“Defeated, sir?”
“Maybe.”
“But Boney left, sir?” The question was asked eagerly, as if the Emperor’s absence gave the fugitive Riflemen renewed hope.
“So we were told.” Napoleon was supposed to have left Spain already, but that was small reason for optimism. He had no need to stay. Everywhere his enemies were in retreat, and his Marshals, who had conquered Europe, could be trusted to finish Spain and Portugal.
Sharpe walked on past the burned-out houses. The sole of his right boot was hanging loose, and his trousers gaped at his thighs. At least he had repaired the broken scabbard, yet otherwise his uniform hung off him like a scarecrow’s rags. He went to the place where the road climbed up towards the canyon and where, beside a stone trough that the women who had once lived in this village had used as a washing place, a three-man picquet was posted. “See anything?”
“Not a thing, sir. Quiet as a dry alehouse.”
It was Harper who had answered and who now rose up, huge and formidable, from the shadow of the trough. The two men stared at each other, then, awkwardly, the Irishman pulled off his shako in the formal salute. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The Major talked to me, he did. We was frightened, you see, sir, and…“
“I said it doesn’t matter!”
Harper nodded. His broken nose was still swollen and would never again be straight. The big Irishman grinned. “If you’ll not mind me saying it, sir, but you’ve got a punch on you like a Ballinderry heifer.”
The comment might have been offered as a peace-token, but Sharpe’s memory of the fight in the ruined farmhouse was too fresh and too sore to accept it. “I’ve let you off a damned sharp hook, Rifleman Harper, but that does not give you the God-damned right to say whatever comes into your head. So put your bloody hat on, and go back to work.”
Sharpe turned and walked away, ready to whip round instantly if a single insolent sound was uttered, but Harper had the sense to keep silent. The wind made the only noise, a sighing sound as it passed through the trees before lifting the sparks of the big fire high into the night. Sharpe went close to the fire, letting its heat warm his chilled and wet uniform. He supposed he had blundered again, that he should have accepted the friendly words as the peace-offering they were undoubtedly meant to be, but his pride had stung him into savagery.
“You should get some sleep, sir.” It was Sergeant Williams, muffled against the cold, who appeared in the firelight. “I’ll look after the lads.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“No.” The word was said as agreement. “It’s thinking of them dead nippers what does it.”
“Yes.”
“Bastards,” Williams said. He held his hands towards the blaze. “There was one no older than my Mary.”
“How old is she?”
“Five, sir. Pretty wee thing, she is. Not like her father.”
Sharpe smiled. “Did your wife come out to Spain with you?”
“No, sir. Helps in her da’s bakery, she does. He wasn’t too pleased when she married a soldier, but they never are.”
That’s true.“
The Sergeant stretched. “But I’ll have some rare tales to tell when I get back to Spitalfields.” He was silent for a moment, perhaps thinking of home. “Funny, really.”
“What is?”
“Why these bastards came all this way to get supplies. Isn’t that what the Major said, sir?”
“Yes.” French forces were supposed to live off the land, stealing what they could to stay alive, but Sharpe, like
Williams, could not believe that the enemy horsemen had climbed to this remote village when other, more tempting places lay in the valleys. “They were the same men,” he said, “who attacked us on the road.” Which, in a way, had worked to Sharpe’s advantage, because the French Dragoons, unable to resist using the captured rifles, had proved inept with the unfamiliar weapons.
Sergeant Williams nodded. “Bugger in a red coat, right?”
“Yes. And a fellow in black.”
“It’s my belief they’re after that box the Spanish lads are carrying.” Williams lowered his voice as though one of the sleeping Cazadores might hear him. “It’s the sort of box you carry jewels in, isn’t it? Could be a King’s bloody ransom in that thing, sir.”