Free Sharpe's Rifles by Bernard Cornwell

three, all of them large. One is an abandoned

castle, one is in the city of Orense, and one is in the country. They all belong to my brother,

but Tomas has never loved Galicia. He prefers to live where there are kings and courtiers so, on

his sufferance, I can call the houses mine.”
    “Lucky you,” Sharpe said sourly.
    “To live in a great house?” Vivar shook his head. “Your house may be more humble, Lieutenant,

but at least you can call it your own. Mine is in a country taken by the French.” He stared at

Rifleman Harper who, still tied to the mule’s tail, hunched in the wet snow. “Just as his is in a

country taken by the English.”
    The bitterness of the accusation surprised Sharpe who, beginning to admire the Spaniard, was

disconcerted to hear such sudden hostility. Perhaps Vivar himself thought he had spoken too

harshly, for he offered Sharpe a rueful shrug. “You have to understand that my wife’s mother was

Irish. Her family settled here to escape your persecution.”
    “Is 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 aputa.”
    “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