Kearsey almost jumped over the rim with joy. His fist slammed into the rock. ‘Perfect!’
The ambushers had been ambushed.
CHAPTER 5
El Catolico, the Catholic, led the horsemen from the cover of the hills, and Sharpe found him in the telescope. Kearsey barked out a description, but even without it Sharpe would have recognized the tall man as the leader. ‘Grey cloak, grey boots, long rapier, black horse.’
Kearsey was thumping his fist on the rock, willing the Partisans on, closer and closer to the wheeling French. Sharpe scanned the guerrilla line, looking for the blue and silver of a Prince of Wales Dragoon, but he could see no sign of Captain Hardy. He remembered Kearsey saying that El Catolico’s fiancee, Teresa, fought like a man, but he could see no woman in the charging line, just men screaming defiance as the first horses met and the swords chopped down on the outnumbered French.
In the village the trumpets split the quiet; men scrambled on to nervous mounts, sabres hissed from scabbards, but El Catolico was no fool. He was not going to fight a regiment and lose. Sharpe saw him waving at his men, turning them back, and the Rifleman searched with the telescope in the obscuring dust for clues to what was happening. The French had been hard-punished. Outnumbered two to one, they had fallen back, taking casualties, and the Spanish charge had given them no time to form a disciplined line. Sharpe saw prisoners, dragged by the arms, going back with the horsemen who had been disciplined, presumably by El Catolico, to make the one killing charge and then get out of danger’s way. Sharpe admired the action. The French had been baited, had fallen for the lure, and then been savagely hurt in one quick charge. It was hardly two minutes since the Spanish had appeared and already, hidden by dust, they were returning to the hills and taking with them more prisoners whose fate would be worse than that of the two men who had drawn the Hussars from the safety of the village walls. One man alone stayed in the valley.
El Catolico stood his horse and watched the Hussars stretching out from the village. Closer to him were the survivors of the Spanish charge and they now spurred their horses to attack the lone Partisan. El Catolico seemed unconcerned. He urged his horse into a canter, away from the safety of the hills, circled in the uncut barley and looked over his shoulder as the French came close. A dozen men were chasing him, leaning over their horses’ manes, sabres stretched out, and it was certain that the tall Partisan leader must be taken until, at the last moment, his horse sidestepped, the thin rapier flashed, one Frenchman was down and the big, black horse with its grey rider was in full gallop to the north and the Hussars were milling in uncertainty where their leader lay dead. Sharpe whistled softly.
Kearsey smiled. ‘He’s the finest swordsman on the border. Probably in Spain. I’ve seen him take on four Frenchmen and he never stopped saying the prayer for their death.’
Sharpe stared into the valley. A hundred horsemen had ridden out to rescue the two prisoners and now two dozen of the Hussars were dead or captured. The Partisans had lost none; the speed of their charge and withdrawal had ensured that, and their leader, staying till the end, had slapped French pride in the face. The black horse was cantering to the hills, its strength obvious, and the French would never catch El Catolico.
Kearsey slid down from the skyline. ‘That’s how it’s done.’ Sharpe nodded. ‘Impressive. Except for one thing.’ The fierce eyebrow shot up. ‘What?’
‘What are the French doing in the village?’ Kearsey shrugged. ‘Clearing out a hornet’s nest.’ He waved southwards. ‘Remember their main road is down there. All the supplies for the siege of Almeida go through this area, and when they invade Portugal proper, then everything will come through here. They don’t want Partisans in their rear. They’re clearing them out, or trying to.’
The answer made sense to Sharpe, but he was worried. ‘And the gold, sir?’