Sharpe’s Rifles: The French Invasion of Galicia, January 1809. Bernard Cornwell
always has been. In my grandfather’s time there was a murder there. Over a woman, naturally. And in my father’s time there was a suicide.’ He made the sign of the cross with the razor, then carefully shaved the angle of his jaw. ‘It’s haunted, Lieutenant. At night you can see ghosts there. It is a bad place. You are lucky I found you. You want to use this razor?’
‘I have my own.’
Vivar dried his blade and stowed it, with the mirror, in its leather case. Then he watched pensively as Sharpe spooned up the beans and pigs’ ears that the village priest had provided as supper. ‘Do you think,’ Vivar asked softly, ‘that, after your skirmish, the Dragoons followed your army?’
‘I didn’t see.’
‘Let us hope they did.’ Vivar ladled some of the mixture onto his own plate. ‘Perhaps they think I’ve joined the British retreat, yes?’
‘Perhaps.’ Sharpe wondered why Vivar was so interested in the French Dragoons who had been led by a red-coated chasseur and a black-coated civilian. He had eagerly questioned Sharpe about every detail of the fight by the bridge, but what most interested the Spaniard was which direction the enemy horsemen had taken after the fight, to which enquiry Sharpe could only offer his supposition that the Dragoons had ridden in pursuit of Sir John Moore’s army.
‘If you’re right, Lieutenant,’ Vivar raised a mug of wine in an ironic toast, ‘then that is the best news I’ve had in two weeks.’
‘Why were they pursuing you?’
‘They weren’t pursuing me,’ Vivar said. ‘They’re pursuing anyone in uniform, anyone. They just happened to catch my scent a few days ago. I want to be sure they’re not waiting in the next valley.’ Vivar explained to Sharpe that he had been travelling westwards but, forced into the highlands, he had lost all his horses and a good number of his men. He had been driven down to this small village by his desperate need for food and shelter.
That food had been willingly given. As the soldiers entered the small settlement Sharpe had noted how glad the villagers were to see Major Blas Vivar. Some of the men had even tried to kiss the Major’s hand, while the village priest, hurrying from his house, had ordered the women to heat up their ovens and uncover their winter stores. The soldiers, both Spanish and British, had been warmly welcomed. ‘My father,’ Vivar now explained to Sharpe, ‘was a lord in these mountains.’
‘Does that mean you’re a lord?’
‘I am the younger son. My brother is the Count now.’ Vivar crossed himself at this mention of his brother, a sign which Sharpe took to denote respect. ‘I am an hidalgo, of course,’ he went on, ‘so these people call me Don Blas.’
Sharpe shrugged. ‘Hidalgo?’
Vivar politely disguised his surprise at Sharpe’s ignorance. ‘An hidalgo, Lieutenant, is a man who can trace his blood back to the old Christians of Spain. Pure blood, you understand, without a taint of Moor or Jew in it. I am hidalgo.’ He said it with a simple pride which made the claim all the more impressive. ‘And your father? He is a lord, too?’
‘I don’t know who my father is, or was.’
‘You don’t know …’ Vivar’s initial reaction was curiosity, then the implication of bastardy made him drop the subject. It was clear that Sharpe had fallen even lower in the Spaniard’s opinion. The Major glanced out of the window, judging the day’s dying. ‘So what will you do now, Lieutenant?’
‘I’m going south. To Lisbon.’
‘To take a ship home?’
Sharpe ignored the hint of scorn which suggested he was running away from the fight. ‘To take a ship home,’ he confirmed.
‘You have a map?’
‘No.’
Vivar broke a piece of bread to mop up the gravy. ‘You will find there are no roads south in these mountains.’
‘None?’
‘None passable in winter, and certainly not in this winter. You will have to go east to Astorga, or west to the sea, before you will find a southern road open.’
‘The French are to the east?’
‘The French are everywhere.’ Vivar leaned back and stared at Sharpe. ‘I’m going west. Do you wish to join me?’
Sharpe knew that his chances of surviving in this strange land were slim. He had no map, spoke no Spanish, and had only the haziest notion of Spanish geography, yet at the same time Sharpe had no desire to ally himself with this aristocratic Spaniard who had witnessed his disgrace. There could be no more damning indictment of an officer’s failure of command than to be discovered brawling with one of his own men, and that sense of shame made him hesitate.
‘Or are you tempted to surrender?’ Vivar asked harshly.
‘Never.’ Sharpe’s answer was equally harsh.
His tone, so unexpectedly firm, made the Spaniard smile. Then Vivar glanced out of the window again. ‘We leave in an hour, Lieutenant. Tonight we cross the high road, and that must be done in darkness.’ He looked back at the Englishman. ‘Do you put yourself under my command?’
And Sharpe, who really had no choices left, agreed.
What was so very galling to Sharpe was that his Riflemen immediately accepted Vivar’s leadership. That dusk, parading in the trampled snow in front of the tiny church, the greenjackets listened to the Spaniard’s explanation. It was foolish, Vivar said, to try to go north, for the enemy was marching to secure the coastal harbours. To attempt to rejoin the retreating British army was equally foolish, for it meant dogging the French footsteps and the enemy would simply turn and snap them up as prisoners. Their best course lay south, but first it would be necessary to march westwards. Sharpe watched the Riflemen’s faces and for a second he hated them as they nodded their willing comprehension.
So tonight, Vivar said, they must cross the road on which the main French army advanced. He doubted if the road was garrisoned, but the Riflemen must be ready for a brief fight. He knew they would fight well. Were they not the vaunted British greencoats? He was proud to fight beside them. Sharpe saw the Riflemen grin. He also saw how Vivar had the easy manner of a born officer and for a second Sharpe hated the Spaniard too.
Rifleman Harper was missing from the ranks. The Irishman was under arrest and, by Sharpe’s orders, his wrists were first bound together then tied by a length of rope to the tail of a mule which the Major had commandeered from one of the villagers. The mule was carrying a great square chest that was wrapped in oilcloth and guarded by four of Vivar’s Spaniards who also, by default, acted as guards over the prisoner.
‘He’s an Irishman?’ Vivar asked Sharpe.
‘Yes.’
‘I like the Irish. What will you do with him?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sharpe would have liked to have shot Harper there and then, but that would have turned the other Riflemen’s dislike into pure hatred. Besides, to circumvent the army’s careful disciplinary process and shoot him out of hand would have been to demonstrate a disdain of authority as great as that which had earned Harper punishment in the first place.
‘Wouldn’t we march faster if he was untied?’ Vivar asked.
‘And encourage him to desert to the French?’
‘The discipline of your men is your own affair,’ Vivar said delicately, thus intimating that he thought Sharpe had mishandled the whole business.
Sharpe pretended to ignore his disapproval. He knew the Spaniard despised him, for so far Vivar had seen nothing but incompetence from Sharpe, and it was an incompetence made worse by comparison with his own easy authority. Vivar had not just rescued the British soldiers from their precarious refuge in the old farm, but from their officer as well, and every Rifleman in the makeshift Company knew it.
Sharpe