Sharpe's Gold (5 page)

He had slept no more than fifteen minutes. 'Action?'

'In the valley, sir.'

The Company were stirring, looking eagerly at Sharpe, but he waved them down. They
must stifle their curiosity and watch, instead, as Sharpe and Harper climbed up beside
Kearsey and Knowles on the rock rim. Kearsey was grinning.

'Watch this.'

From the north, from a track that led down from high pastures, five horsemen trotted
slowly towards the village. Kearsey had his telescope extended and Sharpe found his own.
'Partisans, sir?'

Kearsey nodded. 'Three of them.'

Sharpe pulled out his glass, his fingers feeling the inset brass plate, and found the
small group of horsemen. The Spaniards rode, straight-backed and easy, looking relaxed and
comfortable, but their two companions were quite different. Naked men, tied to the
saddles, and through the glass Sharpe could see their heads jerking with fear as they
wondered what was to happen to them.

'Prisoners.' Kearsey said the word fiercely.

'What's going to happen?' Knowles was fidgeting.

'Wait.' Kearsey was still grinning.

Nothing stirred in the village. If the French were there they were well hidden. Kearsey
chuckled. 'The ambushers ambushed!'

The horsemen had stopped. Sharpe swung the glass back. One Spaniard held the reins of the
prisoners' horses while the others dismounted. The naked men were pulled from their
saddles and the ropes that had tied their legs beneath the horses' bellies were used to
lash their ankles tightly together. Then more rope was produced, thick loops hanging from
the Partisans' saddles, and the two Frenchmen were tied behind the horses. Knowles had
borrowed Sharpe's telescope and beneath his tan he paled, shocked by the sight.

'They won't run far,' the Lieutenant said half in hope.

Kearsey shook his head. 'They will.'

Sharpe took the glass back. The Partisans were unfastening their saddle-bags, going
back to the horses with the roped men. 'What are they doing, sir?'

'Thistles.'

Sharpe understood. Along the paths and in the high rocks huge purple thistles grew,
often as high as a man, and the Spanish, a horse at a time, were thrusting the heads of the
spiny plants beneath the empty saddles. The first horse began fighting, rearing up, but
was held firm, until with a final crack over its rump the beast was released and it sprung
off, infuriated by the pain, the prisoner jerked by the legs and scraped in a cloud of
dust behind the angry horse.

The second horse followed, pulling left and right, zigzagging behind the first towards
the village. The three Spaniards mounted and stood their horses quietly. One had a long
cigar, and through the telescope Sharpe saw the smoke drift over the fields,

'Good God.' Knowles stared unbelieving.

'No need for blasphemy.' Kearsey's gruff reprimand did not hide the excitement in his
voice.

The two naked, tied men were invisible in the dust, but, as the horses swerved at a rock,
Sharpe caught a glimpse, a flash through the cloud, of a body streaked red, and then the horse
was running again. By now the Frenchmen would be unconscious, the pain gone, but the
Partisans had guessed right and Sharpe saw the first movement in the village as the gates
of Cesar Moreno's big house were thrown open and cavalry, hidden all morning, rode on to
the street. Sharpe saw sky-blue trousers, brown jackets, and the tall fur helmet.
'Hussars.'

'Wait. This is the clever bit.' Kearsey could not hide this admiration.

The Hussars, sabres drawn, cantered down the street to meet the two horses with their
terrible attachments. It seemed that the Spanish plan was to end in anti-climax, for
the Hussars would rescue the two bloody and battered Frenchmen at the northern end of the
village, but then the two horses became aware of the cavalry. They stopped.

'Jesus,' Harper muttered. He was using Sharpe's glass. 'One of those buggers is
moving.'

Sharpe could see him. Far from unconscious, one of the two naked Frenchmen was trying to
sit up, a writhing mass of blood, but suddenly he was whirled back to the roadway, wrenched
terribly about, and the horses were moving, away from the Hussars, splitting apart in a
mad, panicked gallop. Kearsey nodded in satisfaction. 'They won't go near French
cavalry, not unless they're ridden. They're too used to running from it.'

There was chaos in the valley. The horses, with their thistle-driven pain, circled
crazily in the fields; the Hussars, all order gone, tried to ride them down, and the nearer
the French came to them the more the Spanish horses took the disorganized mass
northwards. Sharpe guessed there were a hundred Frenchmen, in undisciplined groups,
crossing and recrossing the fields. He looked back to the village, saw more horsemen
standing in the street, watching the chase, and he wondered how he would feel if those two
bodies were his men, and he knew that he would do what the French were doing: try to rescue
them.

'Good.' Knowles seemed to have sided, instinctively, with the French.

One of the horses had been caught and quieted, and dismounted French cavalrymen were
unbuckling the girth and untying the prisoner. A trumpet sounded, calling order to
the scattered Hussars who still raced after the other horse, and at that exact moment, as
the trumpet notes reached the gully, El Catolico launched his own horsemen from the
northern hills. They came down on to the scattered and outnumbered French in a long line,
blacks and browns and greys, swords of all descriptions held over their heads, the dust
spurting behind them, while from the rocks on the hillside Sharpe saw muskets firing over
their heads at the surprised French.

Kearsey almost jumped over the rim with joy. His fist slammed into the rock.
'Perfect!'

The ambushers had been ambushed.

El Catolico, the Catholic, led the horsemen from the cover of the hills, and Sharpe found
him in the telescope. Kearsey barked out a description, but even without it Sharpe would
have recognized the tall man as the leader. 'Grey cloak, grey boots, long rapier, black
horse.'

Kearsey was thumping his fist on the rock, willing the Partisans on, closer and closer
to the wheeling French. Sharpe scanned the guerrilla line, looking for the blue and silver
of a Prince of Wales Dragoon, but he could see no sign of Captain Hardy. He remembered
Kearsey saying that El Catolico's fiancee, Teresa, fought like a man, but he could see no
woman in the charging line, just men screaming defiance as the first horses met and the
swords chopped down on the outnumbered French.

In the village the trumpets split the quiet; men scrambled on to nervous mounts, sabres
hissed from scabbards, but El Catolico was no fool. He was not going to fight a regiment
and lose. Sharpe saw him waving at his men, turning them back, and the Rifleman searched
with the telescope in the obscuring dust for clues to what was happening. The French had
been hard-punished. Outnumbered two to one, they had fallen back, taking casualties,
and the Spanish charge had given them no time to form a disciplined line. Sharpe saw
prisoners, dragged by the arms, going back with the horsemen who had been disciplined,
presumably by El Catolico, to make the one killing charge and then get out of danger's way.
Sharpe admired the action. The French had been baited, had fallen for the lure, and then
been savagely hurt in one quick charge. It was hardly two minutes since the Spanish had
appeared and already, hidden by dust, they were returning to the hills and taking with
them more prisoners whose fate would be worse than that of the two men who had drawn the
Hussars from the safety of the village walls. One man alone stayed in the valley.

El Catolico stood his horse and watched the Hussars stretching out from the village.
Closer to him were the survivors of the Spanish charge and they now spurred their horses to
attack the lone Partisan. El Catolico seemed unconcerned. He urged his horse into a
canter, away from the safety of the hills, circled in the uncut barley and looked over his
shoulder as the French came close. A dozen men were chasing him, leaning over their horses'
manes, sabres stretched out, and it was certain that the tall Partisan leader must be
taken until, at the last moment, his horse sidestepped, the thin rapier flashed, one
Frenchman was down and the big, black horse with its grey rider was in full gallop to the
north and the Hussars were milling in uncertainty where their leader lay dead. Sharpe
whistled softly.

Kearsey smiled. 'He's the finest swordsman on the border. Probably in Spain. I've seen
him take on four Frenchmen and he never stopped saying the prayer for their death.'

Sharpe stared into the valley. A hundred horsemen had ridden out to rescue the two
prisoners and now two dozen of the Hussars were dead or captured. The Partisans had lost
none; the speed of their charge and withdrawal had ensured that, and their leader, staying
till the end, had slapped French pride in the face. The black horse was cantering to the
hills, its strength obvious, and the French would never catch El Catolico.

Kearsey slid down from the skyline. 'That's how it's done.' Sharpe nodded. 'Impressive.
Except for one thing.' The fierce eyebrow shot up. 'What?'

'What are the French doing in the village?' Kearsey shrugged. 'Clearing out a hornet's
nest.' He waved southwards. 'Remember their main road is down there. All the supplies for
the siege of Almeida go through this area, and when they invade Portugal proper, then
everything will come through here. They don't want Partisans in their rear. They're
clearing them out, or trying to.'

The answer made sense to Sharpe, but he was worried. 'And the gold, sir?'

'It's hidden.'

'And Hardy?'

Kearsey was annoyed by the questions. 'He'll be somewhere, Sharpe; I don't know. At least
El Catolico's here, so we're not friendless!' He gave his bark of a laugh and then pulled at
his moustache. 'I think it would be sensible to let him know we've arrived.' He slid down
the inner side of the gully. 'Keep your men here, Sharpe. I'll ride to El Catolico.'

Knowles looked worried. 'Isn't that dangerous, sir?'

Kearsey gave the Lieutenant a pitying look. 'I was not planning to go through the
village, Lieutenant.' He gestured towards the north. 'I'll go round the back. I'll see you
again tonight sometime, probably late. Don't light any fires!' He strode away, small legs
urgent, and Harper waited till he was out of earshot.

'What did he think we were going to do? Borrow a light from the French?' He looked at
Sharpe and raised his eyebrows. 'Bloody muddle, sir.'

'Yes.'

But it was not too bad, Sharpe decided. The French could not stay forever; the
Partisans would be back in the village, and then there was only the small problem of
persuading El Catolico to let the British 'escort' the gold towards Lisbon. He turned
back towards the Valley, watched as the Hussars walked their horses disconsolately
towards the village, one of them bearing the bloody horror that had been one of the naked
prisoners, then raised his eyes and looked at the hermitage. It was a pity it was the far
side of the valley, beyond the village, or else he would have been tempted to search the
place that night, Kearsey or no Kearsey. The idea refused to go away and he lay there, the sun
hot on his back, and thought of a dozen reasons why he should not make the attempt, and one
huge, overriding reason why he should.

The valley settled in peace. The sun burned down on the grass, turning it a paler brown,
and still, on the northern horizon, the great cloud bank loomed. There would be rain in a
couple of days, Sharpe thought, and then he went back to the route he had planned in his head,
down the slope to the road that led to the ford at San Anton, proceed to the big rock that
would be a natural marker and then follow the edge of the barley field as far as the
stunted fruit trees. Beyond the trees was another barley field that would give good cover
and from there it was just fifty yards of open ground to the cemetery and the hermitage. And
if the hermitage were locked? He dismissed the idea. A dozen men in the Company had once
earned a living by opening up locks they had no right to be near; a lock was no problem, but
then there was the task of finding the gold. Kearsey had said it was in the Moreno vault,
which should be easy enough to find, and he let his imagination play with the idea of
finding the gold in the middle of the night, just two hundred yards from a French regiment,
and bringing it safely back to the gully by daybreak. Harper lay beside him, thinking
the same thoughts.

'They won't move out the village, sir. Not at night.'

'No.'

'Be a bit difficult finding our way.'

Sharpe pointed to the route he had planned. 'Hagman will lead.'

Harper nodded. Daniel Hagman had an uncanny ability to find his way in the darkness.
Sharpe often wondered how the old poacher had ever been caught, but he supposed that one
night the Cheshireman had drunk too much. It was the usual story. Harper had one more
objection. 'And the Major, sir?' Sharpe said nothing and Harper nodded. 'As you say, sir.
A pox on the bloody Major.' The Irish Sergeant grinned. 'We can do it."

Sharpe lay in the westering sun, looking at the valley, following the course he had
planned until he agreed. It could be done. A pox on Kearsey. He imagined the vault as having
a vast stone lid; he saw it, in his mind, being heaved back, to reveal a heap of gold coins
that would save the army, defeat the French, and he wondered again why the money was
needed. He would have to take all the Company, post a string of guards to face the village,
preferably Riflemen, and the gold would have to go in their packs. What if there was more
than they could carry? Then they must carry what they could. He wondered about a
diversion, a small group of Riflemen in the southern end of the valley to distract the
French, but he rejected the idea. Keep it simple. Night attacks could go disastrously
wrong and the smallest complication could turn a well-thought plan into a horrid mess
that cost lives. He felt the excitement grow. They could do it!

At first the trumpet was so faint that it hardly penetrated Sharpe's consciousness.
Rather it was Harper's sudden alertness that stirred him, dragged his mind from the gold
beneath the Moreno vault, and made him curse as he looked at the road disappearing to the
north-east. 'What was that?'

Harper stared at the empty valley. 'Cavalry.'

'North?'

The Sergeant nodded. 'Nearer to us than the Partisans were, sir. Something's
happening up there.'

They waited, in silence, and watched the valley. Knowles climbed up beside them. 'What's
happening?'

'Don't know.' Sharpe's instinct, so dormant this morning, was suddenly screaming at
him. He turned and called to the sentry on the far side of the gully. 'See anything?'

'No, sir.'

'There!'

Harper was pointing to the road. Kearsey was in sight, cantering the roan towards the
village and looking over his shoulder, and then the Major turned off the road, began
covering the rough ground towards the slopes where the Partisans had disappeared in a
hidden entry to one of the twisted valleys that spilled into the main valley.

'What the devil?'

Sharpe's question was answered as soon as he had spoken. Behind Kearsey was a regiment,
rank upon rank of horsemen in blue and yellow, each one wearing a strange, square yellow,
hat, but that was not their oddest feature. Instead of swords the enemy were carrying
lances, long, steel-tipped weapons with their red and white pennants, and as the Major
turned off the road the lancers kicked in their heels, dropped their points and the race was
on. Knowles shook his head. 'What are they?'

'Polish lancers.'

Sharpe's voice was grim. The Poles had a reputation in Europe: nasty fighters,
effective fighters. These were the first he had encountered in his career. He
remembered the moustachioed Indian face behind the long pole, the twisting, the way the
man had played with him, and the final thrust that had pinned Sergeant Sharpe to a tree and
held him there till the Tippoo Sultan's men had come and pulled the needle-sharp blade from
his side. He still carried the scar. Bloody lancers.

'They won't get him, sir.' Knowles sounded very sure.

'Why not?'

'The Major explained to me, sir. Marlborough's fed on corn and most cavalry horses
are grass-fed. A grass-fed horse can't catch a corn-fed horse.'

Sharpe raised his eyebrows. 'Has anyone told the horses?'

The lancers were catching up, slowly and surely, but Sharpe suspected Kearsey was
saving the big horse's strength. He watched the Poles and wondered how many regiments of
cavalry the French had thrown up into the hills to wipe out the guerrilla bands. He
wondered how long they would stay.

Sharpe had snapped his glass open, found Kearsey, and saw the Major look over his shoulder
and urge Marlborough to go faster. The big roan responded, widening the gap from the
nearest lancers, and Knowles clapped his hands. 'Go on, sir!'

'They must have caught him crossing the road, sir,' Harper said.

Marlborough was taking the Major out of trouble, stretching the lead, galloping
easily. Kearsey had not even bothered to unsheath his sabre and Sharpe was just relaxing
when suddenly the big horse reared up, twisted sideways, and Kearsey fell.

'What the -'

'Bloody nightjar!' Harper had seen a bird fly up, startled, right beneath the horse's
nose. Sharpe wondered, irrelevantly, how the Irishman could possibly have identified
the bird at such a distance. He focused the glass again. Kearsey was on his feet,
Marlborough was unhurt, and the little man was reaching up desperately to put his foot
in the stirrup. The trumpet sounded again, the sound delayed by the distance, but Sharpe
had already seen the lancers spurring their horses, reaching out with their nine-foot
weapons, and he gritted his teeth as Kearsey seemed to take an age in swinging himself into
the saddle.

'Where's El Catolico?' Knowles asked.

'Miles away.' Harper sounded gloomy.

The horse went forward again, Kearsey's heels raking back, but the lancers were
desperately close. The Major turned the roan downslope towards the village, letting his
speed build up before turning back, but his horse seemed winded or frightened. The roan's
head tossed nervously, Kearsey urged it, and at the moment when Sharpe knew the lancers must
catch him the Major realized it as well. He circled back, sword drawn, and Knowles
groaned.

'He might do it yet.' Harper spoke gently, as if to a nervous recruit on the
battlefield.

Four lancers were closest to the Major. He spurred towards them, singled one out, and
Sharpe saw the sabre, point downwards, high in Kearsey's hand. Marlborough had calmed, and
as the lancers thundered in, Kearsey touched the spurs, the horse leapt forward, and the
Major had turned the right-hand lance to one side, swivelled his wrist with the speed of a
trained swordsman, and one Pole lay beheaded on the ground.

'Beautiful!' Sharpe was grinning. Once a man got past the razor tip of a lance he was
safe.

Kearsey was through, crouching on Marlborough's neck, urging the horse on towards the
hills, but the first squadron of lancers were close behind their fellows, at full gallop,
and the effort was useless. A dust cloud engulfed the Englishman, the silver points
disappeared in the storm, and Kearsey was trapped with only his sword to save him. A man
reeled out of the fight holding his stomach, and Sharpe knew the sabre had laid open the
horseman's guts. The dust billowed like cannon smoke. The lance points were forced upwards
in the press and once – Sharpe was not sure – he thought he saw the slashing light of the
lifted sabre. It was magnificent, quite hopeless, one man against a regiment, and Sharpe
watched the commotion subside, the dust drift towards the nightjar's treacherous nest,
and the lance points sink to rest. It was over.