be miles from the sea, yet the tide was flooding against them and there was still no town or village anywhere in sight.
“Your honor!” Sergeant Noolan shouted from the bows, and the brigadier saw another boat had appeared about a bend in the wide river. She was a rowing boat, about the size of his own commandeered launch, and she was crammed with men who knew how to use their oars, and she had other men with muskets, and the brigadier hauled on the tiller to point the boat toward the Portuguese bank. “Row!” he shouted, then cursed as the oars tangled again. “Dear God,” he said, because the strange boat was coming fast. She was expertly manned and being carried on the flooding tide, and Brigadier Moon cursed a second time just before the man commanding the approaching boat stood and hailed him.
The shout was in English. The officer commanding the boat wore naval blue and had come from a British sloop that patrolled the Guadiana’s long tidal reach. The sloop rescued them, lifted Sharpe from the bottom boards, fed them, and then carried them out to sea where they were rowed to HMS Thornside, a thirty-six-gun frigate, and Sharpe knew none of it. There was just pain.
Pain and darkness, and a creaking sound so that Sharpe dreamed he was back on HMS Pucelle, sailing endlessly across the Indian Ocean, and Lady Grace was with him, and in his delirium he was happy again, but then he would half wake and know she was dead and he wanted to weep for that. The creaking went on and the world swayed and there was pain and darkness and a sudden flash of agonizing brilliance, then darkness again.
“I think he blinked,” a voice said.
Sharpe opened his eyes and the pain in his skull was like white-hot embers. “Sweet Jesus,” he hissed.
“No, it’s just me, sir, Patrick Harper, sir.” The sergeant loomed over him. There was a wooden ceiling partially lit by narrow shafts of sunlight that stabbed through a small grating. Sharpe closed his eyes. “Are you still there, sir?” Harper asked.
“Where am I?”
“HMS Thornside, sir. A frigate, sir.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sharpe groaned.
“He’s had a few prayers this last day and a half, so he has.”
“Here,” another voice said and a hand went beneath Sharpe’s shoulders to lift him so that the pain stabbed into his skull and he gasped. “Drink this,” the voice said.
The liquid was bitter and Sharpe half choked on it, but whatever it was made him sleep and he dreamed again, and woke again, and this time it was night and a lantern in the passageway outside his diminutive cabin swung with the ship’s motion so that the shadows careered all over the canvas walls and dizzied him.
He slept again, half aware of the sounds of a ship, of the bare feet on the planking overhead, the creak of a thousand timbers, the rush of water, and the intermittent clangor of the bell. Soon after dawn he woke and discovered his head was swathed in thick bandages. The pain was still gouging his skull, but it was no longer intense and so he swung his feet out of the cot and was immediately dizzy. He sat on the cot’s swaying edge with his head in his hands. He wanted to vomit except there was nothing but bile in his stomach. His boots were on the floor, while his uniform, rifle, and sword were swaying from a wooden peg on the door. He closed his eyes. He remembered Colonel Vandal firing the musket. He thought of Jack Bullen, poor Jack Bullen.
The door opened. “What the hell are you doing?” Harper asked cheerfully.
“I want to go on deck.”
“The surgeon says you must rest.”
Sharpe told Harper what the surgeon could do. “Help me dress,” he said. He did not bother with boots or sword, just pulled on his French cavalry overalls and his ragged green coat, then held on to Harper’s strong arm as they walked out of the cabin. The sergeant then hauled Sharpe up a steep companionway to the frigate’s deck where he clung to the hammock netting.
A brisk wind was blowing
“Your honor!” Sergeant Noolan shouted from the bows, and the brigadier saw another boat had appeared about a bend in the wide river. She was a rowing boat, about the size of his own commandeered launch, and she was crammed with men who knew how to use their oars, and she had other men with muskets, and the brigadier hauled on the tiller to point the boat toward the Portuguese bank. “Row!” he shouted, then cursed as the oars tangled again. “Dear God,” he said, because the strange boat was coming fast. She was expertly manned and being carried on the flooding tide, and Brigadier Moon cursed a second time just before the man commanding the approaching boat stood and hailed him.
The shout was in English. The officer commanding the boat wore naval blue and had come from a British sloop that patrolled the Guadiana’s long tidal reach. The sloop rescued them, lifted Sharpe from the bottom boards, fed them, and then carried them out to sea where they were rowed to HMS Thornside, a thirty-six-gun frigate, and Sharpe knew none of it. There was just pain.
Pain and darkness, and a creaking sound so that Sharpe dreamed he was back on HMS Pucelle, sailing endlessly across the Indian Ocean, and Lady Grace was with him, and in his delirium he was happy again, but then he would half wake and know she was dead and he wanted to weep for that. The creaking went on and the world swayed and there was pain and darkness and a sudden flash of agonizing brilliance, then darkness again.
“I think he blinked,” a voice said.
Sharpe opened his eyes and the pain in his skull was like white-hot embers. “Sweet Jesus,” he hissed.
“No, it’s just me, sir, Patrick Harper, sir.” The sergeant loomed over him. There was a wooden ceiling partially lit by narrow shafts of sunlight that stabbed through a small grating. Sharpe closed his eyes. “Are you still there, sir?” Harper asked.
“Where am I?”
“HMS Thornside, sir. A frigate, sir.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sharpe groaned.
“He’s had a few prayers this last day and a half, so he has.”
“Here,” another voice said and a hand went beneath Sharpe’s shoulders to lift him so that the pain stabbed into his skull and he gasped. “Drink this,” the voice said.
The liquid was bitter and Sharpe half choked on it, but whatever it was made him sleep and he dreamed again, and woke again, and this time it was night and a lantern in the passageway outside his diminutive cabin swung with the ship’s motion so that the shadows careered all over the canvas walls and dizzied him.
He slept again, half aware of the sounds of a ship, of the bare feet on the planking overhead, the creak of a thousand timbers, the rush of water, and the intermittent clangor of the bell. Soon after dawn he woke and discovered his head was swathed in thick bandages. The pain was still gouging his skull, but it was no longer intense and so he swung his feet out of the cot and was immediately dizzy. He sat on the cot’s swaying edge with his head in his hands. He wanted to vomit except there was nothing but bile in his stomach. His boots were on the floor, while his uniform, rifle, and sword were swaying from a wooden peg on the door. He closed his eyes. He remembered Colonel Vandal firing the musket. He thought of Jack Bullen, poor Jack Bullen.
The door opened. “What the hell are you doing?” Harper asked cheerfully.
“I want to go on deck.”
“The surgeon says you must rest.”
Sharpe told Harper what the surgeon could do. “Help me dress,” he said. He did not bother with boots or sword, just pulled on his French cavalry overalls and his ragged green coat, then held on to Harper’s strong arm as they walked out of the cabin. The sergeant then hauled Sharpe up a steep companionway to the frigate’s deck where he clung to the hammock netting.
A brisk wind was blowing
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