"In that gully." Slingsby pointed to a patch of dead ground near the bottom of the hill. "Dismounted now."

Sharpe used his telescope and saw two of the green-uniformed men crouching behind boulders. One of them had a telescope and was watching the hilltop and Sharpe gave the man a cheerful wave. "Not much bloody use there, are they?" he said.

"They could be planning to attack us." Slingsby suggested eagerly.

"Not unless they're tired of life," Sharpe said, reckoning the dragoons had been beckoned westwards by the white flag on the telegraph tower, and now that the flag had been replaced by a plume of smoke they were undecided what to do. He trained his glass farther south and saw there was still gun smoke in the valley where the main road ran beside the river. The rearguard was evidently holding its own, but they would have to retreat soon for, farther east, he could now see the main enemy army that showed as dark columns marching in fields. They were a very long way off, scarce visible even through the glass, but they were there, a shadowed horde coming to drive the British out of central Portugal. L'Armee de Portugal, the French called it, the army that was meant to whip the redcoats clear to Lisbon, then out to sea, so that Portugal would at last be placed under the tricolor, but the army of Portugal was in for a surprise. Marshal Massena would march into an empty land and then find himself facing the Lines of Torres Vedras.

"See anything, Sharpe?" Slingsby stepped closer, plainly wanting to borrow the telescope.

"Have you been drinking rum?" Sharpe asked, again getting a whiff of the spirit.

Slingsby looked alarmed, then offended. "Put it on the skin," he said gruffly, slapping his face, "to keep off the flies."

"You do what?"