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and sod roof. One door faced east, another west, and from the eastern door Sharpe could

see far down a valley that now whirled and bellied with snow. Once, when the driving snow was

lifted by the wind, he thought he saw the grey smear of smoke at the valley’s end; evidence,

perhaps, of a tiny village where they could find shelter, then the snow blanketed the view again.

He shivered, and it seemed impossible that this was Spain.
    Footsteps made him turn. Rifleman Harper ducked under the western door of the small house, saw

Sharpe, and checked. He waved a hand at some fallen roof beams that were embedded in stones and

turf. “Timber, sir,” he explained his errand, “for the fire.”
    “Carry on.” Sharpe watched as the Irishman took hold of the rotted timbers and snapped them

clear of their obstructions. Harper seemed to resent being watched, for he straightened up and

stared at the Lieutenant. “So what are we doing, sir?”
    For a second Sharpe took offence at the surly tone, then realized that Harper was only asking

what every man in the company wanted to know. “We’re going home.”
    “You mean England?”
    “I mean back to the army.” Sharpe suddenly wished he faced this journey alone, unencumbered by

resentful men. “We’ll have to go south. To Lisbon.”
    Harper crossed to the doorway where he stooped to stare eastwards. “I didn’t think you meant

Donegal.”
    “Is that where you come from?”
    “Aye.” Harper watched the snow settle in the darkening valley. “Donegal looks something like

this, so it does. Only this is a better land.”
    “Better?” Sharpe was surprised. He was also obscurely pleased that the big man had deigned to

have this conversation which made him suddenly more likeable. “Better?” Sharpe had to ask

again.
    “The English never ruled here. Did they, sir?” The insolence was back. Harper, standing,

stared down at the sitting Sharpe and there was nothing but scorn in his voice. “This is unsoiled

country, so it is.”
    Sharpe knew he had been lured into the question which had released this man’s derision. “I

thought you were fetching timber.”
    “I was.”
    “Then fetch it and go.”
    Later, after he had visited the shivering picquets, Sharpe went back to the barn and sat by

the wall where he listened to the low voices of the men who gathered about Rifleman Harper. They

laughed softly, letting Sharpe know that he was excluded from the company of soldiers, even of

the damned. He was alone.
    Murray died in the night. He did it without noise or fuss, just sliding decorously into

death.
    “The lads want to bury him.” Williams said it as though he expected Sharpe to

disapprove.
    Sharpe was standing in the barn’s doorway. “Of course.”
    “He said to give you this.” Williams held out the big sword.
    It was an awkward moment and Sharpe was aware of the men’s gaze as he took the cumbersome

weapon. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
    “He always said it was better than a sabre in a fight, sir,” Williams said. “Puts the fear of

God into the bloody Frogs, it does. Right butcher’s blade, it is.”
    “I’m sure.”
    The moment of intimacy, forged by the gift of the sword, seemed to give Williams confidence.

“We were talking last night, sir.”
    “We?”
    “Me and the lads.”
    “And?” Sharpe jumped from the barn’s raised doorway into a world made dazzling by new snow.

The whole valley glittered under a pale sun that was threatened by thickening clouds.
    The Sergeant followed him. “They’re not going, sir. Not going south.” His tone was respectful,

but very firm.
    Sharpe walked away from the barn. His boots squeaked in the fresh snow. They also let in damp

because, like the boots of the men he was supposed to command, they were torn, gaping, and barely

held together with rags and twine; hardly the footwear of a privileged officer whom these

frightened Riflemen would follow through the valley