Free Sharpe's Rifles by Bernard Cornwell Page A

nights were dark, he should beware.
    Two hours after dawn the sleet turned to a persistent rain that cut runnels in the snow,

dripped from trees, and trans-Go formed the bright world into a grey and dirty place of cold

misery. The strongbox was put back on the mule and the sentries posted on its flanks. Harper, who

had finally been allowed into the cave’s shelter, was tied once more to the animal’s

tail.
    Their route lay downhill. They followed a streambed which tumbled to the bottom of a valley so

huge that it dwarfed the hundred soldiers into insignificant dark scraps. In front of them was an

even wider, deeper valley which lay athwart the first. It was an immense space of wind and sleet.

“We cross that valley,” Vivar explained, “climb those far hills, then we drop down to the pilgrim

way. That will lead you west to the coast road.”
    First, though, the two officers used their telescopes to search the wide valley. No horsemen

stirred there, indeed no living thing broke the grey monotony of its landscape. “What’s the

pilgrim way?” Sharpe asked.
    “The road to Santiago de Compostela. You’ve heard of it?”
    “Never.”
    Vivar was clearly annoyed by the Englishman’s ignorance. “You’ve heard of St James?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “He was an apostle, Lieutenant, and he is buried at Santiago de Compostela. Santiago is his

name. He is Spain’s patron saint, and in the old days thousands upon thousands of Christians

visited his shrine. Not just Spaniards, but the devout of all Christendom.”
    “In the old days?” Sharpe asked.
    “A few still visit, but the world is not what it used to be. The devil stalks abroad,

Lieutenant.”
    They waded a stream and Sharpe noted how this time Vivar took no precautions against the water

spirits. He asked why and the Spaniard explained that the xanes were only troublesome at

night.
    Sharpe scoffed at the assertion. “I’ve crossed a thousand streams at night and never been

troubled.”
    “How would you know? Perhaps you’ve taken a thousand wrong turnings! You’re like a blind man

describing colour!”
    Sharpe heard the anger in the Spaniard’s voice, but he would not back down. “Perhaps you’re

only troubled if you believe in the spirits. I don’t.”
    Vivar spat left and right to ward off evil. “Do you know what Voltaire called the

English?”
    Sharpe had not even heard of Voltaire, but a man raised from the ranks to the officers’ mess

becomes adept at hiding his ignorance. “I’m sure he admired us.”
    Vivar sneered at his reply. “He said the English are a people without God. I think it is true.

Do you believe in God, Lieutenant?”
    Sharpe heard the intensity in the question, but could not match it with any responding

interest. “I never think about it.”
    “You don’t think about it?” Vivar was horrified.
    Sharpe bridled. “Why the hell should I?”
    “Because without God there is nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing!” The Spaniard’s sudden

passion was furious. “Nothing!” He shouted the word again, astonishing the tired men who twisted

to see what had prompted such an outburst.
    The two officers walked in embarrassed silence, breaking a virgin field of snow with their

boots. The snow was pitted by rain and turning yellow where it thawed into ditches. A village lay

two miles to their right, but Vivar was hurrying now and was unwilling to turn aside. They pushed

through a brake of trees and Sharpe wondered why the Spaniard had not thought it necessary to

throw picquets ahead of the marching men, but he assumed Vivar must be certain that no Frenchmen

had yet penetrated this far from the main roads. He did not like to mention it, for the

atmosphere was strained enough between them.
    They crossed the wider valley and began to climb again. Vivar was using tracks he had known

since childhood, tracks that climbed from the frozen fields to a treacherous mountain road which