Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (80 page)

The lancer shouted again, much closer, and then there was a reply, mocking and imperative, suggesting that the closest lancer had been deceived: a bird, perhaps, in the streambed, or a running rabbit, and he was being called back. Sharpe could hear the horses’ hooves crashing in the streambed, and once, by a break in the wind, the sound seemed so close that the girl’s eyes widened in fear, and then the sound receded, the voices faded, and she shut her eyes, kissed him fiercely, and, almost in the same movement, thrust his head away. The three lancers were going, their horses’ wet rumps glistening, and Sharpe let out a sigh of relief, and of regret.

‘They’ve gone.’

She began to move, but he shook his head. ‘Wait!’

She turned her head, raised it so that her cheek touched his, and she hissed when she saw what was at the end of the valley: a convoy, with rows of ox-carts whose ungreased axles screamed piercingly through the foul weather, and either side of the plodding carts were the shapes of more horsemen, sabres and lances, escorting the carts southwards towards the Almeida road. It could take an hour for the convoy to pass, but at least it had driven away El Católico and his men, and Sharpe realized, with one of the sudden bursts of elation that had punctuated the sense of growing failure for the last week, that as long as the Light Company was not discovered they should safely reach the ford when the French had gone. He looked at the girl.

‘Will you be still?’

She nodded. He asked again, she nodded again, and he slowly eased himself off her and lay down beside her. She turned over on to her stomach and the wet dress clung to her and he remembered the sight of her naked body, its shadowed, slim beauty, and he reached out a hand and took the rope at her neck, turning it so he found the knot, and fumbling at it with wet fingers. The tight, sodden rope yielded slowly, but it was off and he dropped it to the gravel.

‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged as if it was no matter. There was a chain round her neck and Sharpe, his hand already close, pulled it, to find a square locket, made of silver. She watched, her dark eyes utterly expressionless, as he put a thumbnail under the catch and it sprang open. There was no picture and she gave the hint of a smile because she understood that he had expected one. The inside of the lid was engraved: my love to you. J. It took him a few seconds to realize that Joaquím, El Católico, would never have inscribed a piece of silver in English, and he knew, with a sick certainty, that it had belonged to Hardy. ‘J’ for Josefina, and he looked at the silver ring, engraved with an eagle, that she had bought before Talavera, before Hardy, and with a superstition he did not understand he touched the locket on to the ring.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

For a moment her face did not move, but then she nodded. Her eyes dropped to the ring on his finger, back to his face.

‘The gold?’

‘Yes?’

‘You go to Cádiz?’

It was Sharpe’s turn to think, to watch her eyes through the rain dripping from the peak of his shako. ‘No.’

‘You keep it?’

‘I think so. But to fight the French, not to take home. I promise.’

She nodded and turned to watch the French convoy. Guns, coming from the French Army of the North, and going to Almeida. Not field guns or even siege artillery but Bonaparte’s favourite eight-inch howitzers, with obscene little muzzles that squatted like cooking-pots in their wooden beds and which could throw explosive shells high into the air to fall into the packed houses of a besieged town. There were carts as well, presumably with ammunition, and all pulled by slow oxen who were prodded with long goads and thrashed by irate cavalrymen. Their progress was not helped by the wind getting under the canvas covers of the carts, whipping the ropes free so that the tarpaulins flapped and writhed like pinioned bats, and the cavalrymen, doubtless cursing the war, fought to cover the precious powder-kegs from the unending rain. The solid axles, turning with the wheels, screeched over the sodden valley. Sharpe could feel the rain beating on his back, the water in the stream rising to his knees, and he knew that the river would be rising as well, and that with every passing moment his chance of crossing the ford was receding. The water would be too deep. He turned to the girl again.

‘How did Hardy die?’

‘El Católico.’ She gave the answer readily enough and Sharpe knew that her loyalty was changing. It was not the kiss.

‘Why does he want the gold?’

She shrugged as though it were a stupid question. ‘To buy power.’

For a moment Sharpe wondered if she meant soldiers, and then saw she had spoken the truth. The Spanish armies were gone; the government, was if could be called a government, was in faraway Cádiz, and El Católico had an unparalled chance to build his own empire. From the hills of Old Castile he could fashion a fiefdom that would rival that of the ancient barons who had built the fortresses that dotted the border area. For a ruthless man the whole country of Spain was one big opportunity. He was still staring at the girl.

‘And you?’

‘I want the French dead.’ The words were spoken with a terrible vehemence. ‘All of them.’

‘You need our help.’

She looked at him very steadily, not liking the truth, but finally nodded. ‘I know.’

He kept his eyes open and leaned forward, kissed her again as the rain lashed at them and the stream soaked them and the carts of the French convoy screeched in their ears. She shut her eyes, put a hand behind his head, held him, and he knew it was not a dream. He wanted her.

She pulled away, smiled at him for the first time. ‘You know the river rises?’

He nodded. ‘Can we cross?’

She glanced at the stream, shook her head. ‘If the rain stops tonight? Yes.’ Sharpe had seen the extraordinary speed with which rivers, in these dry hills, rose and fell. She nodded at the fort. ‘You can spend the night there.’

‘And you?’

She smiled again. ‘Can I leave?’

He felt a fool. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ll stay. What’s your name?’

‘Richard.’

She nodded. She looked again at the fortress.

‘You will be safe. We use it. Ten men can stop the entrance.’

‘And El Católico?’

She shook her head. ‘He’s frightened of you. He’ll wait till tomorrow, when his men come.’

Rain lashed across the valley, ran from rock and grass and swelled the stream as the wind tore at the landscape. Half in the water, halfout, they waited for the convoy to pass, and for what the next day would bring. The war would have to wait.

‘Sir, sir!’ A hand was shaking his shoulder and Sharpe opened his eyes, to see grey daylight on grey walls. ‘Sir?’

‘All right!’ The girl was waking as well, the eyes blinking in surprise before she remembered where she was. He smiled at her. ‘Stay here.’

He crawled out of the space beneath the stairs, past the soldier who had wakened him, and went over to the gaping hole in the south wall of the tower. Dawn was like a grey mist on the countryside, blurring the trees, the grassland across the river, but he could see white flecks on the water surface where there had been none the evening before. The water level was sinking fast and the rocks which marked the ford of San Anton were foaming the river surface. They could cross today, and he lifted his eyes to stare into the western hills as if hoping to see a friendly patrol. He remembered the guns going south the day before and he paused, motionless, in the broken gap to listen for the crumping sound of the giant, iron siege guns. Silence. The siege of Almeida had not yet started.

‘Sir!’ Lieutenant Knowles stood in the tower doorway.

‘Lieutenant?’

‘Visitors, sir. Coming down the valley.’

Sharpe grunted, scrambled to his feet, and strapped on his huge sword as he followed Knowles into the courtyard. There was a fire blazing, surrounded by men, and Sharpe looked at them.

‘Do you have tea?’

One of them promised to bring him a cup and he joined Knowles on the raised rampart that formed the south-eastern corner of San Anton’s courtyard. He looked into the valley, up past the stream where the girl had lain beneath his body and the French lancers had first been seen.

‘We’re bloody popular this morning.’

A line of horsemen was riding on the track from Casatejada, El Católico’s men, in force, and among them Kearsey’s blue coat. Sharpe spat over the rampart into the stream far below.

‘Keep them out, Robert. Don’t let anyone, even the Major, inside the walls.’

His uniform was damp and uncomfortable and he unstrapped his sword and belts, and stripped naked.

‘Get that fire bigger! Use the thorns!’

Rifleman Jenkins draped Sharpe’s clothes on stones near the blaze and Sharpe stood shivering, a mug of tea held in his hands, and stared at the two hundred horsemen who were aiming for the oak groves where El Católico and his men had spent the night. Sharpe looked up at the sky, saw the ragged clouds and knew that the storm had passed. Soon it would be hot, under a shadowless blue, and he wondered how much water the Company had.

‘Sergeant McGovern!’

‘Sir?’

‘Take six men down to the river with all the canteens. Fill them up.’

McGovern looked at Knowles, back to Sharpe. ‘We’ve already done it, sir. The Lieutenant sent us down.’

‘Oh.’ He looked at Knowles and growled an apology. ‘No one interfered with you?’

Knowles shook his head. ‘It’s as you said, sir. They’re guarding the ford, not the castle.’

‘Any food?’

Knowles sighed. He had half hoped, against all experience, that Sharpe’s morning temper would have been moderated by Teresa. ‘Just hard tack, sir. And not much of that.’

Sharpe swore, flung the dregs of tea far out towards the oak trees that sheltered El Católico’s men.

‘Right! All weapons cleaned!’ He ignored the grumbles, turned and leaned against the rampart. Everyone was better for some sleep, a few hours between sentry duty, but there had not been time or opportunity in the night for the Company to check their weapons. The night had gone quietly. Some time after midnight the rain had stopped, though the wind still blew cold, and Harper had got a small fire going in the shelter of the broken tower, burning the thorn bushes that grew like weeds in the old courtyard. Teresa had been right. The fortress was approached by a single precipitous track, easy to defend, and El Católico had left them in peace.

Scraps of wispy cloud cleared away from the rising sun, shadows stretched over the courtyard, and a touch of warmth came which soon would bake the earth dry and sap the Company of its small energy. Sharpe leaned over the rampart. The spate was well over, the water sinking, and the rocks that marked the ford had broken the surface and collected ragged bundles of twigs and debris that the sudden flood had scoured from the banks. He saw Kearsey leave the oak grove and head his borrowed horse towards the path which led to the castle.

Sharpe pulled on his clothes, still damp, and nodded towards the tower. ‘Keep the girl inside, Robert.’ Knowles nodded. Sharpe was pulling on a damp boot that refused to go over his heel bone. ‘Damn!’ It slipped on. ‘I’ll meet the Major outside. Inspect the weapons and get ready to move.’

‘Already?’ Knowles seemed surprised.

‘Can’t stay here forever.’ Sharpe buttoned his jacket, picked up his sword. ‘I’ll go and give Major Kearsey the good news.’

Sharpe walked briskly down the slope and waved cheerfully at Kearsey. ‘Morning, sir! A nice one!’

Kearsey reined his horse, stared down at Sharpe with unfriendly eyes. ‘What have you done, Sharpe?’

Sharpe stared up at the small Major who was silhouetted by the sun. He had expected anger, but not at him: he had expected Kearsey to be disillusioned at the Partisans and instead the Major’s opening words, spoken with a suppressed rage, were spat at Sharpe. He replied quietly.

‘I’ve brought the gold, sir, nearly all of it, as I was ordered.’

Kearsey nodded impatiently, as if it were the answer he expected. ‘You kidnapped the girl, locked up our allies; you have disobeyed my orders; you have turned men who fought for us into men who simply want to kill you.’ He paused, taking breath, but Sharpe interrupted.

‘And the men who killed Captain Hardy?’

Kearsey seemed to slump on his pommel. He stared at Sharpe.

‘What?’

‘El Católico killed him. Stabbed him in the back. He’s buried beneath a manure-heap in the village.’ Teresa had told him the story during the night. ‘He found El Católico moving the gold. It seems he made a protest. So they killed him. You were saying, sir?’

Kearsey shook his head. ‘How do you know?’

For an instant Sharpe was about to tell him, and then remembered that no one, outside the Company, knew that Teresa was no longer a prisoner. ‘I was told, sir.’

Kearsey was not prepared to give up. He shook his head, as if trying to clear a bad dream. ‘But you stole the gold!’

‘I obeyed orders, sir.’

‘Whose orders? I am the ranking officer!’

Sharpe suddenly felt sorry for the Major. Kearsey had found the gold, told Wellington, and had never been told of the General’s plans. Sharpe felt in his pocket, found the square of paper, and hoped that the rain had not soaked through the folds. It had, but the writing was still legible. He handed it up to Kearsey.

‘There, sir.’

Kearsey read it, his anger growing. ‘It says nothing!’

‘It orders all officers to assist me, sir. All.’

But Kearsey was not listening. He waved the scrap of damp paper towards Sharpe. ‘It says nothing about the gold! Nothing! You could have kept this for months!’

Sharpe laughed. ‘It hardly would mention gold, would it, sir? I mean, suppose the Spanish saw the orders; suppose they guessed what the General intended to do with the gold?’

Kearsey looked at him. ‘You know?’

Sharpe nodded. ‘It’s not going to Cádiz, sir.’ He said it as gently as he could.

Kearsey’s reaction was extraordinary. For a few seconds he sat motionless, his eyes screwed tight, and then he tore the paper into shreds, violent gesture after violent gesture.

‘God damn it, Sharpe!’

‘What?’ Sharpe had tried to save the paper, but too late.

Kearsey suddenly realized he had sworn. Remorse and anger fought on his face. Anger won. ‘I have worked. God knows I have worked to help the Spanish and the British to work together. And I am rewarded by this!’ He held the scraps of paper up and then, with a sudden jerk, scattered them into the wind. ‘Are we to steal the gold, Sharpe?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s about the long and short of it.’

‘We can’t.’ Kearsey was pleading.

‘Whose side are you on?’ Sharpe made the question brutal.

For an instant he thought that Kearsey’s rage would come back, would explode into a blow aimed at the Rifleman, but Kearsey controlled it, and when he spoke his words were low and measured.

‘We have honour, Sharpe. That is our private strength, our honour. We’re soldiers, you and I. We cannot expect riches, or dignity, or continual victory. We will die, probably, in battle, or in a fever ward, and no one will remember us, so all that is left is honour. Do you understand?’

It was strange, standing in the growing warmth of the sun, and listening to the words that were wrenched from the centre of Kearsey’s soul. He must have been disappointed, Sharpe thought, somewhere in his life. Perhaps he was lonely, spurned by the officers’ mess, or perhaps once in his life the small man had been turned down by a woman he loved and now, growing old in his honour, he had found a job he loved. Kearsey loved Spain, and the Spanish, and the task of riding alone behind the enemy lines like a Christian who kept the faith in a world of heretics and persecution. Sharpe spoke gently.

‘The General spoke to me, sir. He wants the gold. Without it the war is lost. If that’s stealing, then we’re stealing it. I assume that you will help us?’

Kearsey seemed not to hear. He was staring over Sharpe’s head at the tower of the
castillo
and he muttered something so low that Sharpe could not hear the words.

‘Pardon, sir?’

Kearsey’s eyes flicked to the Rifleman. ‘What shall it profit a man, Sharpe, if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’

Sharpe sighed. ‘I doubt if we’re losing our soul, sir. And anyway, do you think that El Católico planned to give the gold to Cádiz?’

Kearsey slumped on his saddle as if he knew that Sharpe had spoken the truth. ‘No.’ The Major spoke softly. ‘I suppose not. I suppose he wanted to keep it. But he would have used it to fight the French, Sharpe!’

‘So will we, sir.’

‘Yes. But it’s Spanish gold, and we’re not Spaniards.’ He jerked himself upright and looked somewhat ruefully at the scraps of Sharpe’s torn orders. ‘We will take the gold to Wellington, Captain. But under my orders. You must release the girl, do you understand? I will not be a party to these threats, to this underhand procedure.’

‘No, sir.’

Kearsey looked at him, uncertain whether Sharpe was agreeing with him. ‘You do understand, Sharpe?’

‘I understand, sir.’ Sharpe turned and stared at the
castillo
and then across the Agueda to the far hills where the French patrols were still waiting and where the siege guns would be inching their way to the fortress walls of Almeida.

‘I presume the girl has not been harmed?’

‘No, sir, she has not.’ Sharpe’s patience was at an end. If El Católico thought, for one second, that the girl was safe, then his men would fall on the Light Company and Sharpe would face a death more painful than the imagination could invent. He looked up at Kearsey. ‘In ten minutes, Major, I am going to cut off one of her ears. Only halfway, so it will mend, but if any of those murderous bastards with El Católico tries to interfere with our crossing of the ford, then the whole ear will be sliced off. And the other ear, and her eyes, and her tongue, and do you understand me, sir? We are leaving, with the gold, and the girl is our passport and I’m not giving her up. Tell her father, tell El Católico, that if they want the gold they can collect it with a toothless, blind, deaf, ugly, and dumb girl. Understand!’

Sharpe’s anger battered at the Major, drove him two steps down the slope. ‘I am ordering you, Sharpe…’

‘You’re ordering nothing, sir. You tore up my orders! We are going. So tell them, Major! Tell them! You hear the scream in ten minutes!’

He turned away, his anger deafening him to Kearsey’s words, and climbed into the stockade of the fort. His men saw his face and said nothing, but turned away and watched as the small, blue-uniformed Major rode his horse back to the Partisans.

Kearsey delivered the message, shaking with rage, and watched, with Cesar Moreno beside him, the high, silent fort. El Católico was with them and swore his vengeance on Sharpe. The Major touched his sleeve.

‘He won’t do it. Believe me. He won’t.’

Kearsey squinted up at the
castillo
, at the silhouettes of the sentries. There was something more on his mind, something that he could not keep in, and he turned to the tall Spaniard. ‘Captain Hardy.’ He stopped.

El Católico soothed his horse, looked at Kearsey. ‘What about him?’

Kearsey was embarrassed. ‘Sharpe says you killed him.’

El Católico laughed. ‘He would say anything.’ He spat on to the ground. ‘You are the only officer we can trust, Major. Not people like Sharpe. He has no proof, does he?’ He asked the question confidently.

Kearsey shook his head. ‘No.’

‘He just wants to turn you against us. No, Major, Captain Hardy was captured. Ask Cesar.’

He gestured at Teresa’s father, whose face was tortured with worry. The Major shook his head, felt a sense of relief, a feeling that was shattered by the sound that came from the ruined tower of the
castillo
. The scream seemed to linger in the oak grove. It rose to an unbearable pitch and then wavered down to a thin, sobbing desperation that chilled every man. Cesar Moreno spurred forward with a dozen men, his face set with a determination they had forgotten, but a sentry on the ramparts gave a signal to the tower and the scream came again, higher this time, like the sound of the Frenchmen whose lives they had stripped, inch by inch, with their long knives. Teresa’s father reined in, knowing he was beaten, swearing that for every blade that was laid to his daughter Sharpe would suffer a hundred.