Then the ribbon-merchant came.
The Reverend Sebastian Whistler was enumerating God’s blessings; fresh bread, mothers, newly brewed tea, and such like, when Sharpe saw the eyes of the Battalion look away from the preacher. He looked himself and saw, coming to the field where the church parade was tactfully held away from Spanish Catholic eyes, two Spanish officers and a Spanish priest.
The ribbon-merchant rode ahead of his two companions. He was a young man uniformed so splendidly, so gaudily, that he had earned the nickname given by the British troops to any fine dandy. The young man wore a uniform of pristine white, laced with gold, decorated with a blue silken sash on which shone a silver star. His coat was edged with scarlet, the same colour as his horse’s leather bridle. Hanging from his saddle was a scabbard decorated with precious stones.
The Battalion, ignoring the Reverend Sebastian Whistler’s injunctions that they should be content with their humble lot and not covet wealth that would only lead them into temptation, watched the superbly uniformed man ride behind the preacher and pause a few paces from Sharpe.
The other two Spaniards reined in fifty yards away. The priest, mounted on a big, fine bay, was dressed in black, a hat over his eyes. The other man, Sharpe saw, was a General, no less. He was a burly, tall Spaniard in gold laced finery who seemed to stare fixedly at the Rifle officer.
The young man in the gorgeous white uniform had a thin, proud face with eyes that looked disdainfully at the Englishman. He waited until the sermon was finished, until the RSM had brought the parade to attention and shouldered its muskets, then spoke in English. `You’re Sharpe?’
Sharpe replied in Spanish. `Who are you?’
`Are you Sharpe?’
Sharpe knew from the ribbon-merchant’s deliberate rudeness that his instinct had been right. He had sensed trouble, but now that it was here he did not fear it. The man spoke with scorn and hatred in his voice, but a man, unlike a formless dread, could be killed. Sharpe turned away from the Spaniard. `Regimental Sergeant Major!’
`Sir?’
`A general officer is present! General salute!’
`Sir!’ RSM MacLaird turned to the parade, filled his lungs, and his shout bellowed over the field. `Talion! General salute!’
Sharpe watched the muskets fall from the shoulders, check, slam over the bodies, then the right feet went back, the officers’ swords swept up, and he turned and smiled at the Spaniard. `Who are you?’
The Spanish General, Sharpe saw, returned the salute. MacLaird shouted the shoulder arms and turned back to Sharpe. `Dismiss, sir?’
`Dismiss the parade, Sergeant Major.’
The white uniformed Spaniard spurred his horse forward into Sharpe’s line of vision. `Are you Sharpe?’
Sharpe looked at him. The man’s English was good, but Sharpe chose to reply in Spanish. `I’m the man who’ll slit your throat if you don’t learn to be polite.’ He had spoken softly and he saw his words rewarded by a tiny flicker of fear in the man’s face. This officer was covering his nervousness with bravado.
The Spaniard straightened in his saddle. `My name is Miguel Mendora, Major Mendora.’
`My name is Sharpe.’
Mendora nodded. For a second or two he said nothing, then, with the speed of a scorpion striking, he lashed with his right hand to strike Sharpe a stinging blow about the face.
The blow did not land. Sharpe had fought in every gutter from London to Calcutta and he had seen the blow coming. He had seen it in Mendora’s eyes. He swayed back, letting the white-gloved hand go past. He saw the anger in the Spaniard, while inside himself he felt the icy calm that came to him in battle. He smiled. `I have known piglets with more manhood than you, Mendora.’
Mendora ignored the insult. He had done what he was ordered to do and survived. Now he looked to his right to see the dismissed soldiers straggling towards him. They had seen him try to strike their officer, and their mood was at once excited and belligerent. Mendora looked back to Sharpe. `That was from my master.’
`Who is?’
Mendora ignored the question. `You will write a letter of apology to him, a letter that he will use as he sees fit. After that, as you are no gentleman, you will resign your commission.’