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suggested.
    ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but you won’t have to.’ Sergeant Murphy moved slowly, and slipped his musket from his shoulder.
    Pringle looked around the great theatre-like bowl of hills and saw nothing. Then the guerrillas appeared. Men in brown stepped out from behind rocks or bushes, saying nothing. Horsemen rode out from the mouths of valleys probably little wider than the one they were near and just as hard to spot from a distance. There were at least thirty, with more appearing, and a good half were mounted. Pringle wondered whether Murphy had spotted them or simply guessed.
    ‘No need for your musket, Sergeant,’ Sinclair said softly. ‘These are friends.’
    ‘Glad to hear that, Your Honour. Glad indeed.’
    Pringle hoped that the major was right.

3
     
    P ringle spluttered, turning away as the jet of liquid sprayed all over his face. The laughter was loud, and once he had stopped choking he joined in, although he would have needed far more drink inside him to find the joke as hilarious as his hosts did.
    ‘Waste of good wine,’ he said, wiping his glasses clean with the tip of his long sash. The grinning partisan adjusted the tube coming from the wineskin and, once the officer had opened his mouth, squirted it with less force and more accuracy so that the Englishman could drink. Hanley was next, and was allowed to take a long sip before the Spaniard flicked the nozzle and sent the spray down his neck. This time the laughter was a great roar. When it was Murphy’s turn, the sergeant was ready and jerked his head to follow the jet, swallowing more than went over him, prompting cheers from the guerrilleros.
    After this initiation, the visitors were each provided with a simple mug, filled to the brim with more of the rough wine. Pringle stood and raised his drink.
    ‘To Spain, and to the brave guerrilleros!’
    The partisans cheered and drank and soon there were more toasts. ‘Long live Spain! For Liberty! Death to the French!’
    No one seemed at all concerned about the noise of their celebrations. They sat on the mossy grass, enclosed on all sides by high bluffs. The place, like a natural roofless house, was at the end of the narrow cutting where their guide had whistled to summon the partisans. It had taken some effort to get the mules to follow the path, and even more when for some ten yards or so it wentthrough a cave, and only a good deal of cursing and plenty of blows forced the animals through. Finally they emerged into this glade, and were greeted by the rich aroma of wood smoke and a kid cooking over the fire.
    There was no welcome for the muleteers brought by Sinclair.
    ‘ Contrabandistas .’ Pringle had heard the leader of the guerrilleros mutter the word in obvious contempt, and then say a good deal more he did not quite catch. It did not surprise him to learn that the men were smugglers. There were always plenty of them, especially near the coast, where goods came ashore from Africa or Gibraltar and further afield and then were carried through the darkness to avoid tolls and tax alike. Such men knew the country well, but many saw no reason to give up their occupation simply because the French had invaded. All it meant was that they now avoided or bribed King Joseph’s men instead of those serving the old king.
    ‘It is best if I go with them,’ Sinclair had said. ‘Not sure I can find my way back to my fellows on my own,’ he added, his expression making clear that this modesty was feigned. ‘But these two are useful to me and know the country like the back of their hand. And if I have done all that I can here …’
    The leader of the partisans said nothing to restrain him, even though the major spoke in Spanish.
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ Hanley said after a long and increasingly awkward pause. ‘You have been a great aid to us. I am sure that if all goes well, we may foster closer alliances between the bands and make life very difficult for the French.’
    ‘That’s the