Sharpe's Gold (9 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 Massena'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?'

'Si.' 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 Catolico 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 Catolico.' Sharpe's voice was neutral, no pleasure in the meeting.

The tall man, perhaps three years older than Sharpe, smiled. 'I am Joaquim Jovellanos,
once Colonel in the Spanish army, and now known as El Catolico.' 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 Catolico, 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
Catolico 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 Cadiz?'

El Catolico'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 Catolico 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 Catolico 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 Catolico 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 Catolico 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 Catolico 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.