Sharpe's Eagle Read Free

blown." He took a map out of his

pocket and unfolded it onto the table. Sharpe watched a callused finger trace the River Tagus

from the sea at Lisbon, past Abrantes where they now sat, and on into Spain to stop where the

river made a huge southwards loop. "Valdelacasa," Hogan said. "There's an old bridge there, a

Roman one. The General doesn't like it."
    Sharpe could see why. The army would march on the north bank of the Tagus towards Madrid and

the river would guard their right flank. There were few bridges where the French might cross and

harass their supply lines and those bridges were in towns, like Alcantara, where the Spanish kept

garrisons to protect the crossings. Valdelacasa was not even marked. If there was no town there

would be no garrison, and a French force could cross and play havoc in the British rear. Harper

leaned over and looked at the map.
    "Why isn't it marked, sir?"
    Hogan made a contemptuous noise. "I'm surprised the map even marks Madrid, let alone

Valdelacasa." He was right. The infamous old Tomas Lopez map, the only one available to the

armies in Spain, was a wondrous work of the Spanish imagination. Hogan stabbed his finger down

onto the map. "The bridge is hardly used, it's in bad repair. We're told you can hardly put a

cart across, let alone a gun, but it could be repaired and we could have "old trousers" up our

backsides in no time." Sharpe smiled. 'Old trousers' was the Rifle's strange nickname for the

French, and Hogan had adopted the phrase with relish. The Engineer lowered his voice

conspiratorially. "It's a strange place, I'm told, just a ruined convent and the bridge. They

call it El Puente de los Malditos." He nodded as if he had made his point.
    Sharpe waited a few seconds and sighed. "All right. What does it mean?"
    Hogan smiled triumphantly. "I'm surprised you need to ask! It means "The Bridge of the

Accursed". It seems that, years ago, all the nuns were taken out of the convent and massacred by

the Moors. It's haunted, Sharpe, stalked by the spirits of the dead!"
    Sharpe leaned forward to peer more closely at the map. Give or take the width of Hogan's

finger the bridge must be sixty miles beyond the border and they were that far from Spain

already. "When do we leave?"
    "Now there's a problem." Hogan folded the map careful-ly. "We can leave for the frontier

tomorrow but we can't cross until we're formally invited by the Spanish." He leaned back with his

cup of brandy. "And we have to wait for our escort."
    "Escort!" Sharpe bridled. "We're your escort."
    Hogan shook his head. "Oh, no. This is politics. The Spanish will let us blow up their bridge

but only if a Spanish Regiment goes along with us. It's a question of pride,

apparently."
    "Pride!" Sharpe's anger was obvious. "If you have a whole Regiment of Spaniards then why the

hell do you need us?"
    Hogan smiled placatingly. "Oh, I need you. There's more, you see." He was interrupted by

Harper. The Sergeant was standing at the window, oblivious of their conversation, and staring

into the small square.
    "That is nice. Oh, sir, that can clean my rifle any day of the week."
    Sharpe looked through the small window. Outside, on a black mare, sat a girl dressed in black;

black breeches, black jacket, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed her face but in no way

obscured a beauty that was startling. Sharpe saw a wide mouth, dark eyes, coiled hair the colour

of fine powder, and then she became aware of their scrutiny. She half smiled at them and turned

away, snapped an order at a servant holding the halter of a mule, and stared at the road leading

from the plaza towards the centre of Abrantes. Hogan made a small, contented noise. "That is

special. They don't come out like that very often. I wonder who she is?"
    "Officer's wife?" Sharpe suggested.
    Harper shook his head. "No ring, sir. But she's waiting for someone, lucky bastard."
    And a rich bastard, thought Sharpe. The army was