Vivar leaned over the table. “Because for once in your benighted life, Lieutenant, I thought an Englishman could do something for Spain. Something for God. Something useful! You’re a nation of pirates, of barbarians, of heathens! God alone knows why He put the English on this earth, but
I thought, just once, you might do something of use to His creation!“
“To protect your precious strongbox?” Sharpe gestured at the mysterious chest which stood against one wall. “You’d have lost the bloody thing without us, wouldn’t you? And why, Major? Because your precious Spanish armies are bloody useless, that’s why!”
“And your army’s broken, beaten, and gone. It’s less than useless. Now get out! Run away!”
“I hope the French get your bloody box.” Sharpe twisted away, then heard the rasp of a sword being drawn. He whipped back, scraping his own sword quickly from its mended scabbard as Vivar, blade already flickering in the candlelight, came towards him.
‘Bastaf It was the priest who threw himself between the two furious men. He pleaded with Vivar, who stared contemptuously at Sharpe. Understanding none of the conversation, the Rifleman held his ground with his sword still raised.
Vivar, reluctantly persuaded by the priest, dropped his blade. “You won’t last a day without me, Lieutenant, but get out!”
Sharpe spat on the floor to show his own contempt, then, his sword still drawn, went back into the night. The French had gained the north, and he must flee.
CHAPTER 7
Progress during the first day of the southward journey proved better than Sharpe had dared to hope. The Parkers’ carriage was cumbersome, but it had broad-rimmed wheels designed to cope with rutted and muddy roads and a patient Spanish coachman who skilfully handled its team of six big draught horses. Only twice in that first day was it necessary for the Riflemen to help pull the carriage out of difficulty; once on a steep incline and the second time when a wheel dropped into a roadside morass. Of Louisa Parker Sharpe saw nothing, for the girl’s aunt made certain that she stayed safely mewed up behind the coach’s drawn leather curtains.
The size and cost of the carriage impressed Sharpe. The Parkers’ self-imposed mission to enlighten the Papist heathens of Spain clearly lacked for little and George Parker, who seemed to prefer walking with Sharpe to the company of his wife, explained that it was the bequest of the Admiral’s prize money that had made such comforts possible.
“Was the Admiral a religious man, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“Alas, no. Far from it. But a wealthy one, Lieutenant. Nor do I see,” Parker was clearly piqued by Sharpe’s questions about the carriage’s cost, “why the Lord’s work should be constrained by a paucity of funds, do you?”
“Indeed not,” Sharpe cheerfully agreed. “But why Spain, sir? I’d have thought there were enough heathens in England without bothering the Spanish.”
“Because the Spanish labour under the darkness of Rome, Lieutenant. Do you have any idea what that means? The horror of it? I can tell you tales of priestly behaviour that would make you shudder! Do you know what superstitions these people harbour?”
“I’ve an idea, sir.” Sharpe turned to check on the carriage’s progress. His two wounded men were travelling on the roof, banished there on Mrs Parker’s insistence. “But the Dons don’t seem quite ready for Methodism, sir, if you’ll forgive me saying as much.”
“It is stony ground,” Parker agreed glumly.
“Mind you, I knew an officer in India who converted the heathen to Christianity,” Sharpe said helpfully, “and he was most successful.”
“Truly?” Mr Parker was pleased to hear of this evidence of God’s grace. “A godly man?”
“Mad as a hatter, sir. One of the Royal Irish, and they’ve all got wormscrew wits.”
“But you say he was successful?”
“He threatened to blow their heads off with a musket unless they were baptized, sir. That queue went twice round the armoury and clear back to the guardhouse.”
Mr Parker fell silent, plunged into a gloom that was matched only by the rebellious mood of the trudging Riflemen. Sharpe’s own cheerfulness was forced, for he was unwilling to admit that the small progress he had so far made in gaining the Riflemen’s confidence had been shattered by his decision to strike off south alone. He told himself that the men’s sullenness was due to lack of sleep, while in truth he knew it was because they had been forced to leave Major Vivar. They trusted Vivar, while his own authority over them was still on trial, and that knowledge fretted at Sharpe’s fragile dignity.