Sharpe's Gold

CHAPTER 22

Lossow shook his head. 'He's not here.

'He's close.

The German shrugged. 'We've searched. They had looked in every room, every cupboard, even up chimneys and on the thick-tiled roof, but there was no sign of El Catolico or his men.

Sharpe was not satisfied. 'The other houses?

'Yes, my friend. Lossow was patient. The Germans had opened up houses either side, to sleep in glorious space and comfort, and all had been searched. The cavalryman took Sharpe's elbow. 'Come and eat.

The Company, those not on guard, were in the kitchen, where a pot bubbled on the flames. Parry Jenkins lifted it clear with a pot-hook. 'Real stew, sir.

The gold was locked in a store-room with a barrel of wine, Sergeant McGovern in grim charge, and Sharpe glanced at the door as he spooned down the meat and vegetables. Behind the padlock and bolts was the dragon's hoard and Sharpe remembered the stories well. If a man stole buried gold, the dragon would take its vengeance; and there would be only one way to avoid that revenge: by killing the dragon. The attack in the street, only half pressed home, was not the end of the matter. Sharpe guessed that El Catolico had parties throughout the small town looking for the Riflemen, but the dragon would want to be there at the death, to see the agony.

Lossow watched Sharpe eat.

'You think he'll come tonight?

Sharpe nodded. 'He offered to stay on tomorrow, to help the defence, but that's just insurance. He wants it over with; he wants to get out before the French seal this place tight.

'Then he wants to leave tomorrow.

Knowles shrugged. 'Perhaps he won't come, sir. He's getting the gold, isn't he?

Sharpe grinned. 'He thinks so. He glanced at Teresa. 'No, he'll come. He grinned at the girl. 'Major Kearsey thinks you should go back.

She raised her eyebrows, said nothing. Before Sharpe had left Cox's headquarters Kearsey had taken him aside, pleaded that Teresa should be returned to her father. Sharpe had nodded. 'Send her father at ten o'clock tomorrow, sir. Now he watched her. 'What do you want to do?

She looked at him, almost with a challenge. 'What will you do?

Sharpe's men, and some of the Germans, were listening to the conversation. Sharpe jerked his head at the door. 'Come into the small room. We'll talk.

Harper took a jug of wine, Lossow and Knowles their curiosity. The girl followed them. She paused outside the small sitting-room door and put cool fingers on his hand. 'Are you going to win, Richard?

He smiled. 'Yes. If he did not, then she was dead. El Catolico would want revenge on her.

Inside the small room they pulled off dust-covers and sat in comfortable chairs. Sharpe was tired, bone-tired, and his shoulder was aching with a deep, throbbing pain. He trimmed a candle wick, waited for the flame to grow, and talked softly.

'You all know what's happening. We're ordered to surrender the gold tomorrow. Captain Lossow is ordered to leave; we are ordered to stay.

He had already told them as they searched the houses, but he wanted to go over it, to look for the flaws, because he still hoped that the decision would prove unnecessary.

Lossow stirred in his chair. 'So it's all over? He frowned, not believing his own question.

'No. Whether Cox likes it or not, we go.

'And the gold? Teresa's voice was steady.

'Goes with us.

By some strange instinct they all relaxed, as if the statement were enough. 'The question is, Sharpe went on, 'how?

There was silence in the room. Harper looked asleep, his eyes closed, but Sharpe guessed that the Irishman was way ahead of the others. Knowles pummelled his chair-arm in frustration. 'If only we could get a message to the General!"

'We're too late. Time's run out.

Sharpe did not expect them to provide an answer, but he wanted them to think through the steps, to know the argument, so that when he provided the solution, they would agree.

Lossow leaned forward into the candlelight. 'Cox won't let you go. He thinks we're stealing the gold.

'He's right. Teresa shrugged.

Knowles was frowning. 'Do we break out, sir? Make a run for it?

Sharpe thought of the granite-faced ditches, the rows of cannon, the bent tunnels in the gateways with their portcullises and grim-faced sentries.

'No, Robert.

Lossow grinned. 'I know. Murder Brigadier Cox.

Sharpe did not smile. 'His second in command would back up his orders.

'Good God! I was joking! Lossow stared at Sharpe, suddenly convinced of the Rifleman's seriousness.

Somewhere a dog barked, perhaps in the French camp, and Sharpe knew that if the British survived this campaign, if he did his duty this night, then it would all have to be done again. Portugal reconquered, the border fortresses retaken, the French beaten not just from Spain but from all Europe. Lossow must have mistaken his expression for despair.

The German spoke softly. 'Have you thought of abandoning the gold?

'No. It was not true. He took a deep breath. 'I can't tell you why, I don't know how, but the difference between victory and failure depends on that gold. We have to take it out. He nodded at Teresa. 'She's right. We are stealing the gold, on Wellington's instructions, and that's why there are no explicit orders. The Spanish' — he shrugged apologetically at the girl — 'God knows they're difficult allies. Think how much worse if they had written proof of this? He leaned back. 'I can only tell you what I was told. The gold is more important than men, horses, regiments, or guns. If we lose it the war is over; we'll all go home, or more likely end up as French prisoners.

'And if you do take it? Teresa was shivering.

'Then the British will stay in Portugal. He shrugged. 'I can't explain that, but it's true. And if we stay in Portugal, then next year we'll be back in Spain. The gold will go with us.

Knowles snapped his fingers. 'Kill El Catolico!

Sharpe nodded. 'We'll probably have to. But Cox's orders are still for the gold to go to the Spanish.

'So… Knowles was about to ask how. He shrugged instead.

Teresa stood up. 'Is your coat upstairs?

Sharpe nodded. 'Cold? She still had only the thin white dress. He stood up as well, thinking of his fear of El Catolico. 'I'll come with you.

Harper and Lossow stood, but Sharpe waved them down. 'We'll be all right, a minute, no more. Think about it, gentlemen.

He led the way up the stairs, peering into the darkness, and Teresa put a hand out to him. 'You think he's here?

'I know he is.

It seemed ridiculous; the house had been searched and researched, sentries put on balconies and roof, yet all Sharpe's instincts said that El Catolico would come for his revenge this night. Revenge, the Spanish said, was a dish best eaten cold, but for El Catolico it was a dish that should be taken quickly before Sharpe was locked up in the siege. And Sharpe had no doubt that El Catolico wanted revenge, not for the gold but for the insult to his manhood, and the Rifleman drew his sword as they went into the candlelit room with its canopied bed and wide cupboards.

Teresa found Sharpe's coat, put it round her shoulders. 'See? It's safe.

'Go downstairs. Tell them I'll be two minutes.

She raised her eyebrows at him, looked puzzled, but he pushed her through the door and watched as she went back to the small room. Sharpe could feel the hairs rise on his neck, the prickling of the blood beneath the skin, the old signs that the enemy was near, and he sat on the bed and pulled off his heavy boots so he could move silently. He wanted El Catolico to be near, to get this thing over, so that he could concentrate on what must be done tomorrow. He thought of the Spaniard's flickering rapier, the careless skill, but it must be faced, be beaten, or else in the morning he would be constantly looking behind him, worrying about the girl, and he padded across the boards and blew out the candles. The sword was monstrously heavy: a butcher's blade, the Spaniard had called it.

He opened the curtains and stood on the balcony. On the next balcony a sentry stirred; above him, between the pitches of the roof, he could hear the mutterings of two Germans. It had to be this night! El Catolico would not let the insult go, would not want to be immured in Almeida as the French sapped their way forward. But how? Nothing stirred in the street; the houses and church across the road were dark and shuttered; only the. glow of the French campfires lit the southern sky beyond the walls where he was supposed to stand guard tomorrow. The tower of the church was silhouetted by the red glow, its two heavily counterweighted bells sheened by the distant fires. And there was no ladder! There had been that morning, he knew. He tried to be sure, and remembered opening the curtains, turning away from Teresa's nakedness and seeing the bells with the metal ladder that was leaning against the tower. Then he had turned back, but he was sure the ladder had been there.

So why take the ladder? He looked left and right, at the sentries on the balconies. Of course! Knowles, with his sense of decency, had placed no sentry on this balcony, on every balcony in the street except this one, so that no member of the Company should be forced to listen to the unmarried exploits of Captain Sharpe. And El Catolico was no fool. It was a hundred to one that the unguarded balcony would be the one to assault, and the ladder would reach from the church roof, with its convenient platform, across the street, and while muskets from the church took care of the sentries, El Catolico and his best men would be across the iron rungs, through the curtains, and revenge was sweet.

He paused there, thinking it was fantastic, but why not? At the dead of night, three or four in the morning, when the sentries were struggling to stay awake, and, anyway, there was only one way to find out. He swung his leg over the balcony, hushed the sentry at the next balustrade, and dropped into the street.

The group in the small room would wonder where he was, but it need not take long. Forewarned was forearmed, and he sneaked silently, on his bootless feet, into the alley that angled behind the church. He was out of sight of the sentries, close to the church wall, and he held his huge sword in front of him, its blade a dull sheen in the darkness, and listened for any noise. Nothing, except the far off dog, the sound of the wind. He felt the excitement inside, the imminence of danger, but still there was no sound, no movement, and he peered up at the church roof's edge, innocent in the moonlight. There was a small door in the wall, barred and locked, and beside it the masonry was rough and crudely repaired. It occurred to him that maybe his idea was too fantastic, that all El Catolico had to do was pour musket-fire from the church roof into the unguarded room, that the ladder had merely been taken to help the Partisans climb up from the alley; but he knew he would not be satisfied until he had seen over the roof's edge, so he stuck the huge sword behind his back, jammed it into his belt with the handle over his shoulder, and reached up with his right hand for a grip on the masonry blocks.

He moved infinitely slowly, climbing as silently as a lizard, feeling with his toes for each foothold and reaching up with his hands for the convenient gaps between the stones. His left shoulder hurt, made him wince with pain, but he moved up because he could see the top, and it was not far, and he could not rest until this private business was done. Harper would be annoyed at not being invited, but this was Sharpe's business. Teresa was his woman, and he knew, as he inched upwards, that he would miss her terribly. The handholds ran out as he neared the top. A cornice went round the roof, a foot deep and smooth-faced, and he could not reach the top. He needed one more handhold and he saw it, off to his left, where a metal stanchion jutted diagonally downwards to support a lamp-holder over the doorway. He reached for it, found the rusting metal, tugged, and it held. He transferred his weight, brought up his right foot, could feel the burden of his body transferred to his piercing left shoulder, and then the stanchion moved. It was a tiny movement, a grating of metal on stone, but it threw him off balance. His left arm saved him, and it was as if someone had plunged a flesh-hook into his armpit, was gouging and twisting, and he sobbed with agony as fresh blood sprang from the opened wound and soaked his chest. He clenched eyes and teeth, gasped with the pain, and, throwing caution aside, threw up his right arm, found the very top of the cornice, and slowly, with exquisite relief, took the weight from his left arm.

He froze, waiting for a blow on his exposed right hand, but nothing moved. Perhaps the roof was deserted. He pushed with his right foot, pulled upwards with his hand, and slowly, inch by inch, his eyes went past the stonework and there, suddenly, was the sky, and he was forced to use his left arm, over the top, endured the pain while his right found a secure purchase, and he could heave himself on to the flat top of the cornice and see what he had feared to see: an empty roof. Except that one thing was wrong: there was a smell of tobacco where there should have been none.

He took his sword from its place behind his back and crouched just within the cornice, his left arm next to the deeply curved tiles that rose above him blocking his view of the house where Harper and Lossow would now be looking for him. Behind him the roof was deserted, deeply shadowed in the moonlight, but in front he could see the bell-tower, the ladder lying at its foot, and the flat space that held the trapdoor. He could see only part of the space, a small part, and he could smell tobacco smoke and it was not from his sentries; the wind was from the south, and he felt a fierce confirmation of his suspicions as he crept forward, each step showing more of the flat roof that was tucked into a corner of the church's cross-like roof shape.

It was empty, mocking him, white stonework in the moonlight, and the ladder had presumably been put there for some repairs and later taken down, though who would repair anything just before the French began their bombardment was a mystery. He padded into the space, a large, square area, and still was hidden from the house by the loom of the transept roof, and now he could hear voices, across the street, calling him. He could hear Harper, alarmed, and Lossow shouting at sentries, and he was about to call back when he heard the creak, and jumped to one side.

The trapdoor opened, an inch or two at first, sending out a plume of cigar smoke. Then it was pushed back until held by a chain and a man appeared, dark-cloaked, who climbed on to the roof and did not see Sharpe in the shadow by the tower, because he did not expect to see anything. The man, heavily moustached, crossed to the transept roof, leaned past it till he could see the street, then softly called back in Spanish. The Partisan must have heard the commotion, Sharpe thought, and sent a sentry to look. The man puffed on his cigar, listened to the shouts, and crouched to stub it out. No one else had appeared; the church interior was in darkness; Sharpe hardly breathed as he pushed himself close to the stonework.

An urgent whisper came from the ladder beneath the trapdoor. The man with the cigar nodded. 'Si, si. He sounded weary, yawned, and came back to the ladder. At first he was not sure what he saw, just a shadow, and he peered at the shape.

The shape moved, turned into a man with a sword, and the tired sentry jumped back, opened his mouth, but Sharpe was ramming the blade forward, aiming at the throat, and he missed. It grated on a rib, slid, and then went home, but the man had shouted and there were feet on the ladder. The damned sword was stuck. Sharpe let the blade go down with its victim, put his foot on the man's chest, turned, and felt the suction give way and the blade free itself. There was a second man half out the trapdoor, a pistol in his hand, and Sharpe ducked, threw the sword out as the gun exploded and the ball hammered into the roof tiles. Sharpe shouted an inarticulate challenge, flailed the blade down on the man, and heard him fall from the ladder. He grabbed the trapdoor, was about to shut it.

'No! The voice was from below; the church suddenly lit up. 'Wait! It was El Catolico's voice, deep and silken. 'Who is that?

'Sharpe. He was standing behind the trapdoor, invisible from below, unassailable.

El Catolico chuckled. 'May I come up?

'Why?

'You can't come down. There are too many of us. So I have to come up. Will you let me up?

There were shouts across the street. 'Captain! Captain!

He ignored them. 'Just you?

'Just me. The voice was amused, tolerant. Sharpe heard the footsteps on the ladder, saw the light coming, and then a hand put an unmasked lantern on the roof and there was El Catolico's dark head, turning, smiling, and the other hand brought up his rapier, which he tossed, ringing, on to the far side of the roof. 'There. Now you can kill me. You won't, though, because you are a man of honour.

'Am I?

El Catolico smiled again, still halfway through the trapdoor. 'Kearsey doesn't think so, but Kearsey equates honour with God. You don't. May I come up? I'm alone.

Sharpe nodded. He waited till the tall Spaniard was on the roof and then kicked the trapdoor shut. It was heavy, thick enough to stop a bullet, but for added safety Sharpe pulled the iron ladder on top.

El Catolico watched. 'You are nervous. They won't come up. He cocked a friendly eye at Sharpe. 'Why are you here?

'The ladder was missing.

The tall Spaniard looked puzzled. The hands spread apart in an uncertain gesture. 'Missing?

Sharpe kicked it. 'It was up the tower this morning. This evening it was gone.

'Ah! He laughed. 'We used it to climb the church wall. He looked at Sharpe's dishevelled uniform. 'I see you had other methods. In one of his graceful gestures he opened his cloak. 'You see? No pistol. I have only the sword. He made no attempt to pick it up.

Above the church roof Sharpe could see the sudden flare of torches. Search parties were starting out. There was sweat on the palm of his sword hand, but he would not give the Spaniard the satisfaction of seeing him wipe it off.

'Why are you here?

'To pray with you. El Catolico laughed, jerked his head at the street. 'They're making so much noise they won't hear us. No, Captain, I'm here to kill you.

Sharpe smiled. 'Why? You've got the gold.

El Catolico nodded. 'I don't trust you, Sharpe. As long as you're alive I don't think the gold will be easy to collect, though Brigadier Cox presents you with a problem. Sharpe acknowledged it with a nod and El Catolico looked at him shrewdly. 'How were you going to solve it?

'The same way that I intend to solve it tomorrow. He wished he were as confident as he sounded. He had seen El Catolico in action, measured swords with him, and he was thinking desperately how he could win the fight that must start soon. The tall Spaniard smiled, gestured at his rapier.

'Do you mind? You can kill me, of course, before I reach it, but I don't think you will. He had talked as he moved and then he stopped, picked it up, and turned round. 'I was right. You see? You are a man of honour!

Sharpe could feel the new blood wet on his chest and he rested his sword as the Spaniard, with a studied ease, dropped his cloak and flexed the blade. El Catolico took the tip of the rapier in his left hand and bent it, almost double.

'A fine blade, Captain. From Toledo. But then, I forgot, we have already tried each other. He moved into the swordsman's crouch, right leg bent, left leg extended behind. 'En garde!

The rapier flickered towards Sharpe, but the Rifleman did not move. El Catolico straightened. 'Captain, do you not want to fight? I assure you it is a better death than the one I had planned.

'What was that? Sharpe thought of the ladder, the sudden rush in the dark.

The Spaniard smiled. 'A distraction down the street, a fire, lots of shouts, and you would have come to your balcony. The ever ready Captain, prepared for battle, and then a volley of shots would have stopped you forever.

Sharpe smiled. It was far simpler than his extraordinary imaginings, and it would have worked. 'And the girl?

'Teresa? El Catolico's pose slipped a little. He shrugged. 'What could she have done with you dead? She would have been forced back.

'You would have enjoyed that.

The Spaniard shrugged. 'En garde, Captain.

Sharpe had so little time. He had to unsettle the Spaniard's elegant posture. El Catolico knew he would win, could afford to be magnanimous, was anticipating the inevitable display of his superior swordsmanship. Sharpe still kept his blade low and the rapier went down.

'Captain! Are you frightened? El Catolico smiled gently. 'You're afraid I'm the better man.

'Teresa says not.

It was not much, but enough. Sharpe saw the fury in El Catolico's face, the sudden loss of control, and he brought up the huge blade, rammed it forward, and knew that El Catolico would not parry but simply kill him for the insult. The rapier flickered, lightning-fast, but Sharpe turned his body, saw the blade go past, and brought his elbow hard into El Catolico's ribs, turned back and hammered down with the brass-guarded hilt of the sword on to the Spaniard's head. El Catolico was fast. He twisted away, the blow glanced off his skull, but Sharpe heard the grunt and he followed it with a sweeping killer of a blow, a stroke that would have disembowelled an ox, and the Spaniard leapt backwards, and again, and Sharpe had failed, and he knew, with a fighter's instinct, that El Catolico had recovered, survived the devastating attack, and would now fall back on his skill.

There was a hammering from downstairs, the blast of a musket, and El Catolico smiled. 'Time to die, Sharpe. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine. He came forward like quicksilver, past Sharpe's clumsy parry, and the blade drew blood at Sharpe's waist. 'Et lux perpetua luceat eis. The voice was like silk, beautiful and hypnotic, and the blade went to the other side of Sharpe's waist, razored his skin, and was gone. Sharpe knew he was being toyed with, a plaything, while the prayer lasted, and he could do nothing. He remembered Helmut's techniques and went for El Catolico's eyes, stabbing the empty air, and the Spaniard laughed. 'Go slow, Sharpe! Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion.

Sharpe lunged desperately for the eyes; Helmut had made it look easy, but El Catolico just swayed to one side and the rapier came low at the Rifleman, aiming at the thigh for another flesh wound, and Sharpe had only one, desperate, insane idea left. He let the rapier come, kicked his right thigh forward, and pushed the blade painfully into his flesh so that El Catolico could not use it. The Spaniard tried to drag it free; Sharpe felt the tearing in his leg, but he had the initiative, was still driving forward, and he hit the Spaniard with the heavy guard of the sword, scraping it up the face, and El Catolico abandoned the rapier and went backwards. Sharpe followed, the rapier stuck clean through his thigh, and El Catolico grabbed at it, missed, and Sharpe swept his blade down, caught El Catolico's forearm; the Spaniard cried out and Sharpe back-swung him with the flat of his blade, a scything crack across the skull, and the Partisan fell.

Sharpe stopped. There were shouts below. 'Captain!

'Up here! On the church roof!

He could hear footsteps below, pounding in the alleyway, and he suspected the Partisans were abandoning the unequal conflict. He stopped and took hold of El Catolico's rapier. The wound hurt, but Sharpe knew he had been lucky; the blade had gone through the outer muscles and the blood and pain were worse than the damage. He pulled at the sword, clenching his teeth, and it slid free. He held the rapier in his hands, felt its fine balance, and knew he could never have defeated it except for the madness of driving his body on to the inlaid blade and denying El Catolico his skill.

The Spaniard moaned, still unconscious, and Sharpe crossed to him, bleeding and limping, and looked down at his enemy. His eyes were closed, the lids flickering slightly, and Sharpe took his own sword, put it at El Catolico's throat. 'A butcher's blade, eh? He stabbed down till the point hit the roof, twisted it, then kicked the neck free of the blade. 'That was for Claud Hardy. There would be no fiefdom in the mountains, no private kingdom, for El Catolico.

There was a thumping on the trapdoor. 'Who's that?

'Sergeant Harper!

'Wait!

He pushed the ladder to one side and the trapdoor was pushed up and Harper appeared, a smoking torch in one hand. The Irishman looked first at Sharpe, then at the body. 'God save Ireland. What were you doing, sir? A competition to see who could bleed the most?

'He wanted to kill me.

The eyebrows went up. 'Really? Harper looked at the dead man. 'He was a fine swordsman, sir. How did you do it?

Sharpe told him. How he had gone for the eyes, failed, so had impaled himself on the sword. Harper listened, shook his head.

'You're a bloody fool, sir. Let's see the leg.

Teresa came up, followed by Lossow and Knowles, and the story had to be told again, and Sharpe felt the tension flow out of him. He watched Teresa kneel by the body.

'Does it upset you?

She shook her head, busy at something, and Sharpe watched as she searched beneath the blood-stained clothes and found, round the dead man's waist, a money-belt thick with coins. She opened one of the pockets.

'Gold.

'Keep it.

Sharpe was feeling his leg, tracing the wound, and he knew he had been lucky and that the blade had torn a smaller wound than his stupidity deserved. He looked up at Harper. 'I'll need the maggots.

Harper grinned. In a tin box he kept fat white maggots that lived only on dead flesh, spurning healthy tissue, and nothing cleaned a simple wound better than a handful dropped into the cut and bound in with a bandage. The Irishman took Sharpe's sash as a temporary dressing, bound it tight. 'It'll mend, sir.

Lossow looked at the body. 'What now?

'Now? Sharpe wanted a glass of wine, another plate of that stew. 'Nothing. They have another leader. We still have to hand the gold over.

Teresa spoke in Spanish, angry and vehement, and Sharpe smiled.

'What was that, sir? Knowles was stunned by the blood on the roof.

'I don't think she likes the new leaders. Sharpe flexed his left arm. 'If El Catolico's Lieutenants don't produce the gold, then they may not be leaders much longer. Is that right?

She nodded.

'Then who will be? Knowles sat down on the parapet.

'La Aguja. Sharpe had trouble pronouncing the Spanish

'J —

Teresa laughed, pleased, and Harper looked up from his own excursion into El Catolico's pockets.

'La what?

'La Aguja. The Needle. Teresa. We have a bargain.

Knowles looked astonished. Teresa? Miss Moreno?

'Why not? She fights better than most of them. He had made up the name, saw that it pleased her. 'But to make that happen we must keep the gold from the Spanish, get it out of the city, and finish this job.

Lossow sighed, scraped his unused sabre back into its curved scabbard. 'Which brings us back to the old question, my friend. How?

Sharpe had dreaded this moment, wanted to lead them gently towards it, but it had come. 'Who's stopping us?

Lossow shrugged. 'Cox.

Sharpe nodded. He spoke patiently. 'And Cox has his authority as Commander of the garrison. If there were no garrison, there would be no authority, no way to stop us.

'So? Knowles was frowning.

'So, at dawn tomorrow we destroy the garrison.

There was a moment's utter silence, broken by Knowles. 'We can't!

Teresa laughed at the sheer joy of it. 'We can!

'God in his heaven! Lossow's face was appalled, fascinated.

Harper did not seem surprised. 'How?

So Sharpe told them.