Padstowe's Lodgings, Oporto

Sharpe nodded. "Well, this time the boot's on the other foot an' it's the Frogs who have to leg it through the mountains. They can take their guns with them, which will slow them down, or leave them behind, which'll mean they can't use them to fire at us. And these mountains are damn nasty things. Worse in winter, I reckon, but there's a couple of rivers to cross that could be real bad what with the spring thaw. 'Specially after the winter we've just had."

"True. But either way it is not so much the geographical boundaries that affect our pursuit, but the political ones," Padstowe said, giving Sharpe an arch look. "And they are much more difficult to overcome. Ideally we catch Soult and annilhalate Soult before he crosses the border; but with this rain it seems unlikely, as it hampers us as well as the French - and they have a head start."

"Bloody politics. I'll stick wi' fightin'. At least I know what's expected of me on the battlefield." He shrugged. "It depends. If, say, the Rifles were to go after them, we'd march light, which would mean we'd march quick, and we could keep givin' them grief. Though the weather makes things harder, it don't make it impossible. It's not like we can give them a pitched battle in these mountains anyway."

"In theory I would agree with you, but you know as well as I do that it is not up to the likes of you and me."

"I know that, Jonathan. I just wonder what Nosey's goin' to do with us, that's all."

"You are not the only one," Padstowe replied. He drained his glass and eased back in his chair. "I wonder he knows at all."

"I'm sure he knows. He just ain't tellin' - which would be just like him." Sharpe grinned and emptied his own glass.

A smile quirked at Padstowe's lips as he refilled his glass.

"You would know better than I," he said, offering the bottle to Sharpe. "You know him better than any of us."