SHARPE’S DEVIL. Bernard Cornwell

“Shaving water, Sergeant. Very hot. I can’t bear shaving in tepid water.”

Dregara managed to suppress his resentment. “Si, senor. At ten.”

The troopers wrapped themselves in blankets and lay down under the meager shelter of the fort’s firestep. The sentries paced overhead. Somewhere beyond the wall, in the forests that lapped against the ridge, a beast screamed. Sharpe, sleepless on the floor of Morillo’s quarters, listened to Harper’s snores. If Dregara was supposed to kill them, Sharpe thought, how would Bautista react when he heard they still lived? And why would Bautista kill them? It made no sense. Maybe Dregara meant no harm, but why would Morillo be ordered back to Valdivia? The questions flickered through Sharpe’s mind, but no answers came. It made sense, he supposed, that Bautista should resent Dona Louisa’s interest in her husband’s fate, for that interest could bring the scrutiny of Madrid onto this far, doomed colony, but was killing Louisa’s emissaries the way to avert such interest?

He slept at last, but it seemed he was woken almost immediately. Captain Morillo was shaking his shoulder. “You should go now, before the others stir. My Sergeant will open the gate. Wake up, sir!”

Sharpe groaned, turned over, groaned again. There had been a time when he could live on no sleep, but he felt too old for such tricks now. There was a pain in his back, and an ache in his right leg where a bullet had once lodged. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Dregara’s bound to be awake when my men leave, and he mustn’t see you,” Morillo hissed.

Sharpe and Harper pulled on their boots, strapped on their sword belts, slung their weapons, then carried their saddles, bags and the strongbox to the fort’s gate where a Sergeant let them out into the chill night. A moment later Morillo, together with a much smaller man, brought their horses. The mule was left behind in the fort to lull any suspicions Dregara might have.

“This is Ferdinand,” Morillo introduced the small man. “He’s your guide. He’ll take you across the hills and cut a good ten hours off your journey. He’s a picunche. He speaks no Spanish, I’m afraid, nor any other Christian language, but he knows what to do.”

“Picunche?” Sharpe asked.

He was given his answer as a cloud slid from the moon to reveal that Ferdinand, named for the King of Spain, was an Indian. He was a small, thin man, with a flat mask of a face, dressed in a tatter of a cast-off cavalry uniform decorated with bright feathers stuck into its loops and buttonholes. He wore no shoes and carried no weapon.

“Picunche is a kind of tribal name,” Morillo explained as he helped saddle Harper’s horse. “We use the Indians as scouts and guides. There aren’t many savages who are friendly to us. Don Bias wanted to recruit more, but that idea died with him.”

“Doesn’t Ferdinand have a horse?” Harper asked.

Morillo laughed. “He’ll outrun your horses over a day’s marching. He’ll also give you a fighting chance to stay well ahead of Sergeant Dregara.” Morillo tightened a girth strap, then stepped away. “Ferdinand will find his way back to me when he’s finished with you. Good luck, Colonel.”

Sharpe thanked the cavalry Captain. “How can we repay you?”

“Mention my name to Vivar’s widow. Say I was a true man to her husband.” Morillo was hoping that Dona Louisa would still have some influence in Spain, influence that would help his career when he was posted home again.

“I shall tell her you deserve whatever is in her gift,” Sharpe promised, then he pulled himself into the saddle and took the great strongbox onto his lap. “Good luck, Captain.”

“God bless you, senor. Trust Ferdinand!”

The Indian reached up and took hold of both horses’ bridles. The moon was flying in and out of ragged clouds, offering a bare light to the dark slope down which Ferdinand led their horses to where the trees closed over their heads. The main road went eastward, detouring about the thickly wooded country into which Ferdinand unerringly led them just as a bugle called its reveille up in the Celestial Fort. Sharpe laughed, pulled his hat over his eyes to protect them from the twigs and followed a savage to the south.

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