Sharpe’s Gold: The Destruction of Almeida, August 1810. Bernard Cornwell
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Rifleman. The Major was wearing a long, black cloak, and in the first light he looked like a malevolent small bat.
‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Where the gold is, who it belongs to, how we get it out, where it’s going, do the enemy know, why us and not cavalry, and most of all, sir, what it’s going to be used for.’
‘Used for?’ Kearsey looked puzzled. ‘Used for? None of your business, Sharpe.’
‘So I understand, sir.’
Kearsey was walking back to the battlement. ‘Used for! It’s Spanish gold. They can do what they like with it. They can buy more gaudy statues for their Romish churches, if they want to, but they won’t.’ He started barking, and Sharpe realized, after a moment’s panic, that the Major was laughing. ‘They’ll buy guns, Sharpe, to kill the French.’
‘I thought the gold was for us, sir. The British.’
Kearsey sounded like a dog coughing, Sharpe decided, and he watched as Kearsey almost doubled over with his strange laugh. ‘Forgive me, Sharpe. For us? What a strange idea. It’s Spanish gold, belongs to them. Not for us at all! Oh, no! We’re just delivering it safely to Lisbon and the Royal Navy will ship it down to Cádiz.’ Kearsey started his strange barking again, repeating to himself, ‘For us! For us!’
Sharpe decided it was not the time, or place, to enlighten the Major. It did not matter much what Kearsey thought, as long as the gold was taken safely back over the river Coa. ‘Where is it now, sir?’
‘I told you. Casatejada.’ Kearsey bristled at Sharpe, as though he resented giving away precious information, but then he seemed to relent and sat on the edge of the telegraph platform and riffled the pages of his Bible as he talked. ‘It’s Spanish gold. Sent by the government to Salamanca to pay the army. The army gets defeated, remember? So the Spaniards have a problem. Lot of money in the middle of nowhere, no army, and the countryside crawling with the French. Luckily a good man got hold of the gold, told me, and I came up with the solution.’
‘The Royal Navy.’
‘Precisely! We send the gold back to the government in Cádiz.’
‘Who’s the “good man”, sir?’
‘Ah. Cesar Moreno. A fine man, Sharpe. He leads a guerrilla band. He brought the gold from Salamanca.’
‘How much, sir?’
‘Sixteen thousand coins.’
The amount meant nothing to Sharpe. It depended how much each coin weighed. ‘Why doesn’t Moreno bring it over the border, sir?’
Kearsey stroked his grey moustache, twitched at his cloak, and seemed unsettled by the question. He looked fiercely at Sharpe, as if weighing up whether to say more, and then sighed. ‘Problems, Sharpe, problems. Moreno’s band is small and he’s joined up with another group, a bigger group, and the new man doesn’t want us to help. This man’s marrying Moreno’s daughter, has a lot of influence, and he’s our problem. He thinks we just want to steal the gold! Can you imagine that?’ Sharpe could, very well, and he suspected that Wellington had more than imagined it. Kearsey slapped at a fly. ‘Wasn’t helped by our failure two weeks ago.’
‘Failure?’
Kearsey looked unhappy. ‘Cavalry, Sharpe. My own regiment, too. We sent fifty men and they got caught.’ He chopped his hand up and down as if it were a sabre. ‘Fifty. So we lost face to the Spanish. They don’t trust us, and they think we’re losing the war and planning to take their gold. El Católico wants to move the gold by land, but I’ve persuaded them to give us one more chance!’
After a dearth of information Sharpe was suddenly being deluged with new facts. ‘El Católico, sir?’
‘I told you! The new man. Marrying Moreno’s daughter.’
‘But why El Católico?’
A stork flapped its way up into the sky, legs back, long wings edged with black, and Kearsey watched it for a second or two.
‘Ah! See what you mean. The Catholic. He prays over his victims before he kills them. The Latin prayer for the dead. Just as a joke, of course.’ The Major sounded gloomy. His fingers riffled the pages as if he were drawing strength from the psalms and stories that were beneath his fingertips. ‘He’s a dangerous man, Sharpe. Ex-officer, knows how to fight, and he doesn’t want us to be involved.’
Sharpe took a deep breath, walked to the battlement, and stared at the rocky northern landscape. ‘So, sir. The gold is a day’s march from here, guarded by Moreno and El Católico, and our job is to fetch it, persuade them to let us take it, and escort it safely over the border.’
‘Quite right.’
‘What’s to stop Moreno already taking it, sir? I mean, while you’re here.’
Kearsey gave a single snorting bark. ‘Thought of that, Sharpe. Left a man there, one of the Regiment, good man. He’s keeping an eye on things, keeping the Partisans sweet.’ Kearsey stood up and, in the growing heat of the sun, shrugged off his cloak. His uniform was blue with a pelisse of silver lace and grey fur. At his side was the polished-steel scabbard of the curved sabre. It was the uniform of the Prince of Wales Dragoons, of Claud Hardy, of Josefina’s lover, Sharpe’s usurper. Kearsey pushed the Bible into his slung sabretache. ‘Moreno trusts us; it’s only El Católico we have to worry about, and he likes Hardy. I think it will be all right.’
‘Hardy?’ Sharpe had somehow sensed it, the feeling of an incomplete story.
‘That’s right.’ Kearsey glanced sharply at the Rifleman. ‘Captain Claud Hardy. You know him?’
‘No, sir.’
Which was true. He had never met him, just watched Josefina walk away to Hardy’s side. He had thought that the rich young cavalry officer was in Lisbon, dancing away the nights, and instead he was here! Waiting a day’s march away. He stared westward, away from Kearsey, at the deep, dark-shadowed gorge of the Coa that slashed across the landscape. Kearsey stamped his feet.
‘Anything else, Sharpe?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. We march tonight. Nine o’clock.’
Sharpe turned back. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘One rule, Sharpe. I know the country, you don’t, so no questions, just instant obedience.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Company prayers at sunset, unless the Froggies interfere.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Good Lord!
Kearsey returned Sharpe’s salute. ‘Nine o’clock, then. At the north gate!’ He turned and clattered down the winding stairs and Sharpe went back to the battlement, leaned on the granite, and stared unseeing at the huge sprawl of defences beneath him.
Josefina. Hardy. He squeezed the silver ring, engraved with an eagle, which she had bought for him before the battle, but which had been her parting gift when the killing had finished along the banks of the Portina stream north of Talavera. He had tried to forget her, to tell himself she was not worth it, and as he looked up at the rough countryside to the north he tried to force his mind away from her, to think of the gold, of El Católico, the praying killer, and Cesar Moreno. But to do the job with Josefina’s lover? God damn it!
A midshipman, far from the sea, came on to the turret to man the telegraph, and he looked curiously at the tall, darkhaired Rifleman with the scarred face. He looked, the midshipman decided, a dangerous beast, and he watched as a big, tanned hand fidgeted with the hilt of an enormous, straight-bladed sword.
‘She’s a bitch!’ Sharpe said.
‘Pardon, sir?’ The midshipman, fifteen years old, was frightened.
Sharpe turned, unaware he had been joined. ‘Nothing, son, nothing.’