Sharpe’s Rifles. Bernard Cornwell
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that how you learned English?’
‘That, and from good tutors.’ Vivar drew on the cigar. A slip of snow, loosened by the fire in the cave, slid from the lip of rock. ‘My father believed that we should speak the language of the enemy.’ He spoke with a wry amusement. ‘It seems strange that you and I should now be fighting on the same side, does it not? I was raised to believe that the English are heathenish barbarians, enemies of God and the true faith, and now I must convince myself that you are our friends.’
‘At least we have the same enemies,’ Sharpe said.
‘Perhaps that is a more accurate description,’ he agreed.
The two officers sat in an awkward silence. The smoke from Vivar’s cigar whirled above the snow to disappear in the misting dawn. Sharpe, feeling the silence hang heavy between them, asked if the Major’s wife was waiting in one of the three houses.
Vivar paused before answering, and when he did so his voice was as bleak as the country they watched. ‘My wife died seven years ago. I was on garrison duty in Florida, and the yellow fever took her.’
Like most men to whom such a revelation is vouchsafed, Sharpe had not the first idea how to respond. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said clumsily.
‘She died,’ Vivar went on relentlessly, ‘as did both of my small children. I had hoped my son would come back here to kill his first bear, as I did, but God willed it otherwise.’ There was another silence, even more awkward than the first. ‘And you, Lieutenant? Are you married?’
‘I can’t afford to marry.’
‘Then find a wealthy woman,’ Vivar said with a grim earnestness.
‘No wealthy woman would have me,’ Sharpe said, then, seeing the puzzlement on the Spaniard’s face, he explained. ‘I wasn’t born to the right family, Major. My mother was a whore. What you call a puta.’
‘I know the word, Lieutenant.’ Vivar’s tone was level, but it could not disguise his distaste. ‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ he said finally.
Sharpe was angered by the imputation of dishonesty. ‘Why the hell should I care what you believe?’
‘I don’t suppose you should.’ Vivar carefully wrapped and stored the remains of his cigar, then leaned back against the chest. ‘You watch now, Lieutenant, and I’ll sleep for an hour.’ He tipped the hat over his eyes and Sharpe saw the bedraggled sprig of rosemary that was pinned to its crown. All Vivar’s men wore the rosemary, and Sharpe supposed it was some regimental tradition.
Below them the Irishman stirred. Sharpe hoped that the cold was slicing to the very marrow of Harper’s bones. He hoped the Irishman’s broken nose, hidden beneath a snow-whitened scarf, was hurting like the devil. Harper, as if sensing these malevolent thoughts, turned to stare at the officer and the look in his eyes, beneath their frosted brows, told Sharpe that so long as Harper lived, and so long as nights were dark, he should beware.
Two hours after dawn the sleet turned to a persistent rain that cut runnels in the snow, dripped from trees, and transformed the bright world into a grey and dirty place of cold misery. The strongbox was put back on the mule and the sentries posted on its flanks. Harper, who had finally been allowed into the cave’s shelter, was tied once more to the animal’s tail.
Their route lay downhill. They followed a streambed which tumbled to the bottom of a valley so huge that it dwarfed the hundred soldiers into insignificant dark scraps. In front of them was an even wider, deeper valley which lay athwart the first. It was an immense space of wind and sleet. ‘We cross that valley,’ Vivar explained, ‘climb those far hills, then we drop down to the pilgrim way. That will lead you west to the coast road.’
First, though, the two officers used their telescopes to search the wide valley. No horsemen stirred there, indeed no living thing broke the grey monotony of its landscape. ‘What’s the pilgrim way?’ Sharpe asked.
‘The road to Santiago de Compostela. You’ve heard of it?’
‘Never.’
Vivar was clearly annoyed by the Englishman’s ignorance. ‘You’ve heard of St James?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘He was an apostle, Lieutenant, and he is buried at Santiago de Compostela. Santiago is his name. He is Spain’s patron saint, and in the old days thousands upon thousands of Christians visited his shrine. Not just Spaniards, but the devout of all Christendom.’
‘In the old days?’ Sharpe asked.
‘A few still visit, but the world is not what it used to be. The devil stalks abroad, Lieutenant.’
They waded a stream and Sharpe noted how this time Vivar took no precautions against the water spirits. He asked why and the Spaniard explained that the xanes were only troublesome at night.
Sharpe scoffed at the assertion. ‘I’ve crossed a thousand streams at night and never been troubled.’
‘How would you know? Perhaps you’ve taken a thousand wrong turnings! You’re like a blind man describing colour!’
Sharpe heard the anger in the Spaniard’s voice, but he would not back down. ‘Perhaps you’re only troubled if you believe in the spirits. I don’t.’
Vivar spat left and right to ward off evil. ‘Do you know what Voltaire called the English?’
Sharpe had not even heard of Voltaire, but a man raised from the ranks to the officers’ mess becomes adept at hiding his ignorance. ‘I’m sure he admired us.’
Vivar sneered at his reply. ‘He said the English are a people without God. I think it is true. Do you believe in God, Lieutenant?’
Sharpe heard the intensity in the question, but could not match it with any responding interest. ‘I never think about it.’
‘You don’t think about it?’ Vivar was horrified.
Sharpe bridled. ‘Why the hell should I?’
‘Because without God there is nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing!’ The Spaniard’s sudden passion was furious. ‘Nothing!’ He shouted the word again, astonishing the tired men who twisted to see what had prompted such an outburst.
The two officers walked in embarrassed silence, breaking a virgin field of snow with their boots. The snow was pitted by rain and turning yellow where it thawed into ditches. A village lay two miles to their right, but Vivar was hurrying now and was unwilling to turn aside. They pushed through a brake of trees and Sharpe wondered why the Spaniard had not thought it necessary to throw picquets ahead of the marching men, but he assumed Vivar must be certain that no Frenchmen had yet penetrated this far from the main roads. He did not like to mention it, for the atmosphere was strained enough between them.
They crossed the wider valley and began to climb again. Vivar was using tracks he had known since childhood, tracks that climbed from the frozen fields to a treacherous mountain road which zigzagged perilously up the steep slope. They passed a wayside shrine where Vivar crossed himself. His men followed his example, as did the Irishmen among his greenjackets. There were fifteen of them; fifteen troublemakers who would hate Sharpe because of Rifleman Harper.
Sergeant Williams must have had much the same thoughts, for he caught up with Sharpe and, with a sheepish expression, fell into step with him. ‘It wasn’t Harps’s fault, sir.’
‘What wasn’t?’
‘What happened yesterday, sir.’
Sharpe knew the Sergeant was trying to make peace, but his embarrassment at his loss of dignity made his response harsh. ‘You mean you were all agreed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You all agreed to murder an officer?’
Williams flinched from the accusation. ‘It wasn’t like that, sir.’