Sharpe was not really listening. He was staring at the map, trying to discover the tortuous route he had followed with Vivar. He could not find the exact course of the journey, but one thing was very clear: in the last days, he and his Riflemen had passed at least two southern roads. Vivar had told Sharpe again and again that there was no southern road, that the Riflemen must go to Santiago de Compostela before they turned towards Lisbon. The Spaniard had lied.
George Parker mistook Sharpe’s grim expression for pessimism. “I do assure you the road exists.”
Sharpe was suddenly very aware of the girl’s gaze on him, and all his soldier’s protective instincts were warmed by that examination. “You say you travelled the road a month ago, sir?”
“Indeed.”
“And a coach can manage it in winter?”
“Indeed it can.”
“Do you intend to fritter away this whole night?” Mrs Parker stood threateningly. “Or do British soldiers no longer care for the fate of British womanhood?”
Sharpe folded the map and, without permission, thrust it into his pouch. “We can leave very soon, ma’am, but first I have business in the town.”
“Business!” Mrs Parker was clearly stoking the fires of her awesome wrath. “What possible business can a Lieutenant have, Mr Sharpe, that will take precedence over our safety?”
Sharpe pulled open the door. “I shall be a quarter of an hour at the most. You will do me the kindness, ma’am, of being ready in ten minutes. I have two wounded men who will need to travel inside your carriage.” He saw another protest boiling up inside her. “And my men’s packs will travel on the roof. Otherwise, ma’am, you can find your way south without me.” He offered a trace of a bow. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Sharpe turned away before Mrs Parker could argue with him, and he could have sworn he heard an amused chuckle from the girl. God damn it! God damn it! God damn it! He had enough to worry about without that perennial soldier’s problem. He went to find Vivar.
“Good news!” Vivar greeted Sharpe the moment the Rifleman appeared in the alcalde’s house. “My reinforcements are a mere half-day away! Lieutenant Davila has found fresh horses and fresh men! Did I tell you about Davila?”
“You didn’t tell me about the road, did you?”
“Road?”
“You told me we had to go west before we could go south!”
Sharpe had not meant to speak with such anger, but he could not hide his bitterness. He and his men had crossed a cold country, clambering wet hills and struggling through icy streams, and all for nothing. They could have headed south days ago. By now they could be across the Portuguese border. Instead they were within a few hours’ march of the enemy. “The road!” He slammed George Parker’s map onto the table. “There’s a road, Vivar! A God-damned road! And you marched us past two other God-damned roads! And the God-damned French are just a day’s bloody march away. You bloody lied to me!”
“Lied to you?” Bias Vivar’s anger flared as fiercely as Sharpe’s. “I saved your miserable lives! You think your men would have lasted a week in Spain without me? If you’re not fighting amongst yourselves, you’re all getting drunk! I’ve brought a pack of useless drunkards across Spain and I get no thanks, none. I spit on your map!” Vivar seized the precious map and, instead of spitting on it, tore it into shreds which he tossed onto the fire.
The alcalde, together with a priest and half a dozen other elderly and serious men, watched the confrontation in perturbed silence.
“Damn you!” Sharpe had grabbed at the map a second too late.
“Damn me?” Vivar shouted. “I’m fighting for Spain, Lieutenant. I’m not running away like a frightened little boy. But that’s the British way, isn’t it? One setback and they run home to their mothers. Very well! Run away! But you won’t find a garrison at Lisbon, Lieutenant. They’ll have run away too!”
Sharpe ignored the insults to ask the question that boiled indignantly inside him. “Why did you bring us here at all, you bastard?”