Sharpe's Gold (15 page)

El Catolico had killed northerners before, Frenchmen, and some had taken three moons
to die and every second they had known their own pain. Sharpe, El Catolico promised
himself, would plead for such a death.

After the sobbing, the noise of boots on stone, came shouted orders, and the Company
marched out with fixed bayonets on shouldered guns, and in the lead was the Captain holding
a rifle sling looped round the neck of Teresa Moreno. The Partisans growled, looked at the
father, at El Catolico, but dared not move. Teresa was crying, her face half hidden by her
hands, but every man could see the white bandage, torn from the bottom of her dress, and
they could see the bright blood which stained the cloth. Sharpe was holding a gleaming,
saw-backed bayonet at her head and if she stumbled he pulled at the sling round her throat.
Kearsey felt a terrible shame as he watched the Rifle Officer shield himself from El
Catolico's guns with the girl's body, and as the Company, in a silence that seemed as if it
could explode at any instant in a dreadful violence, marched past the poised horsemen,
Cesar Moreno gazed at the blood-soaked bandage, at the spots of blood on his daughter's
dress, and he promised himself the luxury of this English Captain's death. Kearsey touched
his arm.

'I'm sorry.'

'It does not matter. I will catch them and kill them.' Cesar Moreno watched the faces of
the Company and he thought they looked shocked, as if their Captain had dragged them into
new depths of horror. 'I will kill him.'

Kearsey nodded. 'I'm sorry.'

Moreno looked at him. 'It was not your doing, Major.' He nodded at where the Light
Company were beginning their crossing, the lightly loaded men forming a human dam to
help the gold-carriers to cross. 'Go in peace.'

Sharpe crossed last, holding the girl and feeling the long weeds snatch at his legs and
try to drag him under. The water level was low but the current still strong, and it was
awkward with one arm round Teresa's neck, but they made it and were pulled on to the far bank
by Patrick Harper, who nodded back over the river.

'Felt sorry for her father, sir.'

'He'll find out she wasn't touched.'

'Aye, that's true. The Major's coming.'

'Let him.'

They set off across the grassland, in the heat of the morning, their boots leaving a wide
swath through the pale stalks and with the Partisans never far behind. Harper walked with
Sharpe and Teresa and he looked over the girl's head at his Captain.

'How's the arm, sir?'

'It's fine.' Sharpe had cut open his left forearm for the blood with which to soak
Teresa's bandage.

Harper nodded ahead, to the Company. 'Should have cut open Private Batten. It's all
he's good for.'

Sharpe grinned. The thought had occurred to him, but he had rejected it as petty. 'I'll
survive. You'd better tell the lads that the girl's not harmed. Quietly.'

'I’ll do that.'

Harper went ahead. The men were silent, shocked, because Sharpe had let them believe he
was working the great blade on the girl. If they had known the truth they would have marched
past El Catolico with grinning faces, suppressed glee, and the whole thing would have been
lost. Sharpe looked at the Partisans, to the side and behind, and then at Teresa.

'You must keep pretending.'

She nodded, looked up at him. 'You keep your promise?'

'I promise. We have a bargain.'

It was a good one, too, he decided, and he admired Teresa for its terms. At least, now,
he knew why she was on his side, and there was only one regret: he knew they would not be
together long, that the bargain called for them to be far apart, but the war would be long
and, who knew, perhaps he would meet her again.

At midday the Company climbed a steep ridge that ran directly west, towards their
goal, and Sharpe led the way up its steep, razor-stoned flank with a sense of relief. The
Partisans could not take their horses up the slope and their figures grew smaller and
smaller as the Company laboured upwards. The men carrying the gold needed frequent
rests, lying and panting beneath the sun, but each hour took them nearer the Coa, and for a
time Sharpe dared to hope that they had shaken off El Catolico and his men. The spine of the
ridge was a bare, rocky place and littered with small bones left by wolves and vultures.
Sharpe had the feeling of walking in a place where no man ever trod, a place that was
commanded by the beasts, and all round them the hills crouched in the searing, aching sun,
and nothing moved except for the Company crawling along the high crest, and Sharpe felt as
if the world had ended and they had been forgotten. Ahead he could see the hazed hills that
led to the river, to safety, and he forced the Company on. Patrick Harper, carrying two
packs of gold, nodded at the western hills to their front.

'Are the French there, sir?'

Sharpe shrugged. 'Probably.'

The Sergeant looked round their high, sun-bleached path. 'I hope they're not watching for
us.'

'Better than being down with the Partisans.' But he knew Harper was right. If the
French were patrolling the hills, and they must be, then the Company would be visible for
miles, Sharpe made his own gold-filled pack more comfortable on his shoulder. 'We'll keep
going west in the night.' He looked at his tired men. 'Just this one effort, Sergeant, just
this one.'

It was not to be. At dusk, as the westering sun dazzled them, the ridge dropped away and
Sharpe saw they had been cheated. The ridge was like an island, separated from the other
hills by a wide, convoluted valley, and in its shadows, far below, he could see the tiny
dots that were El Catolico's men. He stopped the Company, let them rest, and stared
down.

'Damn. Damn. Damn.' He spoke quietly. The Partisans had ridden an easy path, either
side of the ridge, and the Company had slogged its useless toil over the baking rocks, the
edged stones, the scorpion-infested ridge. On the far side of the valley the hills rose
again and he looked at the bouldered slope they would have to climb, but he knew that before
they could go on they must cross the valley. It was a perfect place for an ambush. Like an
indented sea-coast the valley had hidden spurs, deep shadows; even, to the north, some
scrubby trees. Once they were on the valley's grassed floor they would be terribly
vulnerable, unable to see what ' lurked behind the spurs of the hill, in the dead folds of
ground. Sharpe stared into the shadowed depth and then at his exhausted Company with
their battered weapons and heavy packs.

'We cross at dawn.'

'Yes, sir.' Harper looked down. 'The Major's coming, sir.'

Kearsey had abandoned his horse and, his blue uniform melding with the shadows, was
climbing the slope towards the Company. Sharpe grunted.

'He can say a prayer for us.' He looked at the valley. A prayer, maybe, would not be a bad
thing.

The water in the canteens was brackish, the food down to the last mildewed crumbs, and in
the hour before dawn the ground was slippery with dew. It was cold. The Company,
foul-mouthed and evil-tempered, slithered and fell as they went down the dark hillside to
the black valley. Kearsey, his steel scabbard crashing against rocks, tried to keep up with
Sharpe.

'Almeida, Sharpe. It's the only way!'

Sharpe stopped, towered over the Major. 'Damn Almeida, sir.'

'There's no need for cursing, Sharpe.' Kearsey sounded peevish. He had arrived, as night
fell, and launched himself into a rehearsed condemnation of Sharpe that had petered out
when he saw an undamaged Teresa calmly watching him. She had spoken to him in Spanish,
driving down his objections, until the Major, confused by the speed of events that he
could not control, had fallen into an unhappy silence. Later, when the wind stirred the
night grass, and sentries twitched as the black rocks seemed to move, he had tried to
persuade Sharpe to turn south. Now, in the creeping dawn, he had returned to the
subject.

'The French, Sharpe. You don't understand. They'll be blocking the Coa. You must go
south.'

'And damn the bloody French, sir!'

Sharpe turned away, slipped, and cursed as a boot flew from beneath him and he sat down,
painfully, on a stone. He would not go to Almeida. The French were about to start the siege
and would be concentrating in force. He would go west, towards the Coa, and take the gold
to the General.

The turf on the valley floor was springy, easy to walk, but Sharpe crouched and hissed at
his men to be quiet. He could hear nothing, see nothing, and his instinct told him the
Partisans had gone. Sergeant Harper crouched beside him.

'Bastards have gone, sir.'

'They're somewhere.'

'Not here.'

And if not, then why had they gone? El Cat6lico would not give up the gold, nor Moreno the
chance to punish the man whom he thought had mutilated his daughter, so why was the
valley so empty and quiet? Sharpe led the way over the grass, his rifle cocked, and looked
at the hill ahead, littered with rocks, and he imagined the muskets ambushing them as they
climbed. The hillside could hide a thousand men.

He stopped again, at the foot of the slope, and the eerie feeling came back of being alone
in the world, as if, while they were walking on the ridge the day before, the world had
ended and the Angel of Death had forgotten the Light Company. Sharpe listened. He could
hear his men breathing, but nothing else. Not the scrabble of a lizard on the rocks, the
thump of a frightened rabbit, no birds, not even the wind on the stones. He found
Kearsey.

'What's over the hill, sir?'

'Summer pasture for sheep. Spring water, two shelters. Cavalry country.'

'North?'

'A village.'

'South, sir?'

'The road to Almeida."

Sharpe bit his lip, stared up the slope, and pushed away the sensation of being alone.
His instinct told him that the enemy was near, but which enemy? Ahead was foraging
country, enemy patrols, and Kearsey had claimed that the French would hold the countryside
in force so that they could strip it of food. And if the French were not there? He looked
behind, at the valley, and was tempted to stay in the low ground, but where was El
Catolico? Waiting up the valley? Or had his men hidden the horses and climbed the hill? He
knew the Company was nervous, frightened both of the stillness and Sharpe's caution, and
he stood up.

'Rifles! Skirmish line. Lieutenant! Follow with the Company. Forward!'

This, at least, was a trade they knew, and the Riflemen split into skirmishing pairs
and spread out into the thin, elastic screen that sheltered the main battle-line in a
fight. The Rifles were trained to this, taught to think independently and to fight on
their own initiative without orders from an officer. One man moved as his partner
covered him, just as in battle one man reloaded while the other watched to see if any
enemy was aiming at his comrade during the vulnerable and clumsy wielding of ramrod
and cartridge. Fifty yards behind the Green Jackets, clumsy and noisy, the Redcoats
climbed the hill, and Teresa stayed with Knowles and watched the elusive shapes, fleeting
glimpses, of the Riflemen. She was wearing Sharpe's greatcoat, covering the white dress,
and she could sense the apprehension among the men. The world seemed empty, the dawn
rising on grey rocks and limitless grass, but Teresa knew, better even than Sharpe, that
only one thing could have driven away the Partisans and that the world was not empty.
Somewhere, watching them, were the French.

The sun rose behind them, lancing its light across the ridge they had walked the day
before, and Sharpe, ahead of the Riflemen, saw it touch gold on the hill-crest seventy
yards ahead. The rock was covered in light and at its base, half hidden by shadowed grass,
was a dull red colour and he turned, casually, and waved his men flat as if he wanted to
give them a rest. He yawned, massively, stretched his arms, and sauntered across the line to
where Harper had stopped the left-hand pairs. He looked down the slope and waved at Knowles,
laconically indicating for the heavily laden group to lie down, and then he nodded
amicably at the Sergeant.

'Bloody voltigeurs on the crest.'

Voltigeurs, the French skirmishers, the light infantry who fought against the British
Light Companies. Sharpe squatted on the ground, his back to the enemy, and talked
softly.

'Saw the red epaulette.'

Harper looked over Sharpe's shoulder, flicking his eyes along the crest, and swore
quietly. Sharpe plucked a blade of grass and pushed it between his teeth. Another twenty
yards and they would have been in range of the French muskets. He swore as well.

Harper squatted. 'And if there are infantry, sir…'

'There are bloody cavalry as well.'

Harper jerked his head sideways, down the slope, to the empty, still-shadowed valley.
'There?'

Sharpe nodded. 'They must have seen us yesterday. Walking on a bloody ridge like
virgins.' He spat into the grass, scratched irritably through the torn hole in his left
sleeve. 'Bloody Spanish.'

Harper yawned for the benefit of the watching enemy. 'Time we had a proper fight, sir.'
He spoke mildly.

Sharpe scowled. 'If we could choose where.' He stood up. 'We go left.'

The hillside to the left, to the south, offered more cover, but he knew, with a
terrible certainty, that the Light Company was outnumbered by the enemy and almost
certainly outflanked as well. He blew his whistle, waved to the south, and the Company
moved along the side of the hill while Sharpe and Harper, quietly and slowly, warned the
Riflemen of the enemy skirmishers above.

Kearsey climbed up from the Redcoats. 'What are we doing, Sharpe?'

Sharpe told him about the skirmishers above. Kearsey looked triumphant, as if he had been
proved right.

'Told you, Sharpe. Pastureland, village. They're locking up the country and the food.
So what do you do now?'

'What we do now, sir, is get out of this.'

'How?'

'I have no idea, Major, no idea.'

'Told you, Sharpe! Capturing Eagles is all very well, but out here in enemy country
things are different, eh? El Catolico didn't get caught! Must have smelt the French and
vanished. We're sitting ducks.'

'Yes, sir.'

There was no point in arguing. If El Catolico had the gold he would not even have come
this far, but as Sharpe worked his way round the hill he knew that at any moment the journey
could end, die men with the gold caught between voltigeurs and cavalry, and in a month's
time someone at the army headquarters would wonder idly whatever happened to Captain
Sharpe and the Light Company that was sent on the impossible job of bringing back
Spanish gold. He turned on Kearsey.

'So where is El Catolico?'

'I doubt if he'll help you, Sharpe.'

'But he won't give up the gold, will he, Major? I suppose he's happy to let the French
ambush us and then he'll ambush them, right?'

Kearsey nodded. 'It's his only hope.'

Rifleman Tongue, educated and argumentative, spun round. 'Sir!'

The shout was his last; the bang of a musket muffled it, the smoke hanging in front of a
rock just twenty yards from him, and Tongue went on spinning and falling, and Sharpe ignored
Kearsey and ran ahead. Harper was crouching and searching for the man who had fired at
Tongue. Sharpe raced past, knelt by the Rifleman, and lifted up the head. 'Isaiah!'

The head was heavy; the eyes were sightless. The musket ball had gone cleanly between
two ribs and killed him even as he shouted the warning. Sharpe could hear the ramrod rattle
as the enemy skirmisher pushed his next round into die barrel; then the unseen enemy's
partner fired, the ball missing Sharpe by inches because the Frenchman had suddenly seen
Harper. The Sergeant's rifle bullet lifted the Frenchman up off the ground; he opened his
mouth to scream, but only blood came out and he dropped back. Sharpe could still hear the
scraping of the iron ramrod; he stood up with Tongue's rifle and ran forward. The voltigeur
saw him coming, panicked, and scrambled backwards, and Sharpe shot him in the base of the
spine and watched the man drop his musket and fall in agony to the hillside.

Parry Jenkins, Tongue's partner, seemed almost in tears. The Welshman stooped over
Tongue's body, unbuckling the ammunition pouch and canteen, and Sharpe threw him the dead
man's rifle. 'Here!' A French ball thudded into his pack, pushing him forward, and he knew
that the enemy skirmish line had bent down the hill, cutting their southward advance, and
he waved his men down and ran back to Jenkins.

'Have you got everything?'

'Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. God, I'm sorry, sir.'

Sharpe hit him on the shoulder. 'Come on, Parry. Not your fault. Down!'

They went down the hill, the musket balls over their heads, and found cover in the rocks.
Tongue's body would have to stay there, another Rifleman lost in Spain, or was this
Portugal? Sharpe did not know, but he thought of the school in the Midlands where Tongue had
once taught, appropriately enough, languages, and he wondered if anyone would remember
the clever young man with the friendly eyes who took to drink.

'Sir!'

Knowles was pointing behind and Sharpe rolled over and looked back the way they had come.
French skirmishers in faded bluejackets with red epaulettes were angling down the hill
behind them. He stayed on his back, facing his men.

'Rifles! Bayonets!'

The French would understand that all right, and feel the fear. He had unconsciously
counted the bullets that missed him when he went forward to Tongue's body and he knew,
though he had not thought about it, that the hillside in front was sparsely held. The French
had put a skirmish line there, thin and spaced, thinking it was enough to drive the British
back downhill where, still unseen, the cavalry must wait.

'Lieutenant!'

'Sir?'

'You'll follow us.'

We buy ten minutes, he thought, but we might get outside their cordon, and we might find
a place to defend. He knew it was hopeless, but it was better than being driven like fat
sheep, and he tugged out his sword, felt its edge, and was on his feet.

'Forward!'

One man of each pair watched, the other ran, and Sharpe heard the Bakers cracking the
morning apart as the Frenchmen put up their heads to fire at the small, spread band of men in
green who screamed at them and had twenty-three inches of steel fixed to their rifles. The
few skirmishers in their front ran, or else died from the spinning rifle bullets that
could not miss at fifty paces, and the Company kept running. Sharpe was ahead, his sword
across his body and his rifle bumping on his back. He saw skirmishers above them on the
hillside, and below, but muskets were a terrible instrument for precision work, and he
let the enemy fire and knew the odds were in the Company's favour. One man went down, hit in
the buttocks, but he was dragged up and they were through the gap and there were just a few
panicked French fugitives ahead who had not had the sense to climb the hill. One turned,
reached with his musket, and found himself faced with a giant Irishman who split him
neatly between the ribs, kicked the blade free, and went on. Sharpe cut at a man with his
sword, felt the bone-hammering jar as the Frenchman parried with his musket, and then he
ran on and wondered what kind of a dent he had put in the heavy steel edge.

'Come on! Uphill!'

That was not what the French expected, so it was the only way to go. The Company had
smashed the cordon, lost only one man, and now they forced their tired legs to go up the
slope, towards the western crest, and behind them the French orders rang out, the
blue-coated officers realigning their men, and there was no time for anything but to
force the legs up the impossible slope, feel the pain as the breath hurt the lungs, and then
Sharpe made the crest and, without stopping, turned and kept running. The damned French were
there, not expecting the British, but there all the same and lined up in files and ranks
waiting for orders. Sharpe had a glimpse of a gently falling slope, well grassed, and the
French battalion lined in companies, and the French watched, astonished, as the British
ran past their front, only a hundred paces away, and not a musket was fired.

There was no escape to the west, none to the north where the skirmishers chased them, and
Sharpe knew they must go south and east where the cavalry expected them. It was the only
direction that gave time, and time was the only hope. He turned, waved the Riflemen down,
and pushed Knowles and the red-jacketed men down the slope.

'Form up a hundred paces down!'

'Sir!' Knowles acknowledged, leapt over a boulder, and the Company was gone.

'Rifles! Hold them up!'

This was a better way of fighting, letting the enemy come to them, and killing them when
they were too far away to reply to the rifle fire. Sharpe fought as a Private, ramming the
balls down the rifling, picking his targets and waiting for the victim to rush forward.
He aimed low, never waited to see if the man fell, but dragged out another cartridge, bit
off the bullet, and started to reload. He could hear the rifles around him, firing as fast
as they could, which was not fast enough, and he knew that the French would come to their
senses soon and overwhelm them with targets and rush them with bayonets. He heard Harper
giving instructions, and wondered which of the Riflemen needed to be told that you
wrapped the bullet in the small greased patch so that it gripped the rifling, and he was so
curious that he dodged through the lingering smoke and saw Teresa, with Tongue's weapon,
her face already blackened with powder smoke, kneeling up to fire at a Frenchman.