
“No, sir.”
“Nor does anyone.” Windham grumbled. He pointed south. “Go that way till you find the army, then go east till you find Headquarters. I want you back here by dusk and if Wellington asks you to dinner, say you’re spoken for.”
“Yes, sir.” McDonald grinned delightedly. “Do you think he might, sir?”
“Get away with you!” Windham acknowledged Delmas’s salute. The Frenchman turned once more to look at Salamanca, staring intently as though looking to see if any British troops had yet made their journey back from the fords and were entering the city streets. Then the pale eyes turned to Sharpe. Delmas smiled. “Au revoir, M’sieur.”
Sharpe smiled back. “I hope your mother’s pox gets better.”
Windham bristled. “Damned unnecessary, Sharpe! Fellow was perfectly pleasant! French, of course, but pleasant.”
Delmas trotted obediently behind the sixteen year old Ensign and Sharpe watched them go before turning back to the gorgeous city across the river. Salamanca. It would be the first bloodless victory of Wellington’s summer campaign, and then Sharpe remembered it would not be quite bloodless. The makeshift fortresses left in the city would have to be reduced so that Wellington could pour his supplies and reinforcements across the long Roman bridge. The city of gold would have to be fought for so that the bridge, built so long ago by the Romans, could help a new army in a modern war.
Sharpe wondered that a bridge so old still stood. The parapets of the roadway were crenellated, like a castle wall, and almost in the centre of the bridge was a handsome small fortress arched above the road. The French had not garrisoned the tiny fort, leaving it in the possession of a statue of a bull. Colonel Windham also stared at the bridge and shook his head. “Bloody awful, eh Sharpe?”
“Awful, sir?”
“More damned arches than bones in a rabbit! An English bridge would be just two arches, ain’t I right? Not all that waste of damned good stone! Still, I suppose the Spanish thought they were bloody clever just to get it across, what?”
