“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.