Sharpe’s Gold

by Bernard Cornwell

  '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 Catolico 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 Catolico 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 Catolico, 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 Catolico 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 Catolico soothed his horse, looked at Kearsey. 'What about him?'

  Kearsey was embarrassed. 'Sharpe says you killed him.'

  El Catolico 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.

  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.

  Chapter 16

  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 Catalico 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.