“Don’t think such a thing. I am flattered.” Louisa stared at the lights in the deep
valley.
“I can’t believe that we’re going to run away from Spain.” If that was Louisa’s objection to
accepting him, then Sharpe would scotch it, not because he knew that the Lisbon garrison would
stay in place, but because he could not accept that the British intervention had been defeated.
“We’re going to stay. The Lisbon garrison will be reinforced, and we’ll attack again!” He paused,
then plunged closer to the heart of the matter. “And there are officers’ wives with the army.
Some live in Lisbon, some stay a day or so behind the army, but it isn’t unusual.”
“Mr Sharpe.” Louisa laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. “Give me time. I know you’d tell me that
I should seize the moment, but I don’t know if that moment is now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing to regret.” She gathered her cloak about her. “Will you let me retire? I am
quite wearied by sewing.”
“Goodnight, miss.”
No man, Sharpe thought, felt as foolish as a man rejected, yet he persuaded himself that he
had not been rejected, rather that she had promised an answer after Santiago de Compostela was
taken. It was his impatience which demanded an answer sooner. It was an impatience that would
obsess him, and drive him onto a city from which he would return, triumphant or defeated, to
receive the answer he craved.
The next day was a Sunday. Mass was celebrated in the fort’s courtyard, and afterwards a group
of horsemen arrived from the north. They were fierce-looking men, festooned with weapons, who
treated Vivar with a wary courtesy. Later he told Sharpe that the men were rateros, highwaymen,
who for the moment had turned their violence against the common enemy.
The rateros brought news of a French messenger, captured with his escort four days before, who
had carried a coded despatch. The despatch was lost, but the gist of the message had been
extracted from the French officer before he died. The Emperor was impatient. Soult had waited too
long. Portugal must fall and the British, if they still lingered in Lisbon, must be expelled
before February was done. Marshal Ney was to stay in the north and clear away all hostile forces
from the mountains. So, even if Vivar waited till Soult was gone, there would still be French
troops in Santiago de Compostela.
But if Vivar attacked now, while Soult was still twelve leagues to the north, and while the
precious fodder was still stored in the city, then a double blow could be struck: the supplies
could be destroyed, and the gonfalon unfurled.
Vivar thanked the horsemen, then went to the fortress chapel where, for an hour, he prayed
alone.
When he emerged, he found Sharpe. “We march tomorrow.”
“Not today?” If haste was so desperately needed, why wait the extra twenty-four
hours?
But Vivar was adamant. “Tomorrow. We march tomorrow morning.”
The next dawn, before he had shaved, and before he had even swallowed a mug of the hot bitter
tea which the Riflemen loved so much, Sharpe discovered why Vivar had waited that extra day. The
Spaniard was trying to deceive the French with another false trail, to which end, the previous
night, he had sent Louisa from the fortress. Her room was empty, her bed lay cold, and she was
gone.
“
W
hy?” Sharpe’s question was both a challenge and a
protest.
“She wanted to help,” Vivar said blithely. “She was eager to help, and I saw no reason why she
should not. Besides, Miss Parker has eaten my food and drunk my wine for days, so why should she
not repay that hospitality?”
“I told her it was a nonsense! The French will see through her story in minutes!”
“You believe so?” Vivar was sitting close to a water-butt just inside the fort’s inner
gateway, where he was smearing footcloths with the pork fat that was issued to every soldier as a
specific against blisters. He broke off the distasteful task to stare indignantly at Sharpe. “Why
should the French think it strange that a young girl wishes to rejoin her family? I don’t find
such a thing strange. Nor, Lieutenant, would I have thought it necessary for me to have either
your approval or your opinion.”
Sharpe ignored the reproof. “You just sent her off into the night?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Two of my men are escorting Miss Parker as far as is possible, after
which she may walk the remaining distance to the city.” Vivar wrapped one of the greasy cloths
about his right foot, then turned with feigned astonishment as though he had just understood the
true cause of Sharpe’s displeasure. “You are in love with her!”
“No!” Sharpe protested.
“Then I cannot think why you should be perturbed. Indeed, you should be delighted. Miss Parker
will reluctantly inform the French that our attack had been abandoned.” Vivar pulled on his right
boot.
Sharpe gaped. “You told her the attack was cancelled?”
Vivar began wrapping his left foot. “I also told her that we will capture the town of Padron
at dawn tomorrow. The town lies some fifteen miles or so south of Santiago de
Compostela.”
“They’ll never believe that!”
“On the contrary, Lieutenant, they will find it a most likely tale, far more likely than a
hare-brained attack on Santiago de Compostela! Indeed, they will be amused that I ever
contemplated such an attack, but my brother will entirely understand why I have chosen the lesser
town of Padron. It is where Santiago’s funeral boat landed on the coast of Spain, and is thus
accounted as a holy place. Not, I agree, as sanctified as Santiago’s burial site, but Louisa’s
other indiscretions will explain why Padron will suffice.”
“What other indiscretions?”
“She will tell them that the gonfalon is so far destroyed by time and corruption that it
cannot be unfurled. So, instead my plan is to crumble its tattered shreds into a dust that I
shall scatter on the sea. That way, though I cannot perform the miracle I wish, I can at least
ensure that the gonfalon will never pass into the hands of Spain’s enemies. In brief, Lieutenant,
Miss Parker will tell Colonel de I’Eclin that I am abandoning the attack because I fear the
strength of their defences. You should appreciate the force of that argument, should you not? You
keep telling me how fearsome our enemy is.” Vivar pulled on his left boot and stood. “My hope is
that Colonel de I’Eclin will leave the city tonight to ambush our approach march on
Padron.”
At least Vivar’s false trail had a plausibility that Louisa’s enthusiastic ideas had lacked,
but even so Sharpe was astonished that the Spaniard would risk the girl’s life. He broke the skim
of ice on the water-butt and took out his razor which he laid on the butt’s rim. “The French have
more sense than to leave the city at night.”
“If they think they have a chance of ambushing our march, and of capturing the gonfalon? I
think they might. Louisa will also inform them that you and I have quarrelled, and that you have
taken your Riflemen south towards Lisbon.
She will say it was your ungentlemanly attentions which drove her to seek her family’s
protection. Thus de l’Eclin will not fear your Riflemen, and I think he might be enticed out of
his lair. And if they do not march? What have we lost?“
“We may have lost Louisa!” Sharpe said a little too forcefully. “She could be
killed!”
“True, but many women are dying for Spain, so why should Miss Parker not die for Britain?”
Vivar took off his shirt and brought out his razor and mirror-fragment. “I think you are fond of
her,” he said accusingly.
“Not especially,” Sharpe tried to sound offhand, “but I feel responsible.”
“That is a most dangerous thing to feel for a young woman; responsibility can lead to
affection, and affection thus born, I think, is not so lasting as…“ Vivar’s voice faded away.
Sharpe had pulled his ragged and torn shirt over his head, and the Spaniard stared with horror at
his naked back. ”Lieutenant?“
“I was flogged.” Sharpe, so used to the terrible scars, was always surprised when other people
found them remarkable. “It was in India.”
“What had you done?”
“Nothing. A Sergeant didn’t like me, that’s all. The bastard lied.” Sharpe plunged his head
under the frigid water, then came up gasping and dripping. He unfolded his razor and began
scraping at his chin’s dark stubble. “It was a very long time ago.”
Vivar shuddered, then, sensing that Sharpe would not talk further about it, dipped his own
razor in the water. “Myself, I do not think the French will kill Louisa.”
Sharpe grunted, as if to intimate that he did not really care one way or the other.
“The French, I think,” Vivar went on, “do not hate the English as much as they hate the
Spanish. Besides, Louisa is a girl of great beauty, and such girls provoke men’s feelings of
responsibility.” Vivar waved his razor towards Sharpe as proof of the assertion. “She also has an
air of innocence which, I think, will both protect her and make de l’Eclin believe her.” He
paused to scrape at the angle of his jaw. “I told her she should weep. Men always believe weeping
women.”
“That could make him take her damned head off,” Sharpe said harshly.
“I would be most sorry if they did,” Vivar said slowly. “Most sorry.”
“Would you?” Sharpe, for the first time, heard the betrayal of genuine emotion in the
Spaniard’s voice. He stared at Vivar, and repeated the question accusingly, “Would
you?”
“Why ever should I not? Of course, I hardly know her, but she seems a most admirable young
lady.” Vivar paused, evidently contemplating Louisa’s virtues, then shrugged. “It’s a pity she’s
a heretic, but better to be a Methodist than an unbeliever like yourself. At least she’s halfway
to heaven.”
Sharpe felt a pang of jealousy. It was evident that Bias Vivar had taken more of an interest
in Louisa than he had either detected or believed possible.
“Not that it matters,” Vivar said casually. “I hope she lives. But if she dies? Then I shall
pray for her soul.”
Sharpe shuddered in the cold, wondering how many souls would need prayers spoken before the
next two days were done.
Vivar’s expedition trudged through a thin cold rain which pecked at the day’s dying.
They followed mountain paths that twisted over barren spurs and led through wild valleys. Once
they passed a village sacked by the French. Not a building remained intact, not a person was in
sight, not an animal still lived. Nor did one of Vivar’s men speak as they passed the charred
beams from which the rain dripped slow.
They had started well before noon, for there were many miles to travel before dawn. Vivar’s
Cazadores led. One squadron of the cavalry was mounted to patrol the land ahead of the march.
Behind those picquets came the dis-mounted Cazadores, leading their horses. Behind them were the
volunteers. The two priests rode just in front of Sharpe’s Riflemen who formed the rearguard. The
strongbox travelled with the two priests. The precious cargo had been strapped to a macho, a mule
whose vocal cords had been slit so it could not bray to warn the enemy.
Sergeant Patrick Harper was pleased to be marching to battle. The white silk stripes were
bright on his ragged sleeve. “The lads are just fine, sir. My boys are delighted, so they
are.”
“They’re all your boys,” Sharpe said, by which he meant that Harper’s especial responsibility
extended beyond the group of Irish soldiers.
Harper nodded. “So they are, sir, and so they are.” He gave a quick glance at the marching
greenjackets and was evidently satisfied that they needed no injunction to move faster. “They’ll
be glad to be having a crack at the bastards, so they will.”
“Some of them must be worried?” Sharpe asked, hoping to draw Harper out about a rumoured
incident earlier in the week, but the Sergeant blithely disregarded the hint.
“You don’t fight the bloody crapauds without being worried, sir, but think how worried the
French would be if they knew the Rifles were coming. And Irish Rifles, too!”
Sharpe decided to question him directly. “What happened between you and Gataker?”
Harper shot him a look of perfect innocence. “Nothing at all, sir.”
Sharpe did not press the matter. He had heard that Gataker, a fly and shifty man, had opposed
their involvement in Vivar’s scheme. The greenjackets had no business fighting private battles,
he had claimed, especially ones likely to leave most of them dead or maimed. The pessimism could
have spread swiftly, but Harper had put a ruthless stop to it and Gataker’s black eye had been
explained as a tumble down the gatehouse stairs. “Terrible dark steps there,” was all Harper
would say on the matter.
It was for just such swift resolutions of problems that
Sharpe had wanted the Irishman’s promotion, and it had proved an instant success. Harper had
assumed the authority easily, and if that authority stemmed more from his strength and
personality than from the silk stripes on his right sleeve, then so much the better. Captain
Murray’s dying words had been proved right; with Harper on his side, Sharpe’s problems were
halved.
The Riflemen marched into the night. It became dark as Hades and, though an occasional granite
outcrop loomed blacker than the surrounding darkness, it seemed to Sharpe that they moved blind
through a featureless landscape.
Yet this was the country of Bias Vivar’s volunteers. There were herdsmen among them who knew
these hills as well as Sharpe had known his childhood alleys about St Giles in London. These men
were now scattered throughout the column as guides, their services abetted by the cigars which
Vivar had distributed amongst his small force. He was certain no Frenchmen would be this deep in
the hills to smell the tobacco, and the small glowing lights acted as tiny beacons to keep the
marching men closed up.
Yet, despite the guides and the cigars, their pace slowed in the night and became even slower
as the rain made the paths slippery. The frequent streams were swollen, and Vivar insisted that
each one was sprinkled with holy water before the vanguard splashed through. The men were tired
and hungry, and in the darkness their fears became treacherous; the fears of men who go to an
unequal battle and in whom apprehension festers until it becomes close to terror.