Sharpe’s Gold: The Destruction of Almeida, August 1810. Bernard Cornwell
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it up.’
Hogan laughed. ‘I’ve tried; I can’t.’ His eyes watered as another sneeze gathered force. ‘God in heaven!’
‘So what do you do?’
Hogan wiped a tear from his cheek. ‘Not so very much, Richard. I sort of find things out, about the enemy, you understand. And draw maps. Things like that. We call it “intelligence”, but it’s a fancy word for knowing a bit about the other fellow. And I have some duties in Lisbon.’ He waved a deprecating hand. ‘I get by.’
Lisbon, where Josefina was. The thought struck Hogan as it came to Sharpe, and the small Irishman smiled and answered the unspoken question. ‘Aye, she’s well.’
Josefina, whom Sharpe had loved so briefly, for whom he had killed, and who had left him for a cavalry officer. He still thought of her, remembered the few nights, but this was no time or place for that kind of memory. He pushed the thought of her away, the jealousy he had for Captain Claud Hardy, and changed the subject.
‘So what is this thing that I must bring back for the General?’
Hogan leaned back. ‘Nervos belli, pecuniam infinitam.’
‘You know I don’t speak Spanish.’
Hogan gave a gentle smile. ‘Latin, Richard, Latin. Your education was sadly overlooked. Cicero said it: “The sinews of war are unlimited money.”’
‘Money?’
‘Gold, to be precise. Bucketfuls of gold. A King’s bloody ransom, my dear Richard, and we want it. No, more than we want it, we need it. Without it –’ He did not finish the sentence, but just shrugged instead.
‘You’re joking, surely!’
Hogan carefully lit another candle – the light beyond the windows was fading fast – and spoke quietly. ‘I wish I was. We’ve run out of money. You wouldn’t believe it, but there it is. Eighty-five million pounds is the war budget this year – can you imagine it? – and we’ve run out.’
‘Run out?’
Hogan gave another shrug. ‘A new government in London, bloody English, demanding accounts. We’re paying all Portugal’s expenses, arming half the Spanish nation, and now we need it.’ He stressed the ‘we’. ‘It’s what, I think, you would call a local embarrassment. We need some money fast, in a matter of days. We could force it out of London in a couple of months, but that will be too long. We need it now.’
‘And if not?’
‘If not, Richard, the French will be in Lisbon and not all the money in the world will make any difference.’ He smiled. ‘So you go and get the money.’
‘I go and get the money.’ Sharpe grinned at the Irishman. ‘How? Steal it?’
‘Shall we say “borrow”?’ Hogan’s voice was serious. Sharpe said nothing and the Irishman sighed, leaned back. ‘There is a problem, Richard, which is that the gold belongs to the Spanish government, in a manner of speaking.’
‘What manner?’
Hogan shrugged. ‘Who knows where the government is? Is it in Madrid, with the French? Or in Cádiz?’
‘And where’s the gold? Paris?’
Hogan gave a tired smile. ‘Not quite that far. Two days’ march.’ His voice became formal, reciting instructions. ‘You leave tonight, march to Almeida. The crossing of the Coa is guarded by the Sixtieth; they’re expecting you. In Almeida you meet Major Kearsey. From then on you are under his orders. We expect you to take no longer than one week, and should you need help, which pray God you do not, here is all you’re going to get.’
He pushed a piece of paper over the table. Sharpe unfolded it. Captain Sharpe is directed by my orders and all Officers of the Allied Armies are requested and instructed to offer Captain Sharpe any assistance he may require. The signature was a simple Wellington.
‘There’s no mention of gold?’ Sharpe had expected elucidation at this meeting. He seemed to find only more mysteries.
‘We didn’t think it wise to tell too many people about a great pile of gold that’s looking for an owner. It sort of encourages greed, if you follow me.’
A moth flew crazy circles round the candle flames. Sharpe heard dogs barking in the town, the tramping of horses in the stables behind the headquarters.
‘So how much gold?’
‘Kearsey will tell you. It can be carried.’
‘Christ Almighty! Can’t you tell me anything?’
Hogan smiled. ‘Not much. I’ll tell you this much, though.’ He leaned back, locked his fingers behind his head. ‘The war’s going bad, Richard. It’s not our fault. We need men, guns, horses, powder, everything. The enemy gets stronger. But there’s only one thing can save us now, and that’s this money.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t tell you.’ Hogan sighed, pained by hiding something from a trusted friend. ‘We have something that is secret, Richard, and it must stay that way.’ He waved down an interruption. ‘It’s the biggest damned secret I’ve ever seen, and we don’t want anyone to know – anyone. You’ll know in the end, I promise you; everyone will. But for the moment, get the gold; pay for the secret.’
They had marched at midnight. Hogan had waved them farewell, and now with the dawn bleaching the sky the Light Company was climbing the gorge of the river Coa towards the fortress town of Almeida. A shadowy picquet had waved them across the narrow, high bridge that spanned the river, and it had seemed to Sharpe, in that moment, that he was marching into the unknown. The road from the river zigzagged up the side of the gorge. Jagged rocks loomed over the path; the creeping dawn showed a savage landscape half hidden by mist from the water. The men were silent, saving their breath for the steep road.
Almeida, a mile or so ahead, was like an island in French territory. It was a Portuguese fortress town, manned by the Portuguese army under British leaders, but the countryside around was in French hands. Soon, Sharpe knew, the French would have to take Almeida by siege, batter their way through its famous walls, storm the breach, drown the island in blood so they could march safely towards Lisbon. The sentries on the bridge had stamped their feet and waved at the dark hills. ‘No patrols yesterday. You should be all right.’
The Light Company were not worried by the French. If Richard Sharpe wanted to lead them to Paris they would go, blindly confident that he would see them through, and they had grinned when he had told them they were to march behind the enemy patrols, across the Coa, across the river Agueda – for Hogan had known that much – and then back again. But something in Sharpe’s voice had been wrong; no one had said anything, but the knowledge was there that the Captain was worried. Harper had picked it up. He had marched alongside Sharpe as the road dropped towards the Coa, its surface still sticky from the rain.
‘What’s the problem, sir?’
‘There isn’t one.’ Sharpe’s tone had shut off the conversation, but he was remembering Hogan’s final words. Sharpe had been pushing and probing, trying for information that Hogan was not giving. ‘Why us? It sounds like a job for cavalry.’
Hogan nodded. ‘The cavalry tried, and failed. Kearsey says the country’s not good for horses.’
‘But the French cavalry use it?’
Another tired nod. ‘Kearsey says you’ll be all right.’ There was something constrained about Hogan’s voice.
‘You’re worried about it.’
Hogan spread his hands. ‘We should have fetched the gold out days ago. The longer it’s there, the riskier it gets.’
There had been a fraction of silence in the room. The moth had burned its wings, was flapping on the table, and Sharpe crushed it. ‘You