Sixteen thousand coins, two hundred and fifty stolen by El Catolico, a thousand to Teresa, fourteen thousand to the General, and the rest was being spent by the Light Company and the Germans as if money were issued with the rations. Sharpe had ordered them to get drunk, to find their women, and if any provost asked where the money came from they were referred to Sharpe, and somehow they did not want to argue with the tall, scarred Rifleman who simply told them it was stolen. There was even money in Sharpe’s name in London, held by the agents, Messrs Hopkinson and Son of St Alban’s Street, Knowles’s agents, and Sharpe wondered, as he walked towards the address Hogan had given him, just what a four per cent stock was. The Lisbon office had laughed politely when he told them it was stolen. He had not given them all the coins.
The house looked rich, and he imagined Hardy using the big front door that was answered by Agostino, Josefina’s servant, who now wore a fancy powdered wig and a coat that was all buttons and lace.
‘Sir?’
Sharpe pushed him out of the way, strode into a marble hall with palms, rugs, and latticed screens. He thought of Teresa, pushed the thought away because he wanted her, and thought how she would have despised the scent that filled the hallway.
He went into a huge room that opened through archways on to a terrace high above the Tagus. Orange trees framed the view, their scent mingling with the smell of perfume.
‘Josefina!’
‘Richard!’
She was in an archway, the evening light round her body so he could not see her face. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Visiting you.’
She came forward, plumper than he remembered, and smiled at him. She touched his face with a finger, looked his uniform up and down, and made a face of disapproval.
‘You can’t stay.’
‘Why not.’
She gestured outside. ‘He was first.”
He looked at her, remembering her differently, and he would have left if Patrick Harper had not already claimed the dark-haired maid at the American Hotel. Instead, he walked on to the terrace where a languid cavalry Lieutenant sat with a glass of wine.
The Lieutenant looked up. ‘Sir.’
‘How much did you pay?’
‘Richard!’ She was behind him, pulling at him. Sharpe laughed.
‘Lieutenant?’
‘Damn you, sir!’ The Lieutenant stood up, the wine quivering in the glass.
‘How much did you pay?’
‘Damn your eyes, sir! I’ll call you out!’
Josefina was laughing now, enjoying herself. Sharpe smiled. ‘You can. The name’s Sharpe. In the meantime, get out!’
‘Sharpe?’ The Lieutenant’s expression had fallen.
‘Out.’
‘But, sir…’
Sharpe drew the sword, the great steel sword. ‘Out!’
‘Madame!’ The Lieutenant bowed to Josefina, put down his wine, glanced once at Sharpe, and was gone. She hit him, lightly.
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Why not?’ He pushed the sword back into the scabbard.
She pouted. ‘He was rich and generous.’
He laughed, opened his new ammunition pouch, the black leather still stiff, and threw the thick gold coins on to the patterned tiles.
‘Richard! What is it?’
‘Gold, you fool.’ The convoy could take another month for all he cared. He tossed more coins, thick as butter. ‘Josefina’s gold, your gold, our gold, my gold.’ He laughed again, pulled her towards him. ‘Sharpe’s gold.’
HISTORICAL NOTE
Almeida’s garrison surrendered after the explosion of August 27th, 1810. The event was much as described in Sharpe’s Gold. The magazine in the cathedral blew up and destroyed, beside the cathedral itself, the castle, five hundred houses, and part of the fortifications. It was estimated that more than five hundred of the garrison died. Brigadier Cox wanted to continue the defence but bowed to the inevitable and surrendered the next day.
It must have been one of the biggest explosions of the pre-nuclear world. (Certainly not the biggest. A year before, in 1809, Sir John Moore deliberately exploded four thousand barrels of powder to keep them from falling into French hands at Corunna.) A year later the French added to the destruction. They, in turn, were besieged in Almeida and abandoned its defence after blowing up part of the walls; their garrison of fourteen hundred men successfully escaped through the much larger British besieging force. Despite its misfortunes the town’s defences are still impressive. The main road no longer passes through Almeida; instead it runs a few miles to the south, but the town is just half an hour’s drive from the border post at Vilar Formoso. The awesome defences are repaired and intact, surrounding what is now a shrunken village, and on the top of the hill it is easy to see where the explosion occurred. Nothing was rebuilt. A graveyard marks the site of the cathedral; the castle moat is a square, stone-faced ditch; granite blocks still litter the area where they fell, and wild flowers grow where once there were houses and streets.