Sharpe’s Gold

by Bernard Cornwell

Hogan spread his hands. 'We should have fetched the gold out days ago. The longer it's there, the riskier it gets.'

  There had been a fraction of silence in the room. The moth had burned its wings, was flapping on the table, and Sharpe crushed it. 'You don't think we'll succeed, do you.' It was a statement, not a question.

  Hogan looked up from the dead moth. 'No.'

  'So the war's lost?' Hogan nodded. Sharpe flicked the moth on to the floor. 'But the General says there are other tricks up his sleeve. That this isn't the only hope.'

  Hogan's eyes were tired. 'He has to say that.'

  Sharpe had stood up 'So why the hell don't you send three bloody regiments in? Four. Send the bloody army! Make sure you get the gold."

  'It's too far, Richard. There are no roads beyond Almeida. If we attract attention, then the French will be there before us. The regiments could never get across both rivers without a fight, and they'd be outnumbered. No. We're sending you.'

  And now he was climbing the tight bends of the border road, watching the dull horizon for the telltale gleam of a drawn enemy sabre, and marching in the knowledge that he was expected to fail. He hoped Major Kearsey, who waited for the Company in Almeida, had more faith, but Hogan had been diffident about the Major. Sharpe had probed again. 'Is he unreliable?'

  Hogan shook his head. 'He's one of the best, Richard, one of the very best. But he's not exactly the man we'd have chosen for this job.'

  He had refused to elaborate. Kearsey, he had told Sharpe, was an exploring officer, one of the men who rode fast horses behind enemy lines, in full uniform, and sent back a stream of information, despatches captured from the French by the Partisans and maps of the countryside. It was Kearsey who had discovered the gold, informed Wellington, and only Kearsey knew its exact location. Kearsey, suitable or not, was the key to success.

  The road flattened on the high crest of the Coa's east bank, and ahead, silhouetted in the dawn light, was Portugal's northern fortress, Almeida. It dominated the countryside for miles around, a town built on a hill that rose to the huge bulk of a cathedral and a castle side by side. Below those buildings, massive and challenging, the thick-tiled houses fell away down the steep streets until they met Almeida's real defences. In this early light, at this distance, it was the castle that impressed, with its four huge turrets and crenellated walls, but Sharpe knew that the high battlements had long been out of date, replaced by the low, grey ramparts that spread a vast, grim pattern round the town. He did not envy the French. They would have to attack across open ground, through a scientifically designed maze of ditches and hidden walls, and all the time they would be enfiladed by dozens of masked batteries that could pour canister and grape into the killing-ground between the long, sleek arms of the star-like fortifications. Almeida had been fortified, its defences rebuilt only seven years before, and the old, redundant castle looked down on the modern, unglamorous, granite monster that was designed only to lure, to trap, and to destroy.

  Closer, the defences seemed less threatening. It was an illusion. The old days of sheer, high walls were past and the best modern fortresses were surrounded by smooth hummocks, like the ones the Light Company approached, that were so gently sloping that even a cripple could walk up without losing breath. The hummocks were there to deflect the besiegers' cannon shots, to send the balls and shells ricocheting into the air, over the defences, so that when the infantry attacked, up the gentle, innocent grass slopes, they would find the murderous traps intact. At the top of that slope was hidden a vast ditch, at the far side of which was a granite-faced wall, topped by belching guns, and even if that were taken there was another behind, and another, and Sharpe was glad he was not summoning the strength to attack a fortress like this. It would come, he knew, because before the French were spat out of Spain the British would have to take towns like this, and he pushed away the thought. Sufficient unto the day was that evil.

  The Portuguese defenders were as impressive as their walls. The Company marched through the first gate, a tunnel that took two right turns beneath the first massive wall, and Sharpe was pleased at the look of the Portuguese. They were nothing like the shambles that had called itself the army of Spain. The Portuguese looked confident, with the arrogance of soldiers secure in their own strength and unafraid of the French storm that would soon lap round the walls of their huge, granite star. The town's steep streets were virtually empty of civilians, most of the houses barred shut, and to Sharpe it was as if Almeida were waiting, empty, for some great event. It was certainly prepared. From the guns on the inner walls to the bales of food stacked in courtyards, the fortress was supplied and ready. It was Portugal's front door and Massena would need all his fox-like cunning and strength to open it.

  Brigadier Cox, the English Commander of the garrison, had his headquarters at the top of the hill, but Sharpe found him outside, in the main Plaza, watching his men roll barrels of gunpowder into the door of the cathedral. Cox, tall and distinguished, returned Sharpe's salute.

  'Honoured, Sharpe, honoured. Heard about Talavera.'

  'Thank you, sir.' He glanced at the barrels going into the dark interior of the cathedral. 'You seem well prepared.'

  Cox nodded happily. 'We are, Sharpe, we are. Filled to the gunwales and ready to go.' He nodded at the cathedral. That's our magazine.'

  Sharpe showed his surprise and Cox laughed. 'The best defences in Portugal and nowhere to store the ammunition. Can you imagine that? Luckily they built that cathedral to last. Walls like Windsor Castle and crypts like dungeons. Hey presto, a magazine. No, I can't complain, Sharpe. Plenty of guns, plenty of ammunition. We should hold the Froggies up for a couple of months.' He looked speculatively at Sharpe's faded green jacket. 'I could do with some prime Riflemen, though.'

  Sharpe could see his Company being ordered on to the main ramparts and he swiftly changed the subject. 'I understand I'm to report to Major Kearsey, sir.'

  'Ah! Our exploring officer! You'll find him in the place nearest to God.' Cox laughed.

  Sharpe was puzzled. 'I'm sorry, sir?'

  'Top of the castle, Sharpe. Can't miss it, right by the telegraph. Your lads can get breakfast in the castle.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  Sharpe climbed the winding stairs of the mast-topped turret and, as he came into the early sunlight, understood Cox's reference to nearness to God. Beyond the wooden telegraph with its four motionless bladders, identical to the arrangement in Celorico, Sharpe saw a small man on his knees, an open Bible lying next to a telescope at his side. Sharpe coughed and the small man opened a fierce, battling eye.

  'Yes?'

  'Sharpe, sir. South Essex."

  Kearsey nodded, shut the eye, and went back to his prayers, his lips moving at double speed until he had finished. Then he took a deep breath, smiled at the sky as if his duty were done, and turned an abruptly fierce expression on Sharpe. 'Kearsey.' He stood up, his spurs clicking on the stones. The cavalryman was a foot shorter than Sharpe, but he seemed to compensate for his lack of height with a look of Cromwellian fervour and rectitude. 'Pleased to meet you, Sharpe.' His voice was gruff and he did not sound in the least pleased. 'Heard about Talavera, of course. Well done.'

  'Thank you, sir.' Kearsey had succeeded in making the compliment sound as if it had come from a man who had personally captured two or three dozen Eagles and was encouraging an apprentice. The Major closed his Bible.

  'Do you pray, Sharpe?'

  'No, sir.'

  'A Christian?'

  It seemed a strange conversation to be having on the verge of losing the whole war, but Sharpe knew of other officers like this who carried their faith to war like an extraordinary weapon.

  'I suppose so, sir.'

  Kearsey snorted. 'Don't suppose! Either you're washed in the blood of the Lamb or not. I'll talk to you later about it.'

  'Yes, sir. Something to look forward to.'

  Kearsey glared at Sharpe, but decided to believe him. 'Glad you're here, Sharpe. We can get going. You know
what we're doing?' He did not wait for an answer. 'One day's march to Casatejada, pick up the gold, escort it back to British lines, and send it on its way. Clear?'

  'No, sir.'

  Kearsey had already started walking towards the staircase, and, hearing Sharpe's words, he stopped abruptly, swivelled, and looked up at the Rifleman. The Major was wearing a long, black cloak, and in the first light he looked like a malevolent small bat.

  'What don't you understand?'

  'Where the gold is, who it belongs to, how we get it out, where it's going, do the enemy know, why us and not cavalry, and most of all, sir, what it's going to be used for.'

  'Used for?' Kearsey looked puzzled. 'Used for? None of your business, Sharpe.'

  'So I understand, sir.'

  Kearsey was walking back to the battlement. 'Used for! It's Spanish gold. They can do what they like with it. They can buy more gaudy statues for their Romish churches, if they want to, but they won't.' He started barking, and Sharpe realized, after a moment's panic, that the Major was laughing. 'They'll buy guns, Sharpe, to kill the French.'

  'I thought the gold was for us, sir. The British.'

  Kearsey sounded like a dog coughing, Sharpe decided, and he watched as Kearsey almost doubled over with his strange laugh. 'Forgive me, Sharpe. For us? What a strange idea. It's Spanish gold, belongs to them. Not for us at all! Oh, no! We're just delivering it safely to Lisbon and the Royal Navy will ship it down to Cadiz.' Kearsey started his strange barking again, repeating to himself, 'For us! For us!'

  Sharpe decided it was not the time, or place, to enlighten the Major. It did not matter much what Kearsey thought, as long as the gold was taken safely back over the river Coa. 'Where is it now, sir?'

  'I told you. Casatejada.' Kearsey bristled at Sharpe, as though he resented giving away precious information, but then he seemed to relent and sat on the edge of the telegraph platform and riffled the pages of his Bible as he talked. 'It's Spanish gold. Sent by the government to Salamanca to pay the army. The army gets defeated, remember? So the Spaniards have a problem. Lot of money in the middle of nowhere, no army, and the countryside crawling with the French. Luckily a good man got hold of the gold, told me, and I came up with the solution.'

  'The Royal Navy.'

  'Precisely! We send the gold back to the government in Cadiz.'

  'Who's the "good man", sir?'

  'Ah. Cesar Moreno. A fine man, Sharpe. He leads a guerrilla band. He brought the gold from Salamanca.'

  'How much, sir?'

  'Sixteen thousand coins.'

  The amount meant nothing to Sharpe. It depended how much each coin weighed. 'Why doesn't Moreno bring it over the border, sir?'

  Kearsey stroked his grey moustache, twitched at his cloak, and seemed unsettled by the question. He looked fiercely at Sharpe, as if weighing up whether to say more, and then sighed. 'Problems, Sharpe, problems. Moreno's band is small and he's joined up with another group, a bigger group, and the new man doesn't want us to help. This man's marrying Moreno's daughter, has a lot of influence, and he's our problem. He thinks we just want to steal the gold! Can you imagine that?' Sharpe could, very well, and he suspected that Wellington had more than imagined it. Kearsey slapped at a fly. 'Wasn't helped by our failure two weeks ago.'

  'Failure?'

  Kearsey looked unhappy. 'Cavalry, Sharpe. My own regiment, too. We sent fifty men and they got caught.' He chopped his hand up and down as if it were a sabre. 'Fifty. So we lost face to the Spanish. They don't trust us, and they think we're losing the war and planning to take their gold. El Catolico wants to move the gold by land, but I've persuaded them to give us one more chance!'

  After a dearth of information Sharpe was suddenly being deluged with new facts. 'El Catolico, sir?'

  'I told you! The new man. Marrying Moreno's daughter.'

  'But why El Catolico?'

  A stork flapped its way up into the sky, legs back, long wings edged with black, and Kearsey watched it for a second or two.

  'Ah! See what you mean. The Catholic. He prays over his victims before he kills them. The Latin prayer for the dead. Just as a joke, of course.' The Major sounded gloomy. His fingers riffled the pages as if he were drawing strength from the psalms and stories that were beneath his fingertips. 'He's a dangerous man, Sharpe. Ex-officer, knows how to fight, and he doesn't want us to be involved.'

  Sharpe took a deep breath, walked to the battlement, and stared at the rocky northern landscape. 'So, sir. The gold is a day's march from here, guarded by Moreno and El Catolico, and our job is to fetch it, persuade them to let us take it, and escort it safely over the border.'

  'Quite right.'

  'What's to stop Moreno already taking it, sir? I mean, while you're here.'

  Kearsey gave a single snorting bark. 'Thought of that, Sharpe. Left a man there, one of the Regiment, good man. He's keeping an eye on things, keeping the Partisans sweet.' Kearsey stood up and, in the growing heat of the sun, shrugged off his cloak. His uniform was blue with a pelisse of silver lace and grey fur. At his side was the polished-steel scabbard of the curved sabre. It was the uniform of the Prince of Wales Dragoons, of Claud Hardy, of Josefina's lover, Sharpe's usurper. Kearsey pushed the Bible into his slung sabretache. 'Moreno trusts us; it's only El Catolico we have to worry about, and he likes Hardy. I think it will be all right.'

  'Hardy?' Sharpe had somehow sensed it, the feeling of an incomplete story.

  'That's right.' Kearsey glanced sharply at the Rifleman. 'Captain Claud Hardy. You know him?'

  'No, sir.'

  Which was true. He had never met him, just watched Josefina walk away to Hardy's side. He had thought that the rich young cavalry officer was in Lisbon, dancing away the nights, and instead he was here! Waiting a day's march away. He stared westward, away from Kearsey, at the deep, dark-shadowed gorge of the Coa that slashed across the landscape. Kearsey stamped his feet.

  'Anything else, Sharpe?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Good. We march tonight. Nine o'clock."

  Sharpe turned back. 'Yes, sir.'

  'One rule, Sharpe. I know the country, you don't, so no questions, just instant obedience.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Company prayers at sunset, unless the Froggies interfere.'

  'Yes, sir.' Good Lord!

  Kearsey returned Sharpe's salute. 'Nine o'clock, then. At the north gate!' He turned and clattered down the winding stairs and Sharpe went back to the battlement, leaned on the granite, and stared unseeing at the huge sprawl of defences beneath him.

  Josefina. Hardy. He squeezed the silver ring, engraved with an eagle, which she had bought for him before the battle, but which had been her parting gift when the killing had finished along the banks of the Portina stream north of Talavera. He had tried to forget her, to tell himself she was not worth it, and as he looked up at the rough countryside to the north he tried to force his mind away from her, to think of the gold, of El Catolico, the praying killer, and Cesar Moreno. But to do the job with Josefina's lover? God damn it!

  A midshipman, far from the sea, came on to the turret to man the telegraph, and he looked curiously at the tall, dark haired Rifleman with the scarred face. He looked, the midshipman decided, a dangerous beast, and he watched as a big, tanned hand fidgeted with the hilt of an enormous, straight-bladed sword.

  'She's a bitch!' Sharpe said.

  'Pardon, sir?' The midshipman, fifteen years old, was frightened.

  Sharpe turned, unaware he had been joined. 'Nothing, son, nothing.' He grinned at the bemused boy. 'Gold for greed, women for jealousy, and death for the French. Right?'

  'Yes, sir. Of course, sir.'

  The boy watched the tall man go down the stairs. Once he had wanted to join the army, years before, but his father had simply looked up and said that anyone who joined the army was stark mad. He started untying the ropes that secured the bladders. His father, as ever, had been undoubtedly right.

  Chapter 4

  On foot Kearsey was bus
y and, to Sharpe's eyes, ludicrous. He strutted with tiny steps, legs scissoring quickly, while his eyes, above the big, grey moustache, peered acutely at the mass of taller humanity. On horseback, though, astride his huge roan, he was at home as if he had been restored to his true height. Sharpe was impressed by the night's march. The moon was thin and cloud-ridden, yet the Major led the Company unerringly across difficult country. They crossed the frontier somewhere in the darkness, a grunt from Kearsey announcing the news, and then the route led downhill to the river Agueda, where they waited for the first sign of dawn.

  If Kearsey was impressive he was also annoying. The march had been punctuated with advice, condescending advice, as if Kearsey were the only man who understood the problems. He certainly knew the countryside, from the farmlands along the road from Almeida to Ciudad Rodrigo, to the high country that was to the north, the chaos of the valleys and hills that dropped finally to the river Duero, into which the Coa and the Agueda flowed. He knew the villages, the paths, the rivers and where they could be crossed; he knew the high hills and the sheltered passes, and within the lonely countryside he knew the guerrilla bands and where they could be found. Sitting in the mist that ghosted up from the Agueda, he talked, in his gruff voice, about the Partisans. Sharpe and Knowles listened, the unseen river a sound in the background, as the Major talked of ambushes and murders, the secret places where arms were stored, and the signal codes that flashed from hilltop to hilltop.

  'Nothing can move here, Sharpe, nothing, without the Partisans knowing. The French have to escort every messenger with four hundred men. Imagine that? Four hundred sabres to protect one despatch and sometimes even that's not enough.'

  Sharpe could imagine it, and even pity the French for it. Wellington paid hard cash for every captured despatch; sometimes they came to his headquarters with the crusted blood of the dead messenger still crisp on the paper. The messenger who died clean in such a fight was lucky. The wounded were taken not for the information but for revenge, and the war in the hills between French and Spanish was a terrible tale of ghastly pain. Kearsey was riffling the pages of his unseen Bible as he talked.