of you had the guts to help Harper.’
Williams did not like the charge of cowardice. ‘Harps insisted on doing it alone, sir. He said it should be a fair fight or none at all.’
Sharpe was too angry to be affected by this curious revelation of a mutineer’s honour. ‘You want me to weep for him?’ He knew he had handled these men wrongly, utterly wrongly, but he did not know how else he could have behaved. Perhaps Captain Murray had been right. Perhaps officers were born to it, perhaps you needed privileged birth to have Vivar’s easy authority, and Sharpe’s resentment made him snap at the greenjackets who shambled past him on the wet road. ‘Stop straggling! You’re bloody soldiers, not prinking choirboys. Pick your bloody feet up! Move it!’
They moved. One of the greenjackets muttered a word of command and the rest fell into step, shouldered arms, and began to march as only the Light Infantry could march. They were showing the Lieutenant that they were still the best. They were showing their derision for him by displaying their skill and Major Vivar’s good humour was restored by the arrogant demonstration. He watched the greenjackets scatter his own men aside, then called for them to slow down and resume their place at the rear of the column. He was still laughing when Sharpe caught up with him.
‘You sounded like a Sergeant, Lieutenant,’ Vivar said.
‘I was a Sergeant once. I was the best God-damned bloody Sergeant in the God-damned bloody army.’
The Spaniard was astonished. ‘You were a Sergeant?’
‘Do you think the son of a whore would be allowed to join as an officer? I was a Sergeant, and a private before that.’
Vivar stared at the Englishman as though he had suddenly sprouted horns. ‘I didn’t know your army promoted from the ranks?’ Whatever anger he had felt with Sharpe an hour or so before evaporated into a fascinated curiosity.
‘It’s rare. But men like me don’t become real officers, Major. It’s a reward, you see, for being a fool. For being stupidly brave. And then they make us into Drillmasters or Quartermasters. They think we can manage those tasks. We’re not given fighting commands.’ Sharpe’s bitterness was rank in the cold morning, and he supposed he was making the self-pitying confession because it explained his failures to this competent Spanish officer. ‘They think we all take to drink, and perhaps we do. Who wants to be an officer, anyway?’
But Vivar was not interested in Sharpe’s misery. ‘So you’ve seen much fighting?’
‘In India. And in Portugal last year.’
Vivar’s opinion of Sharpe was changing. Till now he had seen the Englishman as an ageing, unsuccessful Lieutenant who had failed to either buy or win promotion. Now he saw that Sharpe’s promotion had been extraordinary, far beyond the dreams of a common man. ‘Do you like battle?’
It seemed an odd question to Sharpe, but he answered it as best he could. ‘I have no other skill.’
‘Then I think you will make a good officer, Lieutenant. There’ll be much fighting before Napoleon is sent down to roast in hell.’
They climbed another mile, until the slope flattened out and the troops trudged between immense rocks that loomed above the road. Vivar, his friendliness restored, told Sharpe that a battle had been fought in this high place where the eagles nested. The Moors had used this same road and the Christian archers had ambushed them from the rocks on either side. ‘We drove them back and made the very road stink with their blood.’ Vivar stared at the towering bluffs as if the stone still echoed with the screams of dying pagans. ‘That must be nearly nine hundred years ago.’ He spoke as if it were yesterday, and he himself had carried a sword to the fight. ‘Each year the villagers celebrate a Mass to remember the event.’
‘There’s a village here?’
‘A mile beyond the gorge. We can rest there.’
Sharpe saw what a magnificent site the canyon made for an ambush. The Christian forces, hidden in the high rocks, would have had an eagle’s view of the road and the Moors, climbing to the gorge, would have been watched every step of the way to the killing arrows. ‘And how do you know the French aren’t waiting for us?’ Emboldened by Vivar’s renewed affability, he raised the question which had worried him earlier. ‘We’ve got no picquets.’
‘Because the French won’t have reached this far into Spain,’ Vivar said confidently, ‘and if they had, then the villagers would have sent warning down all the roads, and even if the warnings missed us, we’d smell the French horses.’ The French, always careless of their cavalry horses, drove them until their saddle and crupper sores could be smelt half a mile away. ‘One day,’ Vivar added cheerfully, ‘the French will flog their last horse to death and we’ll ride over that loathsome country.’ The thought gave him a renewed energy and he turned towards the marching men. ‘Not far before you can rest!’
At which point, from above the gorge where the Moors had been ambushed, and in front of Sharpe where the road led down towards the pilgrim way, the French opened fire.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sharpe saw Vivar dive to the right side of the road, and threw himself to the left. The big, unfamiliar sword at Sharpe’s hip clanged on a rock, then the rifle was at his shoulder and he tore away the scrap of rag that kept rain from the gunpowder in the rifle’s pan. A French bullet gouged wet snow two inches to his right, another slapped with a vicious crack into the stone face above him. A man screamed behind him.
Dragoons. God-damned bloody Dragoons. Green coats and pink facings. No horses. Dismounted Dragoons with short carbines. Sharpe, recovering from his astonishment at the ambush, tried to make sense of the chaos of fear and noise that had erupted in the winter’s cold. He saw puffs of grey smoke, dirty as the thawing snow, in an arc about his front. The French had thrown a low barricade of stones across the road about sixty paces from the canyon’s mouth. It was long range for the French carbines, but that did not matter. The dismounted Dragoons who lined the peaks of the immense and sheer cliffs either side of the gorge were the men doing the damage.
Sharpe rolled onto his back. A bullet cracked into the snow where his head had been a second before. He could see the Dragoons standing on the lips of the chasm, firing down into the deathtrap of the road where, nine hundred years before, the Moors had been slaughtered.
Vivar’s men had scattered. They crouched at the base of the rocks and fired upwards. Vivar was shouting at them, calling for them to form a line, to advance. He was planning to charge the men who barred the road. Instinctively Sharpe knew that the French had foreseen that move, which was why they had not made their barricade in the gorge, but beyond it. They wanted to lure the ambushed out into the plateau, and there could only be one reason for that. The French had cavalry waiting, cavalry with long straight swords that would butcher unprotected infantry.
Even as that realization struck him, Sharpe also realized that he was acting like a Rifleman, not like an officer. He had taken shelter, he was looking for a target, and he did not know what his men were doing back in the gorge. Not that he had any desire to go back into that trap of rock and bullets, but such was an officer’s duty and so he picked himself up and ran.
He shouldered through the assembling Spaniards, saw that the mule lay kicking and bleeding, then was aware of a buzzing and cracking about his ears. The carbine bullets were spitting down into the gorge, ricocheting wildly, filling the air with a tangle of death. He saw a greenjacket lying on his belly. Blood had spewed from the man’s mouth to stain a square yard of melting snow. A rifle cracked to Sharpe’s left, then one to his right. The greenjackets had taken what cover they could and were trying to kill the Frenchmen above. It occurred to him that the French should have put more men on the heights, that the volume of their fire was too small to overwhelm the road. The thought was so surprising that he stood quite still and gaped at the high skyline.
He was right.