Sharpe's Gold (17 page)

Dogs barked in the town, horses moved restless feet on the wooden stable-boards, and on
the stone front steps the sentries shuffled in the darkness. In the hallway of the house a
clock ticked heavily, but in the ground-floor room, lit by candles, the only sound was the
rustling of paper until the tall, hooked-nosed man leaned back and tapped a long finger on
the table's edge.

'The siege has not begun?'

'No, my lord."

The General leaned forward and drew a square map towards him, scraping it over the
table, and put the long finger on a white space in its centre.

'Here?'

Major Michael Hogan leaned into the candlelight. The map showed the country from
Celorico, where they sat, across the border to Ciudad Rodrigo. Crawling up the map,
dividing it into three, were the Coa and Agueda rivers, and the long finger was pointing
between the rivers, north of Almeida.

'As best we can judge, my lord.'

'And what is there, pray?'

The General's finger relaxed and traced an unconscious line down to the writing on
the bottom. Drawn by Maj. Kearsey. Q'Master Gen's Dep't. Hogan wondered idly when Kearsey
had drawn the map, but it did not matter. He drew a piece of paper to him.

'Four new French battalions, sir. We know the 18th of the Line are there, probably at
strength. A regiment of lancers, one of chasseurs.'

There was a brief silence. Wellington snorted. 'After food, I suppose?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'And round the town?'

Another piece of paper. 'A loose ring, my lord. Mostly to the south where the artillery
park is building. We know of just two battalions of foot and, of course, cavalry
patrols.'

'They're slow, Hogan, slow!'

'Yes, sir.'

Hogan waited. If the French were slow, all to the good, and the reports that filtered
back from Partisans and exploring officers suggested that Massena was having
problems assembling his transport, his siege materials, and, above all, his rations.
There was also a rumour that he was with his mistress and reluctant to leave the comfort
of her bedroom for the discomforts of the campaign. The General put his hand back on the
map.

'Nothing from the KGL?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'Damn, damn, damn.' The words were spoken softly, almost reflectively.

He picked up a letter, postmarked London, and read it aloud, though Hogan suspected the
words were known by heart.

'“I write in confidence, trusting to your discretion that however precarious the
position of the army it is matched by our own. An opposition rampant, a press
malignant, an ailing monarch, and there can be no hopes for a further draft of monies
before the autumn. We put our faith in your exertions.”' He put down the letter,
dismissing the new government's fears, and looked at the map. 'I wonder where he is?'

It was not like the General, Hogan reflected, to articulate his worries. 'If I know
him, my lord, and I do, then I suspect he will be avoiding Almeida. Coming the direct
way.'

'He'd be better off in Almeida.'

'He would, my lord, but no one could expect that. And in two days…' Hogan shrugged. In two
days the enemy would lock up the town as effectively as the countryside.

The General frowned, drummed the table with his fingers. 'Do I warn Cox?'

The question was asked of himself, not Hogan, but the Irishman knew what was in
Wellington's mind. The fewer people who knew of the gold, the better. The Spanish
government, in impotent obscurity at Cadiz, would assume the gold to have been
captured by the French when the armies collapsed in the north, and if they were to discover
that their allies, the British, had purloined it? No. The General's fingers slapped down
in finality; he would not burden Almeida's commander with another problem.

'If Sharpe is alive, Hogan, we'll assume he does what you say. Avoid Almeida.' He
dismissed the problem, looked up at the Irishman. 'How does the work go?'

'Well, my lord, excellently. But…'

'I know. The money. Can it wait a week?'

'Ten days.'

Wellington's eyebrows went up in mock surprise. 'Some good news. Let's hope for
more.'

He passed on to other business, to a General Order that limited field officers'
leave in Lisbon to just twenty-four hours. If they couldn't find a woman in that time, the
General claimed, they might as well not stay on and look. There would be only one
exception. The blue eyes looked at Hogan.

'If that damned rogue gets back, give him a month.'

The damned rogue, with a hurting shoulder and a seething sense of frustration, was
riding a horse into the intricate defences of Almeida. Lossow rode beside him.

'I'm sorry, Sharpe. We had no choice!'

'I know. I know.'

It was true, too, however grudgingly he admitted it. Every move was headed off by
damned Frenchmen who seemed to be everywhere. They had been chased twice, lost a German
trooper, and in the end, exhausted and hunted, they turned for the safety of the town.
Sharpe had wanted to lay up in the country, travel in darkness, but the French were
alerted and he knew that there was no sense in being chased ragged round the east bank of the
Coa.

Straw torches, soaked in resin, flamed and smoked in the tunnelled gateway, casting
lurid shadows on the Portuguese infantry who had dragged open the huge doors and now watched
the tired men ride and walk into the town. The insides of Sharpe's legs were sore; he hated
riding horses, but Lossow had insisted. The gold was all on horseback, carried by the
Germans, and Sharpe looked at them, all alert, and then at Lossow.

'Why don't we ride straight through? Out the other side?'

Lossow laughed. 'They must be fed! The horses, I mean. One good dinner of corn and
they'll go through the French like the pox through a regiment. We go in the morning, ja?'

'Dawn?'

'Yes, my friend. Dawn."

There was still hope. The French had not even surrounded Almeida; they had ridden the
last few miles unmolested, and Sharpe guessed that the cavalry patrols were
concentrated to the north. In the southern sky, beyond the bulk of the castle, he could
see the glow of fires, and assumed that the French had chosen the easier countryside in
which to build their artillery park. To the west, where the river was so tantalizingly
close, he had seen no fires, except in the distance, and they were British. Success was so
close.

Kearsey, on yet another borrowed horse, led the procession into the Plaza. The castle
and cathedral were close to the northern gate where they had entered, and the big Plaza
seemed to be the only inhabited place in the town. Sharpe looked for Knowles.

'Lieutenant?'

'Sir?'

'Go to the lower town. You'll find billets. Knock a house open.' There were dozens of
empty houses. 'Meet me back here. Sergeant?"

Harper came alongside the horse and Sharpe gestured at Teresa. 'She'll need a room. I'll
join the Company when I'm finished here.'

Harper grinned. 'Yes, sir.'

Cox's headquarters were dark inside and Kearsey, Sharpe, and Lossow waited in an
echoing hallway while a sleepy orderly went upstairs. The German officer grinned.

'In bed! Lucky man!'

'Major!' Cox was at the top of the stairs, his hair ruffled, dressed in a long red gown
belted at his waist. 'You're back! A moment! Go into the drawing-room. Candles!'

Sharpe pulled back a heavy velvet curtain and across the Plaza could see the dark shape of
the squat cathedral. There was a bustle behind him as Portuguese servants brought in
candles and tapers, wine and food, and he let the curtain drop and sat, exhausted, in a
deep, comfortable chair. Down the road, he thought, in the morning. One last effort, one
last surprise attack, and it was done. He helped himself to the wine, offered some to
Lossow, ignored the disapproving look from Kearsey.

The door opened. 'You helped yourself. Good!' Cox had pulled on a shirt and trousers,
brushed his hair, and he nodded amicably at Sharpe. 'Captain. Captain Lossow. What can I
do for you?'

Sharpe sat up, surprised. Did Cox not know? He exchanged a glance with Lossow; they both
looked at Kearsey, expecting him to speak, but the Major sat tight-lipped. Sharpe put down
his wine.

'You know about the gold, sir?'

Cox nodded; a shadow on his face hid the expression, but Sharpe thought it was guarded.
'I know, Captain.'

'We have it, sir. We must take it to Celorico. We wanted to feed the horses, rest, and
leave at dawn. With your permission, sir, we'd like the western gate opened an hour before
first light.'

Cox nodded, leaned over and poured himself a small glass of wine. 'Whose gold is it?'

Sharpe felt an immense burden come back. 'I am under orders from Lord Wellington, sir.
Orders that tell me to take the gold to him.'

Cox's eyebrows shot up. 'Good! Let me see the orders, then!'

Sharpe glanced at Kearsey, who reddened. The Major cleared his throat. 'The orders were
accidentally destroyed, sir. No blame to Captain Sharpe.'

Cox's hope seemed to diminish. He peered at Kearsey over his wine. 'You saw them? What did
they say?'

'That all officers should render assistance to Captain Sharpe.' Kearsey spoke in a
neutral voice.

Cox nodded. 'And Sharpe is taking the gold to Lord Wellington, right?'

Sharpe nodded, but Kearsey interrupted. 'The orders did not say, sir.'

'For God's sake, sir!' Sharpe exploded, but Cox banged on the table.

'Did your orders specifically mention the gold?'

'No, sir.'

Sharpe damned Kearsey for his quibbling honesty. Without the Major's last remark the
Light Company might be homeward-bound in a few hours. Cox's fingers drummed on the
table.

'I have a problem, gentlemen.' He pulled papers towards him, muttered something about
tidiness, and held out a thick piece of parchment, sealed with a heavy wax circle, and waved
it in the candlelight. 'A request from the Spanish government, our allies, that the gold
does not pass through British hands. Damned strange, really.'

Lossow coughed. 'Strange, sir?'

Cox nodded. 'Fellow arrives today, full fig, and tells me about the gold. It was the
first I knew about it. He's got an escort for it. Spanish Colonel. He's called
Jovellanos.'

Sharpe looked at Kearsey. He knew the answer. 'Jovellanos?'

'El Catolico.' Kearsey stretched for the piece of paper and held the seal up to the
candle before reading the words. 'It's in order, sir. Genuine.'

'How the hell can it be in order?' Sharpe's right hand was gripped tight into a fist.
'He's a bloody bandit! A crook! He wrote the damned thing himself! We have orders, sir, from
the General. From Lord Wellington. That gold goes to Celorico!'

Cox, who had been friendly, scowled at Sharpe. 'I see no need for anger, Captain Sharpe.
Colonel Jovellanos is here, my guest.'

'But, sir' – Lossow broke in, glancing at Sharpe sympathetically – 'Captain Sharpe
speaks the truth. We were told that the gold was important. It had to go to the lord
Wellington.'

Cox took a deep breath, let it out, tapped his toe on the floor. 'God damn it, gentlemen,
I am facing a siege which will begin any day now. The enemy's guns are in sight, the
placements are being dug, and you bring me this?'

Sharpe repeated doggedly, 'We have orders, sir.'

'So you say.' Cox picked up the paper. 'Is there a junta for Castile?'

Kearsey nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'And does Joaquim Jovellanos have authority from it?'

Kearsey nodded again.

'And the gold is theirs?'

The nod again.

The paper dropped on to the table. 'The General gave me no orders!'

Sharpe sighed. An English Brigadier in the Portuguese army faced with a Spanish Colonel,
an English Captain, a German cavalryman, Spanish gold, and no orders. He had an
idea.

'Sir, is the telegraph working?'

Lossow snapped his fingers. Cox frowned at the German. 'Yes, Captain. There's a relay
station over the river, towards Pinhel.'

'When can the first messages be sent?'

Cox shrugged. 'Depends on the weather. Usually an hour after dawn.'

Sharpe nodded impatiently. 'Would you, sir, consider a message to the General
requesting orders concerning the gold?'

Cox looked at him, shrugged again. 'Of course. First thing tomorrow?'

'Please, sir.'

Cox stood up. 'Good! Problem solved. I'll tell Colonel Jovellanos tomorrow and you can
get a night's sleep. I must say you look as if you need it. Good God.' He was peering at
Sharpe's shoulder. 'You're hurt!'

'It will mend, sir.' Sharpe finished his wine; damned if politeness would stop him. And
damn Wellington, too, who had held the cards too close to his chest so that Cox, a decent
man, was put in this position. 'Sir?'

Cox turned away from the doorway. 'Sharpe?'

'How many men in Colonel Jovellanos's escort?'

'Two hundred, Sharpe. God save me, I wouldn't want to meet them in a dark street.'

Nor I, thought Sharpe. Nor I. He stood up, waited for the Commander of the garrison to
leave. Where was El Catolico he wondered. Upstairs asleep? Or watching from a darkened
window?

Lossow, at least, understood. 'My men will guard tonight.'

Sharpe smiled his thanks. 'And tomorrow?'

The German shrugged, fitted his tall, plumed busby on to his head. 'If we cannot leave
at dawn, then at dusk, my friend.'

Cox put his head back round the door. 'I forgot! Remiss of me! You'll stay here,
gentlemen? My orderlies can find beds.'

Kearsey accepted, the two Captains pleaded they would rather be with their men, and Cox
wished them a good night at the front door as if he were a host bidding a genial farewell to
valued dinner guests. 'And sleep well! The message goes first thing!'

Knowles and Harper waited outside and with them two Germans, one of them a barrel of a
Sergeant who grinned when he was told that the Partisans were in the town. Lossow looked
from his Sergeant to Harper.