Sharpe's Gold (3 page)

Another wintry smile. 'The enemy intend to push us into the sea, and soon. How do we
respond?' Wellington, it occurred to Sharpe, was using up time. He was waiting for
something or someone.

Lawford was feeling uncomfortable. The question was one he would rather hear answered
by the General. 'Bring them to battle, sir?'

'Thirty thousand troops, plus twenty-five thousand untried Portuguese, against three
hundred and fifty thousand men?'

Wellington let the figures hang in the air like the dust that shifted silently in the
slanting sunlight over his desk. Overhead the feet of the men operating the telegraph
still shuffled. The figures, Sharpe knew, were unfair. Massena needed thousands of those
men to contain the Guerrilleros, the Partisans, but even so the disparity in numbers was
appalling. Wellington sniffed. There was a knock on the door.

'Come in.'

'Sir.'

The Major who had shown them into the room handed a slip of paper to the General, who
read it, closed his eyes momentarily, and sighed.

'The rest of the message is still coming?'

'Yes, sir. But the gist is there.'

The Major left and Wellington leaned back in his chair. The news had been bad, Sharpe
could tell, but not, perhaps, unexpected. He remembered that Wellington had once said
that running a campaign was like driving a team of horses with a rope harness. The ropes
kept breaking and all a General could do was tie a knot and keep going. A rope was
unravelling, here and now, an important one, and Sharpe watched the fingers drum on the
edge of the table. The eyes came up to Sharpe again, flicked to Lawford.

'Colonel?'

'Sir?'

'I am borrowing Captain Sharpe from you, and his Company. I doubt whether I need them
for more than one month.'

'Yes, my lord.' Lawford looked at Sharpe and shrugged.

Wellington stood again. He seemed to be relieved, as if a decision had been made. 'The
war is not lost, gentlemen, though I know my confidence is not universally shared.' He
sounded bitter, angry with the defeatists whose letters home were quoted in the
newspapers. 'We may bring the French to battle, and if we do we will win.' Sharpe never
doubted it. Of all Britain's generals this was the only one who knew how to beat the
French. 'If we win we will only delay their advance.' He opened a map, stared at it blankly,
and let it snap shut again into a roll. 'No, gentlemen, our survival depends on something
else. Something that you, Captain Sharpe, must bring me. Must, do you hear? Must.'

Sharpe had never heard the General so insistent. 'Yes, sir.'

Lawford coughed. 'And if he fails, my lord?'

The wintry smile again. 'He had better not.' He looked at Sharpe. 'You are not the only
card in my hand, Mr Sharpe, but you are… important. There are things happening,
gentlemen, that this army does not know about. If it did it would be generally more
optimistic.' He sat down again, leaving them mystified. Sharpe suspected the
mystification was on purpose. He was spreading some counter-rumours to the defeatists,
and that, too, was part of a general's job. He looked up again. 'You are now under my
orders, Captain Sharpe. Your men must be ready to march this night. They must not be
encumbered with wives or unnecessary baggage, and they must have full ammunition.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you will be back here in one hour. You have two tasks to perform.'

Sharpe wondered if he was to be told what they were. 'Sir?'

'First, Mr Sharpe, you will receive your orders. Not from me but from an old companion
of yours.' Wellington saw Sharpe's quizzical look. 'Major Hogan.'

Sharpe's face betrayed his pleasure. Hogan, the engineer, the quiet Irishman who was a
friend, whose sense Sharpe had leaned on in the difficult days leading to Talavera.
Wellington saw the pleasure and tried to puncture it. 'But before that, Mr Sharpe, you will
apologize to Lieutenant Ayres.' He watched for Sharpe's reaction.

'But of course, sir. I had always planned to.' Sharpe looked shocked at the thought that he
might ever have contemplated another course of action and, through his innocently
wide eyes, wondered if he saw a flicker of amusement behind the General's cold, blue
gaze.

Wellington looked away, to Lawford, and with his usual disarming speed suddenly
became affable. 'You're well, Colonel?'

'Thank you, sir. Yes.' Lawford beamed with pleasure. He had served on Wellington's staff,
knew the General well.

'Join me for dinner tonight. The usual time.' The General looked at Forrest. 'And you,
Major?'

'My pleasure, sir.'

'Good.' The eyes flicked at Sharpe. 'Captain Sharpe will be too busy, I fear.' He nodded a
dismissal. 'Good day, gentlemen.'

Outside the headquarters the bugles sounded the evening and the sun sank in
magnificent crimson. Inside the quiet room the General paused a moment before
plunging back into the paperwork that must be done before the dinner of roast mutton.
Hogan, he thought, was right. If a miracle were needed to save the campaign, and it was,
then the rogue he had just seen was the best man for the job. More than a rogue: a fighter,
and a man who looked on failure as unthinkable. But a rogue, thought Wellington, a damned
rogue all the same.

Sharpe had spent the hour between leaving and returning to Wellington's headquarters
conjuring all kinds of quixotic answers to the mystery of what he was supposed to bring
back to the General. Perhaps, he had thought as he stirred the Company into activity,
it would be a new French secret weapon, something like the British Colonel Congreve's
rocket system, of which there were so many tales but so little evidence. Or, more
fanciful still, perhaps the British had secretly offered refuge to Napoleon's divorced
Josephine, who might have smuggled herself to Spain to become a pawn in the high politics
of the war. He was still wondering as he was shown into a large room of the headquarters,
to find a reception committee, formal and strained, flanking a wretchedly embarrassed
Lieutenant Ayres.

The unctuous young Major smiled at Sharpe as though he were a valued and expected
guest. 'Ah, Captain Sharpe. You know the Provost Marshal, you've met Lieutenant Ayres, and
this is Colonel Williams. Gentlemen?' The Major made a delicate gesture as if inviting
them all to sit down and take a glass of sherry. It seemed that Colonel Williams, plump and
red-veined, was deputed to do the talking.

'Disgraceful, Sharpe. Disgraceful!'

Sharpe stared a fraction of an inch over Williams's head and stopped himself from
blinking. It was a useful way of discomfiting people, and, sure enough, Williams wavered
from the apparent gaze and made a helpless gesture towards Lieutenant Ayres.

'You imperilled his authority, overstepped your own. A disgrace!'

'Yes, sir. I apologize!'

'What?' Williams seemed surprised at Sharpe's sudden apology. Lieutenant Ayres was
squirming with uneasiness, while the Provost Marshal seemed impatient to get the charade
done. Williams cleared his throat, seemed to want his pound of flesh. 'You apologize?'

'Yes, sir. Unreservedly, sir. Terrible disgrace, sir. I utterly apologize, sir,
regret my part very much, sir, as I'm sure Lieutenant Ayres does his.'

Ayres, startled by a sudden smile from Sharpe, nodded hastily and agreed. 'I do, sir. I
do.'

Williams whirled on his unfortunate Lieutenant. 'What do you have to regret, Ayres? You
mean there's more to this than I thought?'

The Provost Marshal sighed and scraped a boot on the floor. 'I think the purpose of this
meeting is over, gentlemen, and I have work to do.' He looked at Sharpe. 'Thank you,
Captain, for your apology. We'll leave you.'

As they left, Sharpe could hear Colonel Williams interrogating Ayres as to why he should
have any regrets, and Sharpe let a grin show on his face which widened into a broad smile as
the door opened once more and Michael Hogan came into the room. The small Irishman shut the
door carefully and smiled at Sharpe.

'As graceful an apology as I expected from you. How are you?'

They shook hands, pleasure on both their faces. The war, it turned out, was treating Hogan
well. An engineer, he had been transferred to Wellington's staff, and promoted. He spoke
Portuguese and Spanish, and added to those skills was a common sense that was rare. Sharpe
raised his eyebrows at Hogan's elegant, new uniform.

'So what do you do here?'

'A bit of this and the other.' Hogan beamed at him, paused, then sneezed violently.
'Christ and St Patrick! Bloody Irish Blackguard!'

Sharpe looked puzzled and Hogan held out his snuff-box. 'Can't get Scotch Rappee here,
only Irish Blackguard. It's like sniffing grapeshot straight up the nostrils.'

'Give 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 1
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. 'Nemos 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 Cadiz?'

'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 don't think we'll succeed, do you.' It
was a statement, not a question.

Hogan looked up from the dead moth. 'No.'

'So the war's lost?' Hogan nodded. Sharpe flicked the moth on to the floor. 'But the
General says there are other tricks up his sleeve. That this isn't the only hope.'

Hogan's eyes were tired. 'He has to say that.'

Sharpe had stood up 'So why the hell don't you send three bloody regiments in? Four. Send
the bloody army! Make sure you get the gold."

'It's too far, Richard. There are no roads beyond Almeida. If we attract attention,
then the French will be there before us. The regiments could never get across both rivers
without a fight, and they'd be outnumbered. No. We're sending you.'

And now he was climbing the tight bends of the border road, watching the dull horizon
for the telltale gleam of a drawn enemy sabre, and marching in the knowledge that he was
expected to fail. He hoped Major Kearsey, who waited for the Company in Almeida, had
more faith, but Hogan had been diffident about the Major. Sharpe had probed again. 'Is he
unreliable?'

Hogan shook his head. 'He's one of the best, Richard, one of the very best. But he's not
exactly the man we'd have chosen for this job.'

He had refused to elaborate. Kearsey, he had told Sharpe, was an exploring officer,
one of the men who rode fast horses behind enemy lines, in full uniform, and sent back a
stream of information, despatches captured from the French by the Partisans and maps of
the countryside. It was Kearsey who had discovered the gold, informed Wellington, and
only Kearsey knew its exact location. Kearsey, suitable or not, was the key to
success.

The road flattened on the high crest of the Coa's east bank, and ahead, silhouetted in
the dawn light, was Portugal's northern fortress, Almeida. It dominated the countryside
for miles around, a town built on a hill that rose to the huge bulk of a cathedral and a
castle side by side. Below those buildings, massive and challenging, the thick-tiled
houses fell away down the steep streets until they met Almeida's real defences. In this
early light, at this distance, it was the castle that impressed, with its four huge
turrets and crenellated walls, but Sharpe knew that the high battlements had long been out
of date, replaced by the low, grey ramparts that spread a vast, grim pattern round the town.
He did not envy the French. They would have to attack across open ground, through a
scientifically designed maze of ditches and hidden walls, and all the time they would be
enfiladed by dozens of masked batteries that could pour canister and grape into the
killing-ground between the long, sleek arms of the star-like fortifications. Almeida
had been fortified, its defences rebuilt only seven years before, and the old,
redundant castle looked down on the modern, unglamorous, granite monster that was
designed only to lure, to trap, and to destroy.

Closer, the defences seemed less threatening. It was an illusion. The old days of
sheer, high walls were past and the best modern fortresses were surrounded by smooth
hummocks, like the ones the Light Company approached, that were so gently sloping that
even a cripple could walk up without losing breath. The hummocks were there to deflect the
besiegers' cannon shots, to send the balls and shells ricocheting into the air, over the
defences, so that when the infantry attacked, up the gentle, innocent grass slopes, they
would find the murderous traps intact. At the top of that slope was hidden a vast ditch, at
the far side of which was a granite-faced wall, topped by belching guns, and even if that
were taken there was another behind, and another, and Sharpe was glad he was not
summoning the strength to attack a fortress like this. It would come, he knew, because
before the French were spat out of Spain the British would have to take towns like this, and
he pushed away the thought. Sufficient unto the day was that evil.