six horses, three of which were ridden by gunners in their dark-blue uniforms. The gun itself, a twelve-pounder, was attached to its limber which was a light two-wheeled cart that served as a ready magazine and as an axle for the heavy gun’s trail. Behind the gun was another team of four horses, these pulling a coffin-like caisson that carried a spare gun wheel on its stern. The caisson, which was being ridden by a half-dozen gunners, held the cannon’s ammunition. Even from half a mile away Sharpe could hear the clink of the chains and thump of the wheels. He watched in silence as a howitzer came into sight, than a second twelve-pounder, and after that a troop of hussars.
    “Do you think they’re coming here?” Vicente asked with alarm.
    “No,” Sharpe said. “They’re not interested in fugitives. They’re going to Amarante.”
    “This is not the good road to Amarante. In fact it goes nowhere. They’ll have to strike north to the main road.”
    “They don’t know that yet,” Sharpe guessed, “they’re taking any road east that they can find.” Infantry had now appeared from the trees, then another battery of artillery. Sharpe was watching a small army march eastward and there was only one reason to send so many men and guns to the east and that was to capture the bridge at Amarante and so protect the French left flank. “Amarante,” Sharpe said, “that’s where the bastards are going.”
    “Then we can’t,” Vicente said.
    “We can go,” Sharpe said, “we just can’t go on that road. You say there’s a main road?”
    “Up here,” Vicente said, and scratched the earth to show another road to the north of them. “That is the high road,” Vicente said. “The French are probably on that as well. Do you really have to go to Amarante?”
    “I’ve got to cross the river,” Sharpe said, “and