stores. The soldiers, both Spanish and British, had been warmly welcomed. “My father,” Vivar now explained to Sharpe, “was a lord in these mountains.”
“Does that mean you’re a lord?”
“I am the younger son. My brother is the Count now.” Vivar crossed himself at this mention of his brother, a sign which Sharpe took to denote respect. “I am an hidalgo, of course,” he went on, “so these people call me Don Bias.”
Sharpe shrugged. ”Hidalgo?“
Vivar politely disguised his surprise at Sharpe’s ignorance. “An hidalgo, Lieutenant, is a man who can trace his blood back to the old Christians of Spain. Pure blood, you understand, without a taint of Moor or Jew in it. I am hidalgo”. He said it with a simple pride which made the claim all the more impressive. “And your father? He is a lord, too?”
“I don’t know who my father is, or was.”
“You don’t know…“ Vivar’s initial reaction was curiosity, then the implication of bastardy made him drop the subject. It was clear that Sharpe had fallen even lower in the Spaniard’s opinion. The Major glanced out of the window, judging the day’s dying. ”So what will you do now, Lieutenant?“
“I’m going south. To Lisbon.”
“To take a ship home?”
Sharpe ignored the hint of scorn which suggested he was running away from the fight. “To take a ship home,” he confirmed.
“You have a map?”
“No.”
Vivar broke a piece of bread to mop up the gravy. “You will find there are no roads south in these mountains.”
“None?”
“None passable in winter, and certainly not in this winter. You will have to go east to Astorga, or west to the sea, before you will find a southern road open.”
“The French are to the east?”
“The French are everywhere.” Vivar leaned back and stared at Sharpe. “I’m going west. Do you wish to join me?”
Sharpe knew that his chances of surviving in this strange land were slim. He had no map, spoke no Spanish, and had only the haziest notion of Spanish geography, yet at the same time Sharpe had no desire to ally himself with this aristocratic Spaniard who had witnessed his disgrace. There could be no more damning indictment of an officer’s failure of command than to be discovered brawling with one of his own men, and that sense of shame made him hesitate.
“Or are you tempted to surrender?” Vivar asked-harshly.
“Never.” Sharpe’s answer was equally harsh.
His tone, so unexpectedly firm, made the Spaniard smile. Then Vivar glanced out of the window again. “We leave in an hour, Lieutenant. Tonight we cross the high road, and that must be done in darkness.” He looked back at the Englishman. “Do you put yourself under my command?” And Sharpe, who really had no choices left, agreed.
What was so very galling to Sharpe was that his Riflemen immediately accepted Vivar’s leadership. That dusk, parading in the trampled snow in front of the tiny church, the greenjackets listened to the Spaniard’s explanation. It was foolish, Vivar said, to try to go north, for the enemy was marching to secure the coastal harbours. To attempt to rejoin the retreating British army was equally foolish, for it meant dogging the French footsteps and the enemy would simply turn and snap them up as prisoners. Their best course lay south, but first it would be necessary to march westwards. Sharpe watched the Riflemen’s faces and for a second he hated them as they nodded their willing comprehension.
So tonight, Vivar said, they must cross the road on which the main French army advanced. He doubted if the road was garrisoned, but the Riflemen must be ready for a brief fight. He knew they would fight well. Were they not the vaunted British greencoats? He was proud to fight beside them. Sharpe saw the Riflemen grin. He also saw how Vivar had the easy manner of a born officer and for a second Sharpe hated the Spaniard too.
Rifleman Harper was missing from the ranks. The Irishman was under arrest and, by Sharpe’s orders, his wrists were first bound together then tied by a length of rope to the tail of a mule which the Major had commandeered from one of the villagers. The mule was carrying a great square chest that was wrapped in oilcloth and guarded by four of Vivar’s Spaniards who also, by default, acted as guards over the prisoner.
“He’s an Irishman?” Vivar asked Sharpe.
“Yes.”
“I like the Irish. What will you do with him?”
“I don’t know.” Sharpe would have liked to have shot Harper there and then, but that would have turned the other Riflemen’s dislike into pure hatred. Besides, to circumvent the army’s careful disciplinary process and shoot him out of hand would have been to demonstrate a disdain of authority as great as that which had earned Harper punishment in the first place.
“Wouldn’t we march faster if he was untied?” Vivar asked.
“And encourage him to desert to the French?”
“The discipline of your men is your own affair,” Vivar said delicately, thus intimating that he thought Sharpe had mishandled the whole business.
Sharpe pretended to ignore his disapproval. He knew the Spaniard despised him, for so far Vivar had seen nothing but incompetence from Sharpe, and it was an incompetence made worse by comparison with his own easy authority. Vivar had not just rescued the British soldiers from their precarious refuge in the old farm, but from their officer as well, and every Rifleman in the makeshift Company knew it.
Sharpe stood alone as the troops formed into companies for the march. The Spaniards would lead, then would come the mule with its box-shaped burden, and the Riflemen would bring up the rear. Sharpe knew he should say something to his men, that he should encourage them or inspect their equipment, do anything which would assert his authority, but he could not face their mocking eyes and so he stayed apart from them.
Major Vivar, apparently oblivious to Sharpe’s misery, crossed to the village priest and knelt in the snow for a benediction. Afterwards he accepted a small object from the priest, but what it was Sharpe could not tell.
It was a bitter night. The thin snowfall had stopped at dusk and gradually the clouds cleared in the eastern sky to reveal a brightness of cold stars. A fitful wind whipped the fallen snow into airy and fantastic shapes that curled and glinted above the path on which the men trudged like doomed animals. Their faces were wrapped with rags against the pitiless cold and their packs chafed their shoulders raw, yet Major Vivar seemed imbued with an inexhaustible energy. He roamed up and down the column, encouraging men in Spanish and English, telling them they were the best soldiers in the world. His enthusiasm was infectious forcing a grudging admiration from Richard Sharpe who saw how the scarlet-uniformed cavalrymen almost worshipped their officer.
“They’re Galicians.” Vivar gestured at his Cazadores.
“Local men?” Sharpe asked.
“The best in Spain.” His pride was obvious. “They mock us in Madrid, Lieutenant. They say we Galicians are country fools, but I’d rather lead one country fool into battle than ten men from the city.”
“I come from a city.” Sharpe’s voice was surly.
Vivar laughed, but said nothing.
At midnight they crossed the road which led to the sea and saw evidence that the French had already passed. The road’s muddy surface had been ridged high by the guns, then frozen hard. On either verge white mounds showed where corpses had been left unburied. No enemy was in sight, no town or village lights showed in the valley, the soldiers were alone in an immensity of white cold.
An hour later they came to a river. Small bare oaks grew thick on its banks. Vivar scouted eastwards until he found a place where the freezing water ran shallow across gravel and between rocks that offered some kind of footing for the tired men but, before he would allow a single man to try the crossing, he took a small phial from his pouch. He uncorked it, then sprinkled some liquid into the river. “Safe now.”
“Safe?” Sharpe was intrigued.
“Holy water, Lieutenant. The priest in the village gave it to me.” Vivar seemed to think the explanation
