'Your men, Captain?
'Yes?
'They're ready.
He seemed a decent enough man, Sharpe thought, but whatever power and prowess he had once had seemed to have drained away under the twin blows of his wife's death and his daughter's love for the overpowering young El Catolico. Cesar Moreno was as grey as his future son-in-law's cloak: grey hair, grey moustache, and a personality that was a shadow of what he had once been. He gestured towards the street.
'I can come with you?
'Please.
It had taken a full day to clear up the village, to dig the graves, to wait while Private Rorden died, the agony unbearable, and now they walked to where he and the other dead of the Company would be buried, out in the fields. El Catolico walked with them, seemingly with inexhaustible politeness, but Sharpe sensed that Moreno was wary of his young colleague. The old man looked at the Rifleman.
'My children, Captain?
Sharpe had been thanked a dozen times, more, but Moreno explained again.
'Ramon was ill. Nothing serious, but he could not travel. That was why Teresa was here, to look after him.
'The French surprised you?
El Catolico interrupted. 'They did. They were better than we thought. We knew they would search the hills, but in such strength? Massena is worried."
'Worried?
The grey-cloaked man nodded. 'His supplies, Captain, all travel on roads to the south. Can you imagine what we will do to them? We ride again tomorrow, to ambush his ammunition, to try to save Almeida. It was a shrewd thrust. El Catolico would risk his men and his life to save Almeida when the British had done nothing to rescue the Spanish garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo. He turned his most charming smile on Sharpe. 'Perhaps you will come? We could do with those rifles of yours.
Sharpe smiled back. 'We must rejoin our army. Remember? We might miss the boat.
El Catolico raised an eyebrow. 'And empty-handed. How sad.
The guerrilla band watched them pass in silence. Sharpe had been impressed by them, by their weaponry, and by the discipline El Catolico imposed. Each man, and many of the women, had a musket and bayonet, and pistols were thrust into their belts alongside knives and the long Spanish swords. Sharpe admired the horses, the saddlery, and turned to El Catolico.
'It must be expensive.
The Spaniard smiled. It was as easy as parrying one of Sharpe's clumsier lunges. 'They ride for hatred, Captain, of the French. Our people support us.
And the British give you guns, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing. Moreno led them past the castillo, out into the field.
'I'm sorry, Captain, that we cannot bury your man in our graveyard.
Sharpe shrugged. The British could fight for Spain, but their dead could not be put in a Spanish cemetery in case the Protestant soul would drag all the others down to hell. He stood in front of the Company, looked at Kearsey, who stood by the graves in his self-appointed role of chaplain, and nodded to Harper.
'Hats off!
The words rang thin in the vastness of the valley. Kearsey was reading from his Bible, though he knew the words by heart, and El Catolico, his face full of compassion, nodded as he listened. 'Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down. And where's the gold? Sharpe wondered. Was it likely that the French, having killed the old and young, smashed the crucifix, smeared excreta on the walls of the hermitage, would carefully replace the stone lid of the family tomb? High over the valley an exaltation of larks tumbled in their song flight, and Sharpe looked at Harper. The Sergeant was looking up, at his beloved birds, but as Sharpe watched him the Irishman glanced at his Captain and away. His face had been impassive, unreadable, and Sharpe wondered what he had found. He had asked him to look round the village, explaining nothing but knowing that the Sergeant would understand.
'Amen! The burial service was over and Kearsey glared at the Company. 'The salute, Captain!
'Sergeant!
'Company! The words rang out confidently, discipline in chaos, the muskets rising together, the faces of the men anonymous in the ritual. 'Fire!
The volley startled the larks, drifted white smoke over the graves, and the decencies had been done. Sharpe would have buried the men without ceremony, but Kearsey had insisted, and Sharpe acknowledged that the Major had been right. The drill, the old pattern of command and obey, had reassured the men, and Sharpe had heard them talking, quietly and contentedly, about marching back to the British lines. The trip across the two rivers, out into enemy country, was being called a 'wild-chicken chase', diverting and dangerous but not part of the real war. They were missing the Battalion, the regular rations, the security of a dozen other battalions on the march, and the thought of gold that had once excited them was now seen in perspective, as another soldier's dream, like finding an unlooted wine shop full of pliant women.
Kearsey marched across to stand beside Sharpe. He faced the Company, the Bible still clasped in his hand. 'You've done well. Very well. Difficult countryside and a long way from home. Well done. They stared back at him with the blank look soldiers keep for encouraging talks from unpopular officers. 'I'm sorry that you must go back empty-handed, but your efforts have not been in vain. We have shown, together, that we do care about the Spanish people, about their future, and your enthusiasm, your struggle, will not be forgotten.
El Catolico clapped, beamed at the Company, smiled at Kearsey. Sharpe's Company stared at the two men as if wondering what new indignity would be heaped on them, and Sharpe suppressed a smile at the thought of the Spanish people remembering the enthusiasm and struggle of Private Batten.
Kearsey flicked at his moustache. 'You will march tomorrow, back to Portugal, and El Catolico, here, will provide an escort.
Sharpe kept his face straight, hiding his fury. Kearsey had told him none of this.
The Major went on. 'I'm staying, to continue the fight, and I hope we will meet again. If he had expected a cheer he was disappointed.
Then, as El Catolico had visited the burial of the British dead, it was the officers' turn to stand in the walled graveyard as the dead villagers were put into a common grave. El Catolico had a tame priest, a moth-eaten little man, who rushed through the service as Sharpe, Knowles, and Harper stood awkwardly by the high wall. The French had been here, too, as disturbed graves and burst-open sepulchres showed. The dead had been reburied, the damage patched up, but Sharpe wondered yet again at the savagery of such a war.
He looked at Teresa, dressed in black, and she gave him one of her unconcerned stares, as if she had never seen him before, and he told himself that there was already enough trouble looming on the horizon without planning to pursue El Catolico's woman. The Spanish officer, his sword still tucked under his arm, caught the glance Teresa gave Sharpe and he smiled slightly, or at least twitched the corners of his mouth, as if he recognized Sharpe's desire and pitied him for wanting something as unattainable as Teresa. Sharpe remembered the golden body running up the rocks, the shadows on the skin, and he knew he would as soon give up his search for the gold as give up his desire for the girl.
Harper crossed himself, the hats went on, and people stirred in the graveyard. Ramon limped over to Sharpe and smiled.
'You go tomorrow?
'Yes.
'I am sad. He was genuine, the one friendly face in Casatejada. He pointed to Sharpe's rifle. 'I like it.
Sharpe grinned, gave him the rifle to handle. 'Come with us; you could become a Rifleman. There was a laugh and El Catolico stood there, Kearsey loyally shadowing the tall man, and he watched as Ramon felt with his little finger, poking from the bandage, the seven rifled grooves that spun the ball and made the weapon so accurate.
El Catolico cleared his throat. 'A sad day, Captain.
'Yes, sir. Surely he had not come to tell Sharpe it had been a sad day.
El Catolico looked round the graveyard with an imperious eye. 'Too many dead. Too many graves. Too many new graves.
Sharpe followed his eyes round the small graveyard. There was something strange here, something out of place, but it could have been his reaction to the burials, to the French damage in the graveyard. One wall, beside the hermitage, was made of niches, each sized to receive a coffin, and the French had torn off the sealed doors and spilt the rotting contents to the ground. Had the French heard of the gold, Sharpe wondered, or did they treat all cemeteries this way? To defile the dead was a taunt almost as callous as man could devise, but Sharpe guessed it was commonplace in the war between Partisans and French.