`Cuatro.’
There was blood on the back of the Frenchman’s hand.
Sharpe looked at the guide beside him. `How long does it go on?’
`At least thirty cuts, Englishman. Sometimes a hundred. You don’t like it, eh?’ The man laughed.
Sharpe did not reply. Slowly, very slowly, so that no one could see what he did, he leaned forward and found with his right hand the lock of his rifle that was pushed into a saddle holster. Quietly and slowly he eased the cock back until he felt it seated at the full.
The Frenchman was on his feet now. He knew that he was being played with, that his opponent was a master of this kind of fighting, that the cuts would go on and on till his body was seething with pain and drenched with blood. He attacked the Slaughterman, slicing left and right, stabbing, going into a frenzy of despair, and El Matarife, who, despite his bulk, was as fast on his feet as any man Sharpe had seen, seemed to dance away from each attack. He was laughing, holding his own knife out of the way and then, when the Frenchman’s frenzy had died, the knife seared forward.
There was a cheer from the crowd. The knife, with horrid accuracy, had speared into one of the prisoner’s eyes. The man screamed, twisted, but the knife took his other eye just the same.
`Seis,’ El Matarife laughed.
`Bis!’ the men shouted.
The Spaniard beside Sharpe looked at the Rifleman. `Now the enjoyment begins, Englishman.’
But Sharpe had pulled the rifle from the holster, brought it to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet went between the blinded eyes, throwing the Frenchman back, dead onto the ground that was smeared with his blood.
Then there was silence.
Sharpe pushed the weapon back into the holster and urged Carbine forward. Angel was tense with fear. A dozen men about the fighting ground had cocked their muskets as the rifle smoke drifted over the dead body.
Sharpe reined in above the bearded angry man. He bowed in his saddle. `Now I shall be able to boast that I fought against the French alongside the great Matarife.’
El Matarife stared up at the Englishman who had spoiled his amusement. He knew why the Englishman had shot the man, because the Englishman was squeamish, but in doing it the Englishman had challenged El Matarife in front of his own men. Now, though, this Major Vaughn had offered a saving formula
El Matarife laughed. `You hear that?’ He had unlooped the chain and he gestured to his followers. `He says he has fought beside me, eh?’ His men laughed and El Matarife stared up at the Englishman. `So why are you here?’
`To bring you greetings from the Generalissimo.’
`He has heard of me?’ El Matarife had picked up a great poleaxe that he slung on his shoulder.
`Who has not heard of El Matarife?’
The tension had gone. Sharpe was aware that he had failed one test by refusing to watch a blinded man being tortured, but by killing the Frenchman he had proved himself worthy of some respect. Worthy, too, of drink. He was taken into the inn, wine was ordered, and the compliments were profuse and truthless that, of necessity, had to preface the business of the night.
They drank for two hours, the main room of the inn becoming smokier as the evening wore on. A meal was provided; a hunk of goat meat in a greasy gravy that Sharpe ate hungrily. It was at the end of the meal that El Matarife, wrapped in a cloak of wolf’s fur, asked again why the Englishman had come.
Sharpe spun a story, half based on truth, a story that told of the British army advancing on Burgos and pushing the French back on the Great Road. He had come, he said, because the Generalissimo wanted assurance that every Partisan would be on the road to harass the retreating French and help kill Frenchmen.
`Every Partisan, Englishman?’
`But especially El Matarife.’
El Matarife nodded, and there was nothing in what Sharpe had said to cause suspicion. His men were excited at the thought of a battle happening on the Great Road, of the plunder that would be taken, of the stragglers who could be picked off from the French march. The Slaughterman picked at his teeth with a sliver of wood. `When will the British come?’