“These orders,” Galiana said, taking a piece of paper from his uniform pocket and handing it to Sharpe to whom, surprisingly, the orders were addressed. The paper was a dance card and the words had been carelessly scrawled in pencil. Captain Sharpe and the men under his command were to post themselves at the Rio Sancti Petri until further orders or until the forces presently under the command of Lieutenant General Graham were safely returned to the Isla de León. Sharpe read the scrawled note a second time. “I’m not sure Brigadier Moon can give me orders,” he said.
“He did, though,” Captain Galiana said, “and I, of course, will come with you.”
Sharpe returned the dance card. He said nothing, just skimmed another stone that managed one bounce before vanishing. Grazing, it was called. A good artilleryman knew how to skip cannon balls along the ground to increase their effective range. The balls grazed, kicking up dust, coming flat and hard and bloody.
“It is a precaution,” Galiana said, folding the card.
“Against what?”
Galiana selected a stone, threw it fast and low, and watched as it skipped a dozen times. “General Zayas is at the bridge across the Sancti Petri,” he said, “with four battalions. He has orders to stop anyone from the city crossing the river.”
“You told me,” Sharpe said, “but why stop you?”
“Because there are folk in the city,” Galiana explained, “who are anfrancesado. You know what that is?”
“They’re on the French side.”
Galiana nodded. “And some, alas, are officers in the garrison. General Zayas has orders to stop such men offering their services to the enemy.”
“Let the buggers go,” Sharpe said. “Have fewer mouths to feed.”
“But he won’t stop British troops.”
“You told me that, too, and I said I’d help you. So why the hell do you need orders from bloody Moon?”
“In my army, Captain,” Galiana said, “a man cannot just take it upon himself to do whatever he wants. He requires orders. You now have orders. So, you can take me over the river and I shall find our army.”
“And you?” Sharpe asked. “Do you have orders?”
“Me?” Galiana seemed surprised at the question, then paused because one of the great French mortars had fired from the forts on the Trocadero. The sound came flat and dull across the bay and Sharpe waited to see where the shell would fall, but he heard no explosion. The missile must have plunged into the sea. “I have no orders,” Galiana admitted.
“Then why are you going?”
“Because the French have to be beaten,” Galiana said with a sudden vehemence. “Spain must free herself! We must fight! But I am like your brigadier, like the widow—I cannot join the dance. General Lapeña hated my father and he detests me and he does not want me to distinguish myself, so I am left behind. But I will not be left behind. I will fight for Spain.” The grandiosity of his last words were touched by passion.
Sharpe watched the cloud of smoke left by the mortar’s firing drift and dissipate across the distant marshes. He tried to imagine himself saying he would fight for Britain in that same heartfelt tone, and could not. He fought because it was all he was good for, and because he was good at it, and because he had a duty to his men. Then he thought of those riflemen. They would be unhappy at being ordered away from the taverns of San Fernando, and so they should be. But they would follow orders. “I”—he began and immediately fell silent.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Sharpe said. He had been about to say that he could not order his riflemen into a battle that was none of their business. Sharpe would fight if he saw Vandal, but that was personal, but his riflemen had no ax to grind and their battalion was miles away, and it was all too complicated to explain to Galiana. Besides, it was unlikely that Sharpe would travel to the army with Galiana. He might take the Spaniard across the river, but unless the allied army was within sight Sharpe would have to bring his men back. The Spaniard could ride across country to find Lapeña, but Sharpe and his men would not have the luxury of horses. “Did you tell Moon all that?” he asked. “About you wanting to fight?”
“I told him I wanted to join General Lapeña’s army and that if I traveled with British troops then Zayas would not stop me.”
“And he just wrote the orders?”
“He was reluctant to,” Galiana admitted, “but he wanted something from me, so he agreed to my request.”
“He wanted something from you,” Sharpe said, then smiled as he realized just what that something must have been. “So you introduced him to the widow?”
“Exactly.”
“And he’s a rich man,” Sharpe said, “very rich.” He skimmed another stone and thought that Caterina would skin the brigadier alive.
SIR THOMAS Graham discovered General Lapeña in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. The Spanish commander had taken a farmhouse for his headquarters and, because the winter’s day was sunny and because the house sheltered the yard from the north wind, Lapeña was taking lunch at a table outside. He shared the table with three of his aides and with the French captain who had been captured on the way to Vejer. The five men had been served dishes of bread and beans, cheese and dark ham, and had a stone jug of red wine. “Sir Thomas!” Lapeña seemed pleased to see him. “You will join us, perhaps?” He spoke in French. He knew Sir Thomas could speak Spanish, but he preferred to use French. It was, after all, the language with which European gentlemen communicated.
“Conil!” Sir Thomas was so angry that he did not bother to show courtesy. He slid from his saddle and tossed the reins to an orderly. “You want to march to Conil?” he said accusingly.
“Ah, Conil!” Lapeña clicked his fingers at a servant and indicated that he wanted another chair brought from the farmhouse. “I had a sergeant from Conil,” he said. “He used to talk of the sardine catch. Such bounty!”
“Why Conil? You’re hungry for sardines?”
Lapeña looked sadly at Sir Thomas. “You have not met Captain Brouard? He has, of course, given us his parole.” The captain, wearing his French blue and with a sword at his side, was a thin, tall man with an intelligent face. He had watery eyes, half hidden behind thick spectacles. He stood on being introduced and offered Sir Thomas a bow.
Sir Thomas ignored him. “What is the purpose,” he asked, resting his hands on the table so that he leaned toward Lapeña, “in marching on Conil?”
“Ah, the chicken!” Lapeña smiled as a woman brought a roasted chicken from the farmhouse and placed it on the table. “Garay, you will carve?”
“Allow me the honor, Excellency,” Brouard offered.
“The honor is all ours, Captain,” Lapeña said, and ceremoniously handed the Frenchman the carving knife and a long fork.
“We hired ships,” Sir Thomas growled, ignoring the chair that had been placed next to Lapeña’s place at the table, “and we waited for the fleet to assemble. We waited for the wind to be in our favor. We sailed south. We landed at Tarifa because that gave us the ability to reach the rear of the French positions. Now we march to Conil? For God’s sake, why did we bother with the fleet at all? Why didn’t we just cross the Rio Sancti Petri and march straight to Conil? It would have taken a short day and we wouldn’t have needed a single ship!”
Lapeña’s aides stared resentfully at Sir Thomas. Brouard pretended to ignore the conversation, concentrating instead on carving the fowl, which he did with an admirable dexterity. He had jointed the carcass and now cut perfect slice after perfect slice.
“Things change,” Lapeña said vaguely.
“What has changed?” Sir Thomas demanded.
Lapeña sighed. He hooked a finger at an aide who at last understood that his master wished to see a map. Dishes were put aside as the map was unfolded onto the table and Sir Thomas noted that the map was a good deal better than the ones the Spanish had supplied to him.