“Good God.”
“We were told of your presence when we arrived here,” George Parker explained, “and now we beg your protection.”
“Of course.” Sharpe glanced up the street, understanding the panic. The French had taken the Atlantic ports at the north-western corner of Spain. The British were gone, the Spanish armies squandered, and soon Napoleon’s troops would turn southwards to complete their victory. “How far is Corunna from here?”
“Eleven leagues? Twelve?” George Parker’s face, pale in the candlelight, was drawn and worried. And no wonder, Sharpe thought. The French were scarcely a day’s march away.
“Will you hurry?” Mrs Parker, recovered from the shock of Sharpe’s blasphemy, leaned vengefully forward.
“Wait, ma’am.” Sharpe ran back into the monastery. “Sergeant Williams! Sergeant Williams!”
It took ten minutes to rouse and parade the Riflemen who staggered sleepily into the street where, under the torchlight, Sharpe shouted them into their ranks. The men’s breath steamed in the flamelight as he felt the first stinging drops of rain. The monks were generously bringing small sacks of bread out to the soldiers who seemed bemused by the shouting chaos in the small street.
“Lieutenant! Will you hurry!” It was Mrs Parker, making the carriage springs creak as she leaned forward. It was then that Rifleman Harper let out a piercing whistle, the other men cheered, and Sharpe whipped round to make a most unwelcome discovery.
There was a third person in the carriage; a person who, till now, had been concealed by Mrs Parker’s great bulk. It seemed Mrs Parker must have a maid, or perhaps a companion, or else a daughter, and the girl, if indeed she was Mrs Parker’s daughter, did not take after her mother. Not in the least. Sharpe saw a bright-eyed face, dark curls, and a mischievous smile which, among soldiers, could only mean trouble. “Oh, shit,” he muttered.
Sharpe had roused and paraded his men and, not knowing what to do with them now, and while he waited for Bias Vivar to appear from the alcaldes house where a council of town elders had been hurriedly convened, he let his men rescue the Spanish New Testaments from the stable of a bookseller who had hidden the books for George Parker.
“The Church of Rome doesn’t approve, you understand?” George Parker, away from his wife, proved a courtly and somewhat sad character. “They wish to keep their people in the darkness of ignorance. The Archbishop of Seville confiscated a thousand testaments and burned them. Can you credit such behaviour? That’s why we came north. I believed Salamanca might prove a more fertile field for our endeavours, but the Archbishop there threatened a similar confiscation. So we went to Santiago, and on the way we sheltered our precious books with this good man,” Parker gestured towards the bookseller’s home. “I believe he sells a few on his own account, but I can scarce blame him for that. Indeed not. And if he spreads the gospel, Lieutenant, unadulterated by the priests of Rome, it can only be to God’s glory, don’t you agree?”
Sharpe was too befuddled by the night’s strange happenings to offer agreement. He watched as another stack of the black bound books was brought out into the street and packed into the carriage’s rear box. “You’re in Spain to distribute bibles?”
“Only since the peace treaty between our two countries was signed,” Parker said as though that explained everything, then, seeing that puzzlement remained on Sharpe’s face, he offered further information. “My dear wife and I, you must understand, are followers of the late John Wesley.”
“The Methodist?”
“Exactly and precisely so,” Parker nodded vigorously, “and when my late cousin, the Admiral, was gracious enough to remember me in his will, my dear wife deemed that the money might most appropriately be spent upon the illumination of the Popish darkness that so envelops southern Europe. We saw the declaration of a peace between England and Spain as a providence of God that directed our steps hither.”
“To much success?” Sharpe could not resist asking, though the answer was clearly visible on Parker’s lugubrious face.
“Alas, Lieutenant, the people of Spain are obstinate in their Romish heresy. But if just one soul is brought to a knowledge of God’s saving and Protestant grace, then I will feel amply justified in this endeavour.” Parker paused. “And you, Lieutenant? May I enquire if you have a personal knowledge of your Lord and Saviour?”
“I’m a Rifleman, sir,” Sharpe said firmly, anxious to avoid a Protestant attack on his already Catholic-besieged soul. “Our religion is killing crapauds and other such heathen bastards who don’t like good King George.”
The belligerence of Sharpe’s answer silenced Parker for a moment. The middle-aged man stared gloomily at the refugees in the street, then sighed. “You are a soldier, of course. But perhaps you will forgive me, Lieutenant?”
“Forgive you, sir?”
“My cousin, the late Admiral, was much given to strong oaths. I do not wish to offend, Lieutenant, but my dear wife and niece are not accustomed to the strong language of the military man, and…“ His voice faded away.
“I apologize, sir. I’ll try and remember.” Sharpe gestured towards the bookseller’s house where Mrs Parker and the girl had taken temporary shelter. “She’s your niece, sir? She seems a little young to be travelling in such a troubled place?”
If Parker suspected that Sharpe was fishing for information about his niece, he showed no resentment. “Louisa is nineteen, Lieutenant, but sadly orphaned. My dear wife offered her employment as a companion. We had no conception, of course, that the war would take such a disadvantageous course. We believed that, with a British army campaigning in Spain, we would be both welcome and protected.”
“Perhaps God’s a Frenchman these days?” Sharpe said lightly.
Parker ignored the levity. Instead he watched the stream of refugees who straggled through the night with their bundles of clothes. Children cried. A woman dragged two goats on lengths of rope. A cripple swung by on crutches. Parker shook his head. “There is a great fear of the French here.”
“They’re bastards, sir. Forgive me,” Sharpe blushed. “Were you in Santiago de Compostela when they arrived?”
“Their cavalry reached the northern edge of the town yesterday evening, which gave us time to make our escape. The Lord was very providential, I think.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Sergeant Williams, grinning broadly, stood to attention before Sharpe. “That’s all the holy books loaded up, sir. Want me to fetch the ladies?”
Sharpe looked at Parker. “Are you travelling on tonight, sir?”
Parker was clearly bemused by the question. “We’ll do whatever you think best, Lieutenant.”
“It’s up to you, sir.”
“Me?”
It was obvious that George Parker was as indecisive as his cousin, Sir Hyde, whose prevarication had nearly lost the battle of Copenhagen. Sharpe tried to explain what choices the family faced. “This road, sir, only goes east or west, and the French lie in both directions. I assume that now your books are safe, sir, you’ll have to choose one way or the other? They say the French behave well enough to innocent English travellers. You’ll doubtless be questioned, and there’ll be some inconvenience, but they’ll probably give you permission to travel south. Might I suggest Lisbon, sir? I’ve heard there’s still a small British garrison there, but even if the garrison’s sailed away, you should be able to find a British merchant ship.”
Parker stared worriedly at Sharpe. “And you, Lieutenant? What is your intention?”
“I can hardly depend on French forbearance, sir.” He smiled. “No, we’re going south, sir. We’d hoped to take the road from Santiago de Compostela, but since the bast — since the French are there, sir, we’ll cut across the hills.” Sharpe slapped one of the muddy wheels of the big coach. “No chance of that thing going with us, sir, so I fear you’ll have to ask French permission to cross their territory.”