Sixteen thousand coins, each worth three pounds and ten shillings, and Sharpe tried to work it out in his head. Isaiah Tongue beat them all, his voice full of wonder as he gave the figure.
'Fifty-six thousand pounds, sir.
Sharpe started to laugh, feeling almost hysterical in his reaction. He could buy well over thirty Captaincies with this money. It would pay a day's wages to more than a million men. If Sharpe should live for a hundred years he would never earn the amount that was sagging in the leather bags at his feet: fat, great, thick, yellow-gold coins with their pictures of a fancy-haired, hook-nosed, soft-looking King. Money, gold, more than he could comprehend on his salary of ten shillings and sixpence a day, less two shillings and eightpence for the mess charge, and then more deductions for washing and the hospital levy, and he stared disbelieving at the pile. As for the men, they were lucky if in a year they earned as much as just two of these coins. A shilling a day, less all the deductions, brought them down to the Three Sevens: seven pounds, seven shillings, and sevenpence a year. But there were few men who made even that much. They were charged for lost equipment, broken equipment, replacement equipment, and men had deserted for less than the value of a handful of this gold.
'A thousand pounds, sir. Knowles was looking serious.
'What?
'I guess that's what it weighs, sir. A thousand, probably more.
Nearly half a ton of gold, to be carried through the enemy hills, and probably in weather that was about to break disastrously. The clouds were overhead now, heavy with rain, moving south so that soon there would be no blue sky. Sharpe pointed at the bags.
'Split them up, Lieutenant. Thirty piles. Fill thirty packs, throw away everything except ammunition, and we'll just have to take it in turns to carry them.
El Catolico stood up, walked slowly towards Sharpe, keeping an eye on the Riflemen, who still covered the Spaniards with their guns.
'Captain.
'Yes?
'It's Spanish gold. He spoke with pride, making one last effort.
'I know.
'It belongs to Spain. It must stay here.
Sharpe shook his head. 'It belongs to the Supreme Junta in Cadiz. I am merely delivering it.
'It does not need to go. El Catolico had summoned up all his dignity. He spoke quietly, persuasively. 'It will be used to fight the French, Captain. To kill Frenchmen. If you take it, then Britain will steal it; it will go home in your ships. It should stay here.
'No. Sharpe smiled at the Spaniard, trying to annoy him. 'It goes with us. The Royal Navy is sending it to Cadiz. If you don't believe me, why don't you come, too? We could do with more backs to pile it on.
El Catolico returned the smile. 'I will be coming with you, Captain.
Sharpe knew what he meant. The journey home would be a nightmare of fear, fear of ambush, but Wellington's 'must' was the imperative in Sharpe's head. He turned away and, as he did, felt one solitary raindrop splash on his cheek. He waited, but there were no more, though he knew that soon, within the hour, the clouds would burst and the streams and rivers would rise with unimaginable speed.
Harper came back, scrubbed clean, his clothes soaking wet. He nodded at the Partisans. 'What do we do with them, sir?
'Lock them up when we go. It would gain a little time, not much, but every minute was valuable. He turned to Knowles. 'Are we ready?
'Nearly, sir.
Knowles was splitting open the bags while two men, Sergeant McGovern and Rifleman Tongue, poured the coins into packs. Sharpe was grateful that so many of his men had looted French cowhide packs at Talavera; the British canvas and wood packs would have split open under the weight. The men hated the British packs, made by the firm of Trotter's, with their terrible chest straps, which, at the end of a long march, made the lungs feel as if they were filled with acid: 'Trotter's pains', it was called, and all but a couple of the men had captured French equipment on their backs.
Rifleman Tongue looked up at Sharpe. 'Shouldn't there be sixty-four bags, sir?
'Sixty-four?
Tongue pushed back a hank of hair that continually fell over his eyes. 'Supposed to be sixteen thousand coins, sir. We've got sixty-three bags, two hundred and fifty in that one. He pointed to the opened bag. 'That makes fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty. Two hundred and fifty short.
'That's not all that's missing. Harper's voice was soft and it took a moment for Sharpe to understand. Hardy. He had forgotten Captain Hardy in the excitement of finding the gold. He looked at El Catolico. 'Well?
The Spaniard shrugged. 'We used one bag, yes. We must buy weapons, powder, shot, even food.
'I wasn't talking about gold."
'What then? El Catolico was very still.
Another drop of rain, and another, and Sharpe glanced up at the clouds. It would be a hard march. 'Captain Hardy is missing.
'I know.
'What else do you know?
El Catolico's tongue flicked out, licked his lips. 'We think he was captured by the French. He dropped into his sneering tone. 'No doubt they will exchange him, politely. You do not understand real war, Captain.
Harper growled, stepped forward. 'Let me ask the questions, sir. I'll break him apart.
'No. It was the girl who spoke. 'Hardy tried to escape the French. We don't know where he is.
'They're lying. The Irishman's hands clenched.
The rain was beating on the dry ground, big, warm drops. Sharpe turned to the Company. 'Wrap your locks! Stop muzzles!
Rain was the enemy of gunpowder and the most they could do was try to keep the rifles and muskets dry. Sharpe saw the ground soaking up the water. They had to leave soon, before the dust turned to mud.
'Sir! Hagman again, calling from the tower.
'Daniel?
'Horsemen, sir. Couple of miles south.
'French?
'No. Dagoes, sir.
Now time was everything. Sharpe turned to Harper.
'Lock them up. Find somewhere, anywhere. They must forget Captain Hardy and march fast, try to build a lead over the Partisans' pursuit, but Sharpe knew it was impossible. The gold was heavy. El Catolico understood. As the Spaniards were herded unceremoniously towards the village he pushed his way past a Rifleman.
'You won't get far, Captain.
Sharpe walked up to him. 'Why not?
El Catolico smiled, gestured at the rain, the gold. 'We'll chase you. Kill you.
It was true. Sharpe knew that even by using the horses that were still in the village he could not travel fast enough. The rain was falling harder, bouncing up from the ground so that the earth seemed to have a sparkling mist an inch or two above its surface. Sharpe smiled, pushed past the Spaniard.
'You won't. He put out his hand, took hold of Teresa's collar, and pulled her out of the group.
'She dies if even one of us gets hurt.
El Catolico lunged for him, the girl twisted away, but Harper brought his fist into the Spaniard's stomach and Sharpe grabbed Teresa with a choking hold on her neck.
'Do you understand? She dies. If that gold does not reach the British army, she dies!
El Catolico straightened up, his eyes furious. 'You will die, Sharpe, I promise you, and not an easy death.
Sharpe ignored him. 'Sergeant?
'Sir?
'Rope.
The Spaniard watched, silent, as Harper found a scrap of rope and, at Sharpe's directions, looped and tightened it round Teresa's neck.
Sharpe nodded. 'Hold her, Sergeant. He turned to El Catolico. 'Remember her like that. If you come near me, she's dead. If I get back safely, then I'll release her to marry you.
He gestured and the Company pushed the Spaniards away. Sharpe watched them go, knowing that soon they would be on his tracks, but he had bought more than time now. He had his hostage. He looked at her, seeing the hatred in her proud face, and knew he could not kill her. He hoped El Catolico did not know that, or else, in the seething rain, the Light Company were all dead men.
They started out, silent and wet, on the long journey home.
CHAPTER 14
Six horses had been in the village and for the first two miles, back along the same track they had come, the going was easy enough. The horses carried the packs of gold, the men climbed the slope, the rain hissed in their ears, and there was the elation of success, of being at least on the road home, but it could not last. The direct route westwards, the path they were using, was not the most sensible route. It was the obvious track, the one that El Catolico would search first, and it led straight towards Almeida and the burgeoning French army that was concentrating on the town. Sharpe felt the temptation to stay on the easy route, to make the march easier, but once the village was out of sight he turned the men north, up into the hills, and abandoned the horses. Lieutenant Knowles with three men took them on, further westward, and Sharpe hoped the continuing hoof-marks would delay the pursuit while the Company, astonished at the weight of the coins, struggled into the northern wasteland, up rocks and slopes that no horse could have climbed. The rain kept on steadily, soaking their uniforms, driving their tired, aching, sleepless bodies to new layers of discomfort.
Teresa seemed unafraid, as if she knew Sharpe would not kill her, and she refused the offer of a greatcoat with a disdainful shake of her head. She was cold, soaked through, humiliated by the rope round her neck, but Sharpe left it on because it would have been simple for her to run away, unencumbered, into the slippery rocks where the heavily laden men of the Light Company would never have caught her. Harper held the other end looped round his wrist.
'Where are you heading, sir? He had to shout over the rain.
'The ford at San Anton. You remember? The Major told us about it. Sharpe wondered where Kearsey was, what his reaction would be.
It took Knowles an hour and a half to catch up, his men worn out by the effort but glad to be back in the safety of the full Company. Knowles shook his head. 'Didn't see a thing, sir. Nothing.
Sharpe was not reassured. These hills could have been full of hidden watchers and the ploy of laying the false trail might not delay El Catolico for one minute, but as the day went on, and their tiredness became a numbness beyond pain, Sharpe let his hopes rise. They were walking a nightmare landscape on a plateau that was criss-crossed with ravines, streambeds, and rock. No horse would make fast time up here and Sharpe forced the men on pitilessly, cracking his anger like a whip, driving them north and west, through the relentless weather, kicking the men who fell, and carrying two of the packs of gold to prove to them it could be done.
Teresa watched it all, her mouth curved in an ironic smile, as her captors slipped, crashed painfully into the rocks, and blundered onwards in the storm. Sharpe prayed that the wind stayed in the north; he had lost all bearings and his only guide was the rain on his face. He stopped occasionally, let the men rest, and searched the wind-scoured plateau for the sign of a horseman. There was nothing, just the rain sweeping in slow curtains towards him, the bounce of drops from the rocks, and the grey horizon where air and stone became indistinguishable. Perhaps the ploy had worked, he thought, and El Catolico was searching miles away on the wrong road, and the longer they stayed undetected the more Sharpe dared to hope that the crude ploy of the false tracks had worked.
Every half hour or so the Company stopped and the men who had not been carrying the gold-filled packs took over from those who had. It was a painfully slow march. The packs chafed their shoulders, rubbed them raw, and the gold, far from being something from their wildest dreams, became a loathed burden that the men would happily have thrown away if Sharpe had not taken his position at the rear, driving them on, forcing the Company across the bleak plateau. He had no idea how far they had come, even what time of day it was, only that they must keep marching, putting distance between themselves and El Catolico, and his anger snapped when the Company suddenly stopped, dropped, and yelled at them, 'Get up!
'But, sir! Knowles, leading the Company, waved ahead. 'Look!
Even in the rain, in the crushing weather, it was a beautiful sight. The plateau suddenly ended, dropped to a wide valley through which meandered a stream and a track.
The Agueda. It had to be the river Agueda, off to the left, and the stream at the bottom of the valley flowed east to west to join the river where the track led to the ford. Sharpe's heart leapt. They had made it! He could see the road start again at the far side of the river; it was the ford at San Anton, and beside the track, on this side of the river, was an ancient fort on a rock bluff that once must have guarded the crossing. At this distance, he guessed a mile and a half, the walls looked broken, stubbled in the grey light, but the fortress had to mark the site of the ford. They had done it!
'Five minutes' rest!
The Company sat down, relieved, cheered up. Sharpe perched on a rock and searched the valley. Second by second his hopes revived. It was empty. No horsemen, no Partisans, nothing but the stream and the track going to the river. He took out his telescope, praying that the driving rain would not seep through the junctions of its cylinders, and searched the valley again.