Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (75 page)

Kearsey had limped to the edge of the gully’s floor and was looking up at Sharpe. ‘What’s happening?’

‘She’s leading them away, sir.’ He talked normally, the lancers were way beyond earshot.

Kearsey nodded, as if he had expected the answer. Harper still looked curious. ‘How, sir?’

The girl had disappeared behind the summit, and the lancers, all discipline shredded, were panting up the slope a good fifty yards behind. Sharpe grinned at his Sergeant. ‘She took her clothes off.’

Kearsey whipped round, aghast. ‘You looked!’

‘Only to see if I could help, sir.’

‘What kind of a man are you, Sharpe?’ Kearsey was furious, but Sharpe turned away. What kind of a man was it that would not have looked?

Harper still stood over the unconscious lancer and he sounded aggrieved. ‘You might have told me, sir.’

Sharpe turned back. Kearsey had limped away. ‘I promised your mother I’d keep you out of trouble. Sorry.’ He grinned at the Sergeant again. ‘If I’d told you, then the whole damn Company would have wanted a look. Yes? And by now we’d be back in the war instead of being safe.’

Harper grinned. ‘Privilege of rank, eh, sir?’

‘Something like that.’ He thought of the beauty, the shadowed body with its hard stomach, long thighs, and the challenges of the disinterested, almost antagonistic glances that she had given him.

It was two hours before she returned, as silently as she had left, and wearing her white dress. She had done her work well, for the lancers had been recalled, the Sergeant given up, and Casatejada was thronged with Frenchmen. Sharpe guessed that the village had been the centre of a huge operation to clear the Partisans from Masséna’s supply areas. Kearsey agreed, and the two men watched as other cavalry units came from the north to join the Polish lancers. Dragoons, chasseurs, the uniforms of empire, stirring a dust cloud that would have befitted a whole army, and all spent on chasing Partisans through dry hills.

The girl came up the rim and watched, silently, as the cavalry left her village. Their weapons flashed needles of light through the brown haze of the dust; the ranks seemed endless, the glorious might of France that had ridden down the best cavalry in Europe but could not defeat the Guerrilleros. Sharpe looked at the girl, at Kearsey, who talked with her, and was glad once more that he did not have to fight the Partisans. The only way to win was to kill them all, every one, young and old, and even that, as the French were finding, did not work. He thought of the bodies in the blood of the basement. It was not the war of Talavera.

They spent the night in the gully, cautious lest the French should still be watching, and some time in the small hours the bubbles stopped in Kelly’s throat. Pru Kelly, though she did not know it, was a widow again, and Sharpe remembered the small Corporal’s smile, his willingness. They buried him at dawn, in a grave scratched from the soil, and they heaped it with rocks that would be forced apart by a fox and perched on by the vultures who would tear his chest further apart.

Kearsey said the words, from memory, and the men stood round the heaped stones awkwardly. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and in a few weeks, Sharpe thought, Pru Kelly would marry again because that was the way with the women who marched with soldiers. The Polish Sergeant, tied up with musket slings, watched the burial and, for a few moments, stopped his struggles. The new day came, still hot, the rain still keeping away, and the Light Company marched into the empty valley to find their gold.

It was a sweet smell, sticky-sweet, that left a foul deposit somewhere at the top of the nostrils, yet it was impossible to describe why it was so unpleasant. Sharpe had smelt it often enough, so had most of the Company, and they knew it fifty yards from the village. It was not so much a smell, Sharpe thought, as a state of the air, like an invisible mist. It seemed, like a mist, to thicken the air, make breathing difficult, yet all the time to have that sweet promise, as if the corpses the French had left behind were made of sugar and honey.

Not even the dogs had been left alive. A few cats, too difficult to catch, had survived the French, but the dogs, like their owners, had been killed, splayed open with desperate savagery, as if the French thought that death by itself was not enough and a body must be turned inside out if it was not to come magically alive to ambush them again. Only one man lived in the village, one of Sharpe’s men left behind in the attack, and the French, true to the curious honour that prevailed between the armies, had left John Rorden propped on a mattress, with bread and water to hand and a bullet somewhere in his pelvis that would kill him before this new day was done.

Ramon, in slow English, told Sharpe that four dozen people had been left in the village, mostly the old or the very young, but they had all died. Sharpe stared at the wrecked houses, the blood splashed on low, white walls.

‘Why were they caught?’

Ramon shrugged, waved a bandaged hand. ‘They were good.’

‘Good?’

‘Francese.’ He was lost for a word and Sharpe helped.

‘Clever?’

The young man nodded. He had his sister’s nose, the same dark eyes, but there was a friendliness to him that Sharpe had not seen in Teresa. Ramon shook his head hopelessly. ‘They were not all Guerrilleros, yes?’ Each group of words was a question, as if he wanted assurance that his English was adequate. Sharpe kept nodding. ‘They want peace? But now.’ He spoke two quick sentences in Spanish, his tone bitter, and Sharpe knew that those people of the uplands who had tried to stay aloof from the war would be drawn in whether they wanted it or not. Ramon blinked back tears; the dead had been of his village. ‘We went there?’ He pointed north. ‘They were before us, yes? We were…’ He described a circle with his two bandaged hands.

‘Surrounded?’

‘
Sí
.’ He looked down at his right hand, at the fingers that poked from the grey bandage, and Sharpe saw the index finger moving as if it were pulling a trigger. Ramon would fight again.

The bodies were not just in the cellar. Some, perhaps for the amusement of the lancers, had been taken to the hermitage to meet their bitter end, and on the steps of the building Sharpe found Isaiah Tongue, the admirer of Napoleon, throwing up the dry bread that had been his breakfast. The Company waited by the hermitage. The prisoner, tall and proud, stood by Sergeant McGovern, and Sharpe stopped by the Scotsman.

‘Look after him, Sergeant.’

‘Aye, sir. They’ll not touch him.’ The sturdy face was twisted as if in pain. McGovern, like Tongue, had looked inside the hermitage. ‘Savages, sir, that’s what they are. Savages!’

‘I know.’

There was nothing to say that would reach McGovern’s pain, the hurt of a father far from his children who had just seen small, dead bodies. The stench was thick by the hermitage, buzzing with flies, and Sharpe paused by the steps. There was almost a reluctance to go inside, not just because of the bodies but because of what the hermitage might not contain. The gold. So close, so near to the war’s survival, and instead of a feeling of triumph he felt stained, touched by a horror that brought an anger against his job. He climbed the steps, his face a mask, and wondered what his men would do if they found themselves, as they probably would, in a place where the rules no longer counted. He remembered the uncontrollable savagery that followed a siege, the sheer, exploding rage that he had felt after death had touched him a score of times in one small breach and he knew, as the cold air of the hermitage struck him, that this war in Spain, if it should go on, would not be won until British infantry had been fed into the narrow meat grinder of a small gap in a city wall.

‘Out! Get them out!’ The men, pale-faced, looked shocked at Sharpe’s anger, but he knew no other way to react to the small bodies. ‘Bury them!’

Harper was crying, tears running down his cheeks. So much innocence, so much waste, as if a baby had earned this. Kearsey stood there, with Teresa, and neither cried. The Major flicked at his moustache. ‘Terrible. Awful.’

‘So is what they do to the French.’ Sharpe surprised himself by saying it, but it was true. He remembered the naked prisoners, wondered how the other captured Hussars had died.

‘Yes.’ Kearsey used the tone of a man trying to avoid an argument.

The girl looked at Sharpe and he saw she was holding back tears, her face rigid with an anger that was frightening. Sharpe swatted at a fly. ‘Where’s the gold?’

Kearsey followed him, spurs clicking on stone, and pointed at a stone slab that was flush with the hermitage floor. The building was not used for services. Even despite the ravages worked by the Poles it had the air of disuse, of being little more than storage for the village cemetery. It was a place that was consecrated only to death. The Major poked the stone slab with his toe. ‘Under there.’

‘Sergeant!’

‘Sir!’

‘Find a bloody pick! Smartly!’

There was a comfort in orders, as if they could recall a war in which small babies did not die. He looked at the slab engraved with the name Moreno and beneath the letters an ornate and eroded coat of arms. Sharpe tried to forget the sound of the bodies being dragged outside. He tapped his toe on the shield.

‘Noble family, sir?’

‘What? Oh.’ Kearsey was subdued. ‘I don’t know, Sharpe. Perhaps once.’

The girl had her back to them and Sharpe realized that this was her family’s vault. It made Sharpe wonder, with an irritating gesture, where his own body would finally rest. Beneath the ashes of some battlefield, or drowned like the poor reinforcements in their transport ships? ‘Sergeant!’

‘Sir?’

‘Where’s that pick?’

Harper kicked at the debris left by the Poles, then grunted and stooped. He had the pick, minus its handle, and he thrust it into the gap between the stones. He heaved, the veins on his face standing out, and with a shudder the slab moved, lifted, and there was a space large enough for Sharpe to slide a piece of broken stone beneath.

‘You men!’ Faces looked round from the door of the hermitage. ‘Come here!’

Teresa had gone to a second door, opening into the cemetery, and stood there as if she was not interested. Harper found another spot, levered again, and this time it was easier and there was enough space for a dozen hands to take hold of the slab and pull it from the floor, swinging it like a trapdoor, while Kearsey fussed that they would let it fall and bequeath to the Morenos a broken vault. Dark steps led down into the blackness. Sharpe stood at the top, claiming the right to be first down.

‘Candle? Come on, someone! There’s got to be a candle!’

Hagman had one in his pack, a greasy but serviceable stump, and there was a pause while it was lit. Sharpe stared into the blackness. Here was where Wellington’s hopes were pinned? It was ludicrous.

He took the candle and began the slow descent into the tomb and to a different kind of smell. This was not a sweet smell, not rank, but dusty because the bodies had been here a long time, some long enough for the coffins to have collapsed and to show the gleam of dry bones. Others were newer, still intact, the stonework below their niches stained with seeping liquid, but Sharpe was not looking at coffins. He held the miserable light high, sweeping it round the small space and saw, bright in the corruption, the flash of metal. It was not gold, just a discarded piece of brass that had once bound the corner of a casket.

Sharpe turned to look at Kearsey. ‘There’s no gold.’

‘No.’ The Major looked round, as if he might have missed sixteen thousand gold coins on the empty floor. ‘It’s gone.’

‘Where was it stored?’ Sharpe knew it was hopeless, but he would not give up.

‘There. Where you are.’

‘Then where’s it gone, sir?’

Kearsey sniffed, drew himself up to his full height. ‘How would I know, Sharpe? All I know is that it is not here.’ He sounded almost vindicated.

‘And where’s Captain Hardy?’ Sharpe was angry. To have come this far, for nothing.

‘I don’t know.’

Sharpe kicked the vault’s wall, a petty reaction, and swore. The gold gone, Hardy missing, Kelly dead and Rorden dying. He put the candle on the ledge of a niche and bent down to look at the floor. The dust had been disturbed by long, streaking marks, and he congratulated himself ironically for guessing that the smears had been made when the gold was removed. The knowledge was not much use now. The gold was gone. He straightened up.

‘Could El Católico have taken it?’

The voice came from above them, from the top of the steps, and it was a rich voice, deep as Kearsey’s but younger, much younger. ‘No, he could not.’ The owner of the voice wore long grey boots and a long grey cloak over a slim silver scabbard. As he descended the steps into the dim light, he proved to be a tall man with dark, thin good looks. ‘Major. How good to see you back.’

Kearsey preened himself, flicked at his moustache, gestured at Sharpe. ‘Colonel Jovellanos, this is Captain Sharpe. Sharpe, this is—’

‘El Católico.’ Sharpe’s voice was neutral, no pleasure in the meeting.

The tall man, perhaps three years older than Sharpe, smiled. ‘I am Joaquím Jovellanos, once Colonel in the Spanish army, and now known as El Católico.’ He bowed slightly. He seemed amused by the meeting. ‘They use my name to frighten the French, but you can see that I am really harmless.’ Sharpe remembered the man’s extraordinary speed with the sword, his bravery in facing the French charge alone. The man was far from harmless. Sharpe noticed the hands, long-fingered, that moved with a kind of ritual grace when he gestured. One of them was offered to Sharpe. ‘I hear you rescued my Teresa.’

‘Yes.’ Sharpe, as tall as El Católico, felt lumpish beside the Spaniard’s civilized languor.

The other hand came from behind the cloak, briefly touched Sharpe’s shoulder. ‘Then I am in your debt.’ The words were given the lie by eyes that remained watchful and wary. El Católico moved back and smiled deprecatingly as if in admission that Spanish manners could be a trifle flowery. A slim hand gestured at the tomb. ‘Empty.’

‘So it seems. A lot of money.’

‘Which it would have been your pleasure to carry for us.’ The voice was like dark silk. ‘To Cádiz?’

El Católico’s eyes had not left Sharpe. The Spaniard smiled, made the same gesture round the vault. ‘Alas, it cannot be. It is gone.’

‘Do you know where?’ Sharpe felt like a grubby street-sweeper in the presence of an exquisite aristocrat.

The eyebrows went up. ‘I do, Captain. I do.’

Sharpe knew he was being tantalized, but ploughed on. ‘Where?’

‘Does it interest you?’ Sharpe did not reply and El Católico smiled again. ‘It is our gold, Captain, Spanish gold.’

‘I’m curious.’

‘Ah. Well, in that case, I can relieve your curiosity. The French have it. They captured it two days ago, along with your gallant Captain Hardy. We captured a straggler who told us so.’

Kearsey coughed, looked to El Católlico as if for permission to speak, and received it. ‘That’s it, Sharpe. Hunt’s over. Back to Portugal.’

Sharpe ignored him, continued to stare at the watchful Spaniard. ‘You’re sure?’

El Católico smiled, raised amused eyebrows, spread his hands. ‘Unless our straggler lied. And I doubt that.’

‘You prayed with him?’

‘I did, Captain. He went to heaven with a prayer, and with all his ribs removed, one by one.’ El Católico laughed.

It was Sharpe’s turn to smile. ‘We have our own prisoner. I’m sure he can deny or confirm your straggler’s story.’

El Católico pointed a finger up the stairs. ‘The Polish Sergeant? Is that your prisoner?’

Sharpe nodded. The lies would be nailed. ‘That’s the one.’

‘How very sad.’ The hands came together with a graceful hint of prayerful regret. ‘I cut his throat as I arrived. In a moment of anger.’

The eyes were not smiling, whatever the mouth did, and Sharpe knew this was not the moment to accept, or even acknowledge, the delicate challenge. He shrugged, as if the death of the Sergeant meant nothing to him, and followed the tall Spaniard up the steps and into the hermitage that was noisy with newcomers who quietened as their leader appeared. Sharpe stood, in the thick, sweet smell, and watched the grey-cloaked man move easily among his followers: the figure of a leader who disbursed favour, reward, and consolation.

A soldier, Sharpe knew, was judged not merely by his actions but by the enemies he destroyed, and the Rifleman’s fingers reached, unconsciously, for his big sword. Nothing had been admitted, nothing openly said, but in the gloom of the vault, in the wreckage of British hopes, Sharpe had found the enemy, and now, in the scent of death, he groped for the way to victory in this sudden, unwanted, and very private little war.