He used the fingers of his left hand to undo the bandage on his right. It came stickily away, the last tug hurting like fire and ripping the crust from the wound. He hissed with the sudden pain and thrust his hand into the water.
He flexed his fingers. He watched the blood dilute and go, wispy red, downstream. He spread his fingers wide, let the water flow into the cut, then took off the bandage that covered the wound made by the knife. The cut was on the ball of his left hand. It too bled into the water. He left his hands in the stream till they were numb.
He unwrapped the bandage from his head and dipped his skull into the water, holding his breath to let the stream flow about his hair. He drank. He took his head out, flicked the wet hair back with a jerk, and saw the horsemen.
He stayed still. He was on all fours. The horsemen were on the Great Road, hunched beneath their cloaks against the rain. They were Partisans and they rode to battle. Sharpe could see corks stuck in their musket muzzles, see the rags wrapped about the locks, see the sabres protruding from the wet cloaks.
He could have called out, he could have shouted for help and asked for a horse, but he did not. The men were fifty yards away, visible through the twisting trunks of the stunted apple trees, and Sharpe had seen their leader. He had seen the black beard that grew up to the high cheekbones, the small eyes, the broad blade of the poleaxe on the man’s shoulder. It was El Matarife. Sharpe stayed rock still as they passed, then settled back on his haunches.
El Matarife was following the French, hoping to be present when the armies met, and El Matarife was now between Sharpe and his goal.
He stayed by the stream and the rain fell on him as he thought what to do. He could only press on, he decided, and when he had waited long enough for the Partisans to be well out of sight, he stood, groaned with pain, and went back to the muddy road.
He walked. He seemed alone on the road. The fields either side still showed the damage caused by the trampling French army. Sharpe walked on the crushed crops because they gave firmer footing than the slick, muddy road.
He went through small villages, always checking first that no horsemen lingered at a wine house. By dusk he was in a wide land, no houses or horsemen in sight, with the road stretching damp before him towards the darkening east. The rain blocked his view of the hills that he knew should be on the horizon.
He was looking for shelter, hoping for a farm or at the least, a bush to keep the worst of the rain from him. There was nothing. He walked on, trying to force his pace to the fast Rifleman’s march, persuading himself that by ignoring the pain it would go away. His feet squelched in his boots and rain trickled into his eyes.
He heard a horse and turned to see a single horseman a hundred yards behind him. He cursed himself for not looking before, though there would have been nowhere to hide in this bare land even with ten minutes more warning. It was possible, he knew, that the man was simply a farmer on his way home, but the horse was bigger and stronger than a farmer’s mount. Sharpe suspected it was one of El Matarife’s men, left behind for some reason on the road.
Sharpe gripped his sword-handle. His right hand was still stiff because of the gouging of the brass telescope tube. He saw the horseman spur into a trot, then the man waved, and suddenly Sharpe was laughing and stumbling back down the road. `Angel! Angel!’
The boy was laughing. He jumped from Carbine’s back and put his arms round Sharpe. `Major!’ He was slapping Sharpe’s back. `You’re here!’
`Where did you come from?’
`Your face!’ Angel took off his cloak and insisted on putting it round Sharpe’s shoulders.
`How the hell did you find me?’ Sharpe took the proffered flask of wine and tipped it to his lips. It felt good.