Free The Winemaker by Noah Gordon

shouldn’t reveal that you’re able to read and write, because surely then they will name you a clerk, and low rank clings to a clerk like stink to a swine. Let the army teach you to be a fighting soldier, for that is the way to advance, and tell them you can read and write only when that is an advantage. I think one day you could become an officer. Why not? After that, anything would be possible for you in life.”
    Sometimes Josep daydreamed, seeing himself in a formation of many men, wearing a sword, urging troopers to charge. He tried not to think of less pleasantpossibilities—such things as having to fight other human beings, hurting them, killing, perhaps receiving painful wounds or losing his own life.
    He couldn’t understand why Nivaldo called him Tigre. He was very much afraid of so many things.
    There was work to be done in the vineyard. All of the large vats had to be scrubbed, as well as assorted barrels, and a small section of stonework in the casa needed to be repaired. As usual, when a job involved either hard or unpleasant labor, Donat turned up missing.
    That evening he and his father sat with Nivaldo in the grocery.
    “He is here,” Nivaldo said. “The man.”
    Josep felt his eyes widen. “Where is he?”
    “He will be staying with the Calderons. Sleeping in that old shed of theirs.”
    “Since Nivaldo has had experience in the army,” Josep’s father said, “I asked him to speak to the man for us.”
    “We have already talked,” Nivaldo told Josep. “He is willing to allow you to try. He’ll meet with some local youths tomorrow morning, in a clearing in the forest behind the Calderon vineyard. At the time of the early Mass.”
    It was still dark the next morning when Josep reached the Calderon vineyard. He made his slow way through the rows to the end of the vines. He had not the slightest idea where to go from there, so he stood where the vines ended and the fringe of the forest began, and he waited.
    A voice came from the dark. “What is your name?”
    “Josep Alvarez.”
    The man appeared next to him. “Follow me.”
    He led Josep down a narrow path in the woods to a clearing.
    “You are the first to arrive. Now, go back to where I found you. You will guide the others in.”
    They began arriving at once:
    Enric Vinyes and Esteve Montroig, almost simultaneously.
    Manel Calderon stumbling from his house, rubbing his eyes.
    Xavier Miró, whose morning chorus of farting Josep heard before he saw him.
    Jordi Arnau, too sullen in his half-sleep even to offer a greeting.
    Clumsy Pere Mas, who tripped on a root as they entered the clearing.
    Guillem Parera, smart and quiet and watchful.
    Miquel Figueres, grinning nervously.
    The boys had known each other all their lives. They squatted in the clearing in the gray rising light and watched the man who sat calm and unsmiling on the ground, his back held straight. He was of medium height and dark-complexioned, perhaps a man of southern Spain, with a thin face, high cheekbones, and a hooked nose as challenging as a hawk’s. His black hair was cut short, and his spare body looked hard and strong. The youths were aware of cool, appraising eyes.
    After Lluis Julivert arrived—the ninth boy to join the group—the man rose. He had obviously known how many to expect. He walked to the center of the clearing, and Josepnow saw what he hadn’t observed while following him in the dark: he walked with a slight limp.
    “I am Sergeant Peña,” he said and turned as another youth entered the clearing. He was tall and skinny, with a bush of wiry black hair, and he carried a long musket.
    “What do you want?” the man named Peña asked quietly.
    His eyes stayed on the firearm.
    “Is this the group of hunters?” the thin youth asked, and some of the boys began to laugh, for they saw it was dim-witted Jaumet Ferrer.
    “How did you know to come here?”
    “I was setting out on my hunt when I met Lluis and asked where he was bound. He said he was going to