Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (87 page)

Harper grinned at him, wiped blood from his sword-bayonet. ‘Very nice, Helmet.’

There was a shout from down the street, the flare of torches, and the six men whirled round, weapons raised, but Sharpe ordered them to wait. A Portuguese patrol, muskets ready, pounded towards them, and Sharpe saw the officer leading with a drawn sword. The officer stopped, suspicion on his face, and then grinned, spread his arms, and laughed.

‘Richard Sharpe! Of all the devils! What are you doing?’

Sharpe laughed, wiped the blood off his blade, and pushed it into the scabbard. He turned to Harper. ‘Sergeant, meet Tom Garrard. Once a Sergeant in the Thirty-third, now a Lieutenant in the Portuguese army.’ He took Garrard’s hand, shook it. ‘You bastard. How are you?’

Garrard beamed at him, turned to Harper. ‘We were Sergeants together. Christ, Dick, it must be bloody years. I remember you blowing the face off that bloody little heathen! It’s good to see you. A bloody Captain! What’s the world coming to?’ He gave Sharpe a salute and laughed.

‘It’s years since anyone called me Dick. You well?’

‘Chipper. Couldn’t be better.’ He jerked a thumb at his men. ‘Good lads, these. Fight like us. Well, well, well. You remember that girl in Sering? Nancy?’

Sharpe’s men looked at Garrard curiously. It was a year since the Portuguese government had asked the British to reorganize their army and one of the changes, started by the Englishman, Marshal Beresford, who now commanded the Portuguese troops, was to offer commissions to experienced British Sergeants so that the raw, untrained Portuguese troops were given officers who knew how to fight. It was good, Garrard said, and working well, and he looked at Harper.

‘You should join up, Sergeant.’

Harper grinned, shook his head. ‘I’ll stay with him.’

‘You could do worse.’ Garrard looked at Sharpe. ‘Trouble?’

‘It’s over.’

Garrard sheathed his sword. ‘Anything I can do?’

‘Open a gate for us. Tonight.’

Garrard looked at him shrewdly. ‘How many of you?’

‘Two hundred and fifty. Cavalry and us.’

‘Christ, mate. That’s impossible. I thought you meant just you seven only.’ He stopped, grinned. ‘You with this gold?’

‘That’s us. You know about it?’

‘God Almighty! Bloody orders from everyone to stop the gold leaving. We didn’t even know there was any gold here.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Dick. Can’t help.’

Sharpe grinned. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll manage.’

‘You will.’ He grinned again. ‘I heard about Talavera. That was bloody well done. It really was.’

Sharpe pointed at Harper. ‘He was with me.’

Garrard nodded to the Irishman. ‘Proud of you.’ He looked at his men. ‘We’ll do it next time, won’t we, lads?’ The Portuguese smiled back, nodded shyly to Sharpe.

‘We must go, Tom. Work to do.’ The farewells were said, promises to look each other up, that might or might not ever be kept, and Sharpe accepted Garrard’s offer for the Portuguese soldiers to clear the bodies off the street.

‘Go easy, Dick!’

‘And you.’ Sharpe looked at Harper. ‘Did you see El Católico?’

The Sergeant shook his head. ‘There were enough of them, sir. But not him. Perhaps he doesn’t do his own dirty work?’

Then where? Sharpe looked up at the roofs. The rooftops. He turned to the Sergeant.

‘Do we have sentries on the roof?’

‘The roof?’ Alarm showed on the big face. ‘Sweet Jesus!’

‘Come on!’ They began running. Not again, thought Sharpe. Please, God, not again. He remembered Josefina lying in the blood-stained sheets; he ran faster, the sword in his hand. ‘Open up!’

The sentries turned, startled, and pushed open the courtyard gate. There was the smell of horses, torchlight, and he leapt up the steps, banged open the kitchen door, and there was the Company, eating, the firelight, candles, and Teresa, unharmed, at the end of the table. He breathed a sigh of relief, shook his head, and Lossow came over the floor.

‘Welcome back! What is it?’

Sharpe pointed to the ceiling. ‘Upstairs!’ He was trying to catch his breath. ‘Upstairs. The bastard’s waiting upstairs.’

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 Católico 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 Católico 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 Católico 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 Católico!’

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 Católico. ‘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 Católico would come for his revenge this night. Revenge, the Spanish said, was a dish best eaten cold, but for El Católico it was a dish that should be taken quickly before Sharpe was locked up in the siege. And Sharpe had no doubt that El Católico 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 Católico 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 Católico 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 Católico 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 Católico 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 Católico 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 the 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.