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spirit. I dare say our paths will cross, perhaps even in the next few days?’ He looked enquiringly at the guerrilla leader, but the Spaniard said nothing, until Sinclair went on. ‘Which other bands do you plan on meeting?’
    ‘That is up to El Blanco,’ the man said. Don Antonio was not with the others at the moment, although expected some time during the night. It was the first time that they had heard his nickname, but then almost all the chiefs had nicknames. For the moment his cousin Carlos was in charge. He was a slim manwith the mild face of a student and the cold eyes of a killer. Two pistols were tucked into his leather belt, along with a long clasp knife, and slung from his shoulder was a musket. Like most of the men he wore a red-brown jacket and tight-fitting breeches, with big silver buttons on the lapels and running down the seams. His hair was long and tied back in a pigtail – a few of his followers sported colourful ribbons in their hair. All wore broad-brimmed hats, and had either simple leather shoes or sandals. Their weapons were numerous, many of them captured from the enemy, and carried with a confidence suggesting skill in their use.
    Carlos Velasco’s expression was stern, showing no warmth even though he had spoken words of welcome and shown a brief eagerness when he saw the heavily laden mules.
    ‘Well, I suppose I must make do with a “you will see” once again.’ Sinclair still looked cheerful, but then switched to English. ‘I cannot really blame these fighting devils for being cautious of strangers. One day I must get myself a red coat as that seems to help.’ The major wore a pale grey braided jacket in vaguely military style along with a plain cocked hat. ‘Had it made for me in Port Mahon before they sent me out here,’ he had told them during the long journey. ‘Am still not sure what uniform the Chasseurs are supposed to wear – could be bright pink for all I know as I have never seen my damned regiment and they have never seen me!
    ‘Well, good luck to you all! Good luck to you too, Sergeant, although as an Irishman you have it already.’ The muleteers looked for a moment as if they would demand to take the pack mules with them, but Sinclair bustled them away and the three rode off, escorted by the same guide who had brought them here. Pringle noticed that several other partisans left soon afterwards and wondered whether they were sent to shadow the little party on its way. He was now sure that Murphy had been right and they had been watched for some time.
    The mood changed quickly. He heard several of the Spanish refer to the major as Sinclair el malo – Sinclair the bad. ‘It seems they do not care for him much,’ said Hanley as they sat and restedafter arriving in the glade. ‘I believe there is a Captain Sinclair active in the mountains farther east, so do not know whether he is “the good”.’
    ‘He is at least not so bad,’ Carlos Velasco interrupted, speaking in strangely accented but good English. ‘I do not get much practice these days, but spent a long time in your country,’ he said in response to their looks of surprise. ‘It was not through choice, but courtesy of your Lord Nelson.’
    ‘I am very sorry.’ Pringle realised the imbecility of the words even as he spoke them.
    ‘And you are very English to say so.’ Carlos chuckled. ‘It is,’ he hesitated for a moment, frowning, ‘water under the bridge.’ He snapped his fingers when they nodded, and then laughed in delight, his whole face softened. ‘Good, I remember, and as always when the subject arises, I will remind you Englishmen that it was the Spanish who took your Nelson’s arm. Splinters, I would guess. I used to be a surgeon,’ he added. ‘Well, still am, if we are unlucky enough to have wounded. I have sawn limbs off Spanish and English sailors, and on the whole was not treated too badly. Now the French are here in my country and there is not enough hate in the world to