Then he began to worry at the frayed ends of his mustaches. He had food, and thus the army's problems seemed solved, but, as ever, there was a cockroach in the soup. How could these new supplies be moved? It would be no use issuing several days' rations to the troops, for they would gorge themselves on the whole lot in the first hour, then complain of hunger by nightfall, and Poquelin had far too few horses and mules to carry this vast amount. Still, he had to try. "Have the city searched for carts," he ordered one of the fourriers, "any cart. Handcarts, wheelbarrows, anything! We need men to haul the carts. Round up civilians to push the carts."
"I'm to do all that?" the fourrier asked in amazement, his voice muffled because he was eating a piece of cheese.
"I shall talk to the Marshal," Poquelin said grandly, then scowled. "Are you eating?"
"Got a sore tooth, sir," the man mumbled. "All swollen up, sir. Doctor says he wants to pull it. Permission to go and have tooth pulled, sir."
"Refused," Poquelin said. He was tempted to draw his sword and beat the man for insolence, but he had never drawn the weapon and was afraid that if he tried then he would discover that the blade had rusted to the scabbard's throat. He contented himself with striking the man with his hand. "We must set an example," he snapped. "If the army is hungry, we are hungry. We don't eat the army's food. You are a fool. What are you?"
"A fool, sir," the fourrier dutifully replied, but at least he was no longer quite such a hungry fool.
"Take a dozen men and search for carts. Anything with wheels," Poquelin ordered, confident that Marshal Massena would approve of his idea to use Portuguese civilians as draught animals. The army was expected to march south in a day or two, and the rumor was that the British and Portuguese would make a last stand in the hills north of Lisbon, so Poquelin only needed to make a new depot some forty or fifty miles to the south. He had some transport, of course, enough to carry perhaps a quarter of the food, and those existing mules and wagons could come back for more, which meant the warehouse needed to be protected while its precious contents were laboriously moved closer to Lisbon. Poquelin hurried back to the warehouse door and looked for the dragoon Colonel who was guarding the street. "Dumesnil!"
Colonel Dumesnil, like all French soldiers, despised the commissary. He turned his horse with insolent slowness, rode to Poquelin so that he towered above him, then let his drawn sword drop so that it vaguely threatened the small man. "You want me?"
"You have checked that there are no other doors to the warehouse?"
"Of course I haven't," Dumesnil said sarcastically.
"No one must get in, you understand? No one! The army is saved, Colonel, saved!"
"Alleluia," Dumesnil said dryly.
"I shall inform Marshal Massena that you are responsible for the safety of these supplies," Poquelin said pompously.
Dumesnil leaned from the saddle. "Marshal Massena himself gave me my orders, little man," he said, "and I obey my orders. I don't need more from you."
"You need more men," Poquelin said, worried because the two squads of dragoons, barring the street on either side of the warehouse doors, were already holding back crowds of hungry soldiers. "Why are those men here?" he demanded petulantly.
"Because rumor says there's food in there," Dumesnil flicked his sword towards the warehouse, "and because they're hungry. But for Christ's sake stop fretting! I have enough men. You do your job, Poquelin, and stop telling me how to do mine."
Poquelin, content that he had done his duty by stressing to Dumesnil how important the food was, went to find Colonel Barreto who was waiting with Major Ferreira and the alarming Ferragus beside the warehouse doors. "It is all good," Poquelin told Barreto. "There is even more than you told us!"
Barreto translated for Ferragus who, in turn, asked a question. "The gentleman," Barreto said to Poquelin, his sarcasm obvious, "wishes to know when he will be paid."
"Now," Poquelin said, though it was not in his power to issue payment. Yet he wanted to convey the good news to Massena, and the Marshal would surely pay when he heard that the army had more than enough food to see it to Lisbon. That was all that was needed. Just to reach Lisbon, for even the British could not empty that great city of all its supplies. A treasure trove waited in Lisbon and now the Emperor's Army of Portugal had been given the means to reach it.
The dragoons moved aside to let Poquelin and his companions through. Then the horsemen closed up again. Scores of hungry infantrymen had heard about the food and they were shouting that it should be distributed now, but Colonel Dumesnil was quite ready to kill them if they attempted to help themselves. He sat, hard-faced, unmoving, his long sword drawn, a soldier with orders, which meant the food was in secure hands and the Army of Portugal was safe.
Sharpe and Harper made the return run to the roof where Vicente and Sarah waited. Vicente was bent over in apparent pain, while Sarah, her black silk dress gleaming with spots of fresh blood, looked pale. "What happened?" Sharpe asked.
In reply she showed Sharpe the bloodstained knife blade. "I did get the bullet out," she said in a small voice.
"Well done."
"And lots of cloth scraps," she added more confidently.
"Even better," Sharpe said.
Vicente leaned back against the tiles. He was barechested and a new bandage, torn from his shirt, was crudely wrapped about his shoulder. Blood had oozed through the cloth.
"Hurts, eh?" Sharpe asked.
"It hurts," Vicente said dryly.
"It was difficult," Sarah said, "but he didn't make a noise."
"That's because he's a soldier," Sharpe said. "Can you move your arm?" he asked Vicente.
"I think so."
"Try," Sharpe said. Vicente looked appalled, then understood the sense in the order and, flinching with pain, managed to raise his left arm, which suggested the shoulder joint was not mangled. "You're going to be right as rain, Jorge," Sharpe said, "so long as we keep that wound clean." He glanced at Harper. "Maggots?"
"Not now, sir," Harper said, "only if the wound goes bad."
"Maggots?" Vicente asked faintly. "Did you say maggots?"
"Nothing better, sir," Harper said enthusiastically. "Best thing for a dirty wound. Put the little buggers in, they clean it up, leave the good flesh, and you're good as new." He patted his haversack. "I always carry a half-dozen. Much better than going to a surgeon because all those bastards ever want to do is cut you up."
"I hate surgeons," Sharpe said.
"He hates lawyers," Vicente said to Sarah, "and now he hates surgeons. Is there anyone he likes?"
"Women," Sharpe said, "I do like women." He was looking over the city, listening to screams and shots, and he knew from the noise that French discipline had crumbled. Coimbra was in chaos, given over to lust, hate and fire. Three plumes of smoke were already boiling from the narrow streets to obscure the clear morning sky and he suspected more would soon join them. "They're firing houses," he said, "and we've got work to do." He bent down and scooped up some pigeon dung that he pushed into the barrels of Harper's volley gun. He used the stickiest he could find, carefully placing a small amount into each muzzle. "Ram it down, Pat," he said. The dung would act as wadding to hold the balls in place when the barrels were tipped downwards, and what he planned would mean pointing the gun straight down. "Do many of the houses here have student quarters?" he asked Vicente.
"A lot, yes."