`Helene!’
A box of Legion d’Honneur medals was tossed to the crowd. The Spaniards, laughing, attached the medals to hang beneath their horses’ tails. Angel caught one and laughed at the trophy.
A British cavalryman ripped a tarpaulin from a wagon to find pictures beneath. They had been cut from their frames. He pulled a Rubens from the top of the pile to see if it concealed gold. It did not, and he rode on, looking for better plunder.
A golden clock, made in Augsburg three hundred years before, that showed the houses of the zodiac, the phases of the moon, as well as the time, was hacked apart by men with bayonets for the sake of its golden case. One of them, piercing his palm with the clock’s dragon hand, smashed at it with the butt of his musket. The brass and iron clockwork, that had been cared for over centuries, was scattered in the mud. Its jewelled astrolabe was carried off by a British sergeant.
`Helene!’
They searched row after row of wagons until Sharpe felt the hopelessness rise in him. He reined in and looked at Harper. `It’s no good.’
The Irishman shrugged. He looked eastwards into the valley of the Pamplona Road that was thick with fugitives. `She’d have been foolish to stay around here, sir.’ That had been his private opinion ever since they began this frantic, useless galloping amongst the stranded wagons. He wondered just what had happened to Sharpe in the last weeks. Somehow he was not surprised that the golden-haired woman was involved; Sharpe always had been a fool for women.
Sharpe swore. He wiped his sword on his leg and sheathed it. A bare-footed British infantry Captain walked past. He carried his boots carefully, both boots filled to the top with gold twenty franc pieces. Three of his men cheerfully guarded him.
Another woman dressed in French cavalry uniform called to Sharpe for protection. Sharpe ignored her. He was staring about him, watching the plunderers tear at wagons. He tried to see La Marquesa’s golden hair. A British infantryman, one of the many who now swarmed into the baggage, grabbed the woman’s hand. She clung to him and went happily enough with her new guardian.
Harper edged his horse close to the nearest wagon. If Major Sharpe wanted to look for a woman, Harper might as well look for a marriage settlement. The wagon had words stencilled on its backboard. Domaine Exterieur de S.M. L’Empereur. He wondered what they meant, then drew his knife, slashed the tarpaulin, and started working at the first box.
Sharpe watched the British infantry come like children into this wonderland of treasure. He thought of La Marquesa’s wagons and wondered if they too were being stripped and if she was trying to protect them from the muskets and bayonets. He stood in his stirrups. God damn it! Her carriage was here, she must be close by; and then he supposed that she must have fled eastwards and abandoned her wealth. Or perhaps Ducos had taken her. He swore again. He wished he would meet Ducos in this chaos for one brief moment, a moment long enough to use the heavy sword.
`God in his Irish heaven! Jesus! Mary, Mother of God, would you be looking at this. God save Ireland!’
Sharpe turned. Harper held up a diamond necklace. The Irishman looked at Sharpe with pure delight. `Open your haversack, sir.’
`Patrick?’
`For Christ’s sake, open your haversack!’ Sharpe frowned. He was thinking of La Marquesa. `Mr Sharpe, sir!’
`What?’ He snapped the word, still trying to see the golden mane of hair in the failing light.
`Give us your bloody haversack!’ Harper shouted it as if he was addressing a particularly stupid recruit. `Give it to me!’ Sharpe obeyed, hardly knowing what he was doing. Harper called to Angel to help him. They tethered their horses to the wagon and stood on the load to lever open the locked chests. Harper was emptying the first-chest of small leather boxes, each lined with white silk. He tossed the leather boxes away, keeping the jewels that they contained. He worked fast, knowing as a soldier to take swift advantage of good luck. He opened leather box after leather box, taking out necklaces, tiaras, bracelets, earrings, drops, brooches, scabbard furniture, enamelled decorations studded with stones, enough pieces for Sharpe’s haversack, his own, and Angel’s pockets. He buckled Sharpe’s haversack and tossed it to his officer. `A welcome home present, sir.’