 Sharps Gold, by Bernard Cornwell, read by Paul McGahn. The war was lost. Everyone knew it. From generals of division to the whores of Lisbon, Spain had fallen and the British were trapped. All that was left was the Fortress Harbour of Cadiz, and the peasants who fought the Guerilla, the Little War, with Spanish knives and British guns with ambush and terror. Captain Richard Sharpe, once of his Majesty's 95th Rifles, now captain of the Light Company of the South Essex Regiment, did not think the war was lost. Despite that he was in a foul mood. Rain had fallen since dawn and turned the road to mud and made his green rifleman's jacket clammy and uncomfortable. He marched in solitary silence, listening to his men chatter, and Lieutenant Robert Knowles and Sergeant Patrick Harper let him alone. Lieutenant Knowles had commented on Sharpe's mood but the huge Irish sergeant had shaken his head. There's no chance of cheering him up, sir. He likes being measurable, so he does, and the bastard'll get over it. Knowles shrugged and looked up at the low clouds touching the hilltops either side of the road. Bloody weather. Back home, sir, would call us a fine day. Harper grinned. Then turned to look at the company who followed the fast-marching figure of Sharpe. They were straggling a little, and Harper raised his voice, Come on, you Protestant scum. The war is not waiting for you. He shouted, but he was proud of them. They'd outmarch the rest of the regiment, and tonight, in Salarico where the army was gathering, there would be women in the streets and wine in the shops. Light could be a lot worse for a lad from Donnie Gore, and Patrick Harper began whistling. Sharpe heard him and marched even faster. Since Talivera, the regiment had patrolled the bleak southern border between Spain and Portugal, and it had been a long, boring winter watching the empty hills. But now, at last, they were marching north, summoned by Wellington to where the French attack would come and where all doubts and fears would be banished in action. The road reached a crest, revealing a valley with a village at its centre. There were cavalry in the village, men wearing the blue of the king's German legion, and Sharpe respected the Germans. They were fellow professionals, and Sharpe, above everything else, was a professional soldier. He'd been one for seventeen of his thirty-three years, first as a private, then a sergeant, then the dizzy jump to officer's rank, and all the promotions had been earned on battlefields. He halted the company in the village street under the curious gaze of the cavalrymen, and officer walked over to Sharpe. Captain? It was a question because Sharpe's only signs of rank were a faded scarlet sash and a great, straight-bladed sword. Sharpe nodded. Captain Sharpe, south Essex. The German officer was a square-faced man, with a pleasant and ready smile and shrewd eyes. His eyebrows went up, and his face split into a smile. Captain Sharpe! Talivera! He pumped Sharpe's hand, clapped him on the shoulder, then turned to shout at his men, the cavalry grinned at Sharpe, nodded at him. I'd all heard of him, the man who had hacked his way into a French regiment at Talivera and captured a French eagle. Sharpe jerked his head towards Patrick Harper and the company. Don't forget, we were all there. The German beamed at the light company. It was well done! He clicked his heels to Sharpe and gave the slightest nod. Lossow! Captain Lossow at your service. You going to Seleurico? The Germans English was accented, but good. Sharpe nodded again. And you? Lossow shook his head. Okoha! Patrolling! The enemy are getting close, so they will be fighting. He sounded pleased. This time, we get an eagle, yes? Sharpe wished him luck. If any cavalry regiment were likely to break apart a French battalion, it would be the Germans. The English cavalry were brave enough, but with no discipline. The Germans knew their job and did it well. Lossow grinned at the complement and mounted. And as the Germans left, cloaked against the rain, Sharpe dismissed his men for a ten-minute break. Lieutenant Knowles walked up the street. It was a miserable village, poor and deserted. The inhabitants had gone, as the Portuguese government had ordered. When the French advanced, they would find no crops, no animals, wells filled with stones or poisoned with dead sheep, a land of hunger and thirst. But despite this grim resistance, there was no hope, and Knowles felt his spirit drop with the thought. The war was lost. The door of the Church of São Paulo in Salarico, the temporary headquarters of the South Essex, banged open, letting in the late afternoon sunlight and law food, dressed in his... Sample complete. Ready to continue?