Sharpe smiled back. ‘We must rejoin our army. Remember? We might miss the boat.’
El Catolico raised an eyebrow. ‘And empty-handed. How sad.’
The guerrilla band watched them pass in silence. Sharpe had been impressed by them, by their weaponry, and by the discipline El Catolico imposed. Each man, and many of the women, had a musket and bayonet, and pistols were thrust into their belts alongside knives and the long Spanish swords. Sharpe admired the horses, the saddlery, and turned to El Catolico.
‘It must be expensive.’
The Spaniard smiled. It was as easy as parrying one of Sharpe’s clumsier lunges. ‘They ride for hatred, Captain, of the French. Our people support us.’
And the British give you guns, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing. Moreno led them past the castillo, out into the field.
‘I’m sorry, Captain, that we cannot bury your man in our graveyard.’
Sharpe shrugged. The British could fight for Spain, but their dead could not be put in a Spanish cemetery in case the Protestant soul would drag all the others down to hell. He stood in front of the Company, looked at Kearsey, who stood by the graves in his self-appointed role of chaplain, and nodded to Harper.
‘Hats off!’
The words rang thin in the vastness of the valley. Kearsey was reading from his Bible, though he knew the words by heart, and El Catolico, his face full of compassion, nodded as he listened. ‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down.’ And where’s the gold? Sharpe wondered. Was it likely that the French, having killed the old and young, smashed the crucifix, smeared excreta on the walls of the hermitage, would carefully replace the stone lid of the family tomb? High over the valley an exaltation of larks tumbled in their song flight, and Sharpe looked at Harper. The Sergeant was looking up, at his beloved birds, but as Sharpe watched him the Irishman glanced at his Captain and away. His face had been impassive, unreadable, and Sharpe wondered what he had found. He had asked him to look round the village, explaining nothing but knowing that the Sergeant would understand.
‘Amen!’ The burial service was over and Kearsey glared at the Company. ‘The salute, Captain!’
‘Sergeant!’
‘Company!’ The words rang out confidently, discipline in chaos, the muskets rising together, the faces of the men anonymous in the ritual. ‘Fire!’
The volley startled the larks, drifted white smoke over the graves, and the decencies had been done. Sharpe would have buried the men without ceremony, but Kearsey had insisted, and Sharpe acknowledged that the Major had been right. The drill, the old pattern of command and obey, had reassured the men, and Sharpe had heard them talking, quietly and contentedly, about marching back to the British lines. The trip across the two rivers, out into enemy country, was being called a ‘wild-chicken chase’, diverting and dangerous but not part of the real war. They were missing the Battalion, the regular rations, the security of a dozen other battalions on the march, and the thought of gold that had once excited them was now seen in perspective, as another soldier’s dream, like finding an unlooted wine shop full of pliant women.
Kearsey marched across to stand beside Sharpe. He faced the Company, the Bible still clasped in his hand. ‘You’ve done well. Very well. Difficult countryside and a long way from home. Well done.’ They stared back at him with the blank look soldiers keep for encouraging talks from unpopular officers. ‘I’m sorry that you must go back empty-handed, but your efforts have not been in vain. We have shown, together, that we do care about the Spanish people, about their future, and your enthusiasm, your struggle, will not be forgotten.’
El Catolico clapped, beamed at the Company, smiled at Kearsey. Sharpe’s Company stared at the two men as if wondering what new indignity would be heaped on them, and Sharpe suppressed a smile at the thought of the Spanish people remembering the enthusiasm and struggle of Private Batten.
Kearsey flicked at his moustache. ‘You will march tomorrow, back to Portugal, and El Catolico, here, will provide an escort.’