thawing icicles that hung from rocks. A wounded horse
whinnied. The filthy smoke of gunfire drifted in the gorge. A Rifleman vomited blood, then
sighed. Another man wept. The wounded horse was silenced by a rifle shot, and the sound slammed
in brutal echoes from the rock walls.
Footsteps sounded behind Sharpe. It was Bias Vivar who walked past him, past the greenjackets,
and knelt by the mule. He carefully unstrapped the strongbox from the dead beast’s harness. Then,
standing, he looked up at Harper. “You saved it, my friend.”
“I did, sir?” It was clear the Irishman had no idea what value Vivar placed on the
chest.
The Spaniard reached up to the huge man and kissed both his cheeks. One of Sharpe’s Riflemen
sniggered, then was shamed to silence by the moment’s solemnity.
“You saved it,” Vivar said again, and there were tears in his eyes. Then he lifted the
strongbox and carried it back up the canyon.
Sharpe followed. His men, silent and cold, came down to the roadway. There was no exultation
in victory for, unnoticed until this moment, and far beyond the abandoned French barricade, a
smear of grey smoke rose into the winter air. It rose from the village, and the smoke was grey as
a pauper’s shroud and carried the stench of death and fire.
And from it, like dark snow, ashes fell on a bloodied land.
CHAPTER 5
T he villagers could have sent no warning of the
French presence for there was no village any more, nor villagers.
The fires must have been set just as the ambush was sprung, for the houses still burned
fiercely. The corpses, though, had frozen hard. The French had killed the people, then sheltered
in their houses as they waited for Vivar’s small column to reach the high canyon.
It had never been much of a village; a poor place of goats and sheep, and of people who made a
living from high pastures. The houses lay in a hollow sheltered by dwarf oaks and chestnut trees.
Potatoes had grown in a few small fields that were edged with wild mulberries and furze. The
houses had been mere thatched huts with dungheaps at their doors. They had been shared by men and
animals alike, just as the houses Sharpe’s own Riflemen had known in England had been, and that
nostalgic resemblance added to the poignancy of the day.
If anything could add to the poignancy of children and babies killed, of women raped, or of
men crucified. Sergeant Williams, who had known his share of horror in a bad world, vomited. One
of the Spanish infantrymen turned in silence on a French captive and, before Vivar could utter a
word, disembowelled the man. Only then did the Cazador utter a howl of hatred.
Vivar ignored the killing and the howl. Instead, with an odd formality, he marched to Sharpe.
“Would you…“ he began, but found it hard to continue. The stench of those bodies which burned
inside the houses was thick. He swallowed. ”Would you place picquets, Lieutenant?“
“Yes, sir.”
That, at least, took the Riflemen away from the bodies of slaughtered infants and the burning
hovels. All that was left of the village’s buildings were the church walls; walls of stone which
could not be burned, though the church’s timber roof still flamed high to spew smoke above the
valley’s rim where, among the trees, Sharpe placed his sentries. The French, if they still
lingered, were invisible.
“Why did they do it, sir?” Dodd, a quiet man, appealed to Sharpe.
Sharpe could offer no answer.
Gataker, as fly a rogue as any in the army, stared empty-eyed at the landscape. Isaiah Tongue,
whose education had been wasted by gin, winced as a terrible scream sounded from the village;
then, realizing that the scream must have come from a captured Frenchman, spat to show that it
had not troubled him.
Sharpe moved on, placing more sentries, finally reaching a spot from which, between two great
granite boulders, he could see far to the south. He sat there alone,
whinnied. The filthy smoke of gunfire drifted in the gorge. A Rifleman vomited blood, then
sighed. Another man wept. The wounded horse was silenced by a rifle shot, and the sound slammed
in brutal echoes from the rock walls.
Footsteps sounded behind Sharpe. It was Bias Vivar who walked past him, past the greenjackets,
and knelt by the mule. He carefully unstrapped the strongbox from the dead beast’s harness. Then,
standing, he looked up at Harper. “You saved it, my friend.”
“I did, sir?” It was clear the Irishman had no idea what value Vivar placed on the
chest.
The Spaniard reached up to the huge man and kissed both his cheeks. One of Sharpe’s Riflemen
sniggered, then was shamed to silence by the moment’s solemnity.
“You saved it,” Vivar said again, and there were tears in his eyes. Then he lifted the
strongbox and carried it back up the canyon.
Sharpe followed. His men, silent and cold, came down to the roadway. There was no exultation
in victory for, unnoticed until this moment, and far beyond the abandoned French barricade, a
smear of grey smoke rose into the winter air. It rose from the village, and the smoke was grey as
a pauper’s shroud and carried the stench of death and fire.
And from it, like dark snow, ashes fell on a bloodied land.
CHAPTER 5
T he villagers could have sent no warning of the
French presence for there was no village any more, nor villagers.
The fires must have been set just as the ambush was sprung, for the houses still burned
fiercely. The corpses, though, had frozen hard. The French had killed the people, then sheltered
in their houses as they waited for Vivar’s small column to reach the high canyon.
It had never been much of a village; a poor place of goats and sheep, and of people who made a
living from high pastures. The houses lay in a hollow sheltered by dwarf oaks and chestnut trees.
Potatoes had grown in a few small fields that were edged with wild mulberries and furze. The
houses had been mere thatched huts with dungheaps at their doors. They had been shared by men and
animals alike, just as the houses Sharpe’s own Riflemen had known in England had been, and that
nostalgic resemblance added to the poignancy of the day.
If anything could add to the poignancy of children and babies killed, of women raped, or of
men crucified. Sergeant Williams, who had known his share of horror in a bad world, vomited. One
of the Spanish infantrymen turned in silence on a French captive and, before Vivar could utter a
word, disembowelled the man. Only then did the Cazador utter a howl of hatred.
Vivar ignored the killing and the howl. Instead, with an odd formality, he marched to Sharpe.
“Would you…“ he began, but found it hard to continue. The stench of those bodies which burned
inside the houses was thick. He swallowed. ”Would you place picquets, Lieutenant?“
“Yes, sir.”
That, at least, took the Riflemen away from the bodies of slaughtered infants and the burning
hovels. All that was left of the village’s buildings were the church walls; walls of stone which
could not be burned, though the church’s timber roof still flamed high to spew smoke above the
valley’s rim where, among the trees, Sharpe placed his sentries. The French, if they still
lingered, were invisible.
“Why did they do it, sir?” Dodd, a quiet man, appealed to Sharpe.
Sharpe could offer no answer.
Gataker, as fly a rogue as any in the army, stared empty-eyed at the landscape. Isaiah Tongue,
whose education had been wasted by gin, winced as a terrible scream sounded from the village;
then, realizing that the scream must have come from a captured Frenchman, spat to show that it
had not troubled him.
Sharpe moved on, placing more sentries, finally reaching a spot from which, between two great
granite boulders, he could see far to the south. He sat there alone,
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