‘Good morning.’ The voice was mocking, even and steady, and Sharpe spun round to see El Catolico standing in the door of the hermitage. The Spanish officer was in shadow, but there was no mistaking the long uniform cuffs beneath the grey cloak, the slim sword, or the silken voice. ‘Good morning, Captain Sharpe. Were you hungry?’
Sharpe stood up, conscious of the filth on his uniform. He bent down to pick up his rifle, but checked as he saw a musket barrel point at him from behind El Catolico, and suddenly, on quiet feet, a dozen men were in a line either side of the Spaniard who still looked at Sharpe with a mocking eye.
‘Do you often dig up corpses, Captain Sharpe?’
There was nothing to say. He let the rifle stay on the ground and straightened up.
‘I asked if you often dug up corpses, Captain.’
The tall man walked a few more feet into the cemetery. Sharpe wiped the filth from his right hand on his overall trousers. Why the devil had Harper not appeared? Had they found him, too? Sharpe had heard nothing, no footsteps, no creaking door, but he had been scraping at the soil and the noise had been enough to cover El Catolico’s quiet approach to the back door of the hermitage.
The Spaniard chuckled, waved a hand in one of his elegant gestures. ‘You’re not going to answer my question. I suppose you are searching for the gold? Am I right?’ Sharpe said nothing and El Catolico’s voice became insistent. ‘Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a voice!’ El Catolico turned and spoke to one of his men, waited, and turned back holding a spade. ‘Then dig, Captain. Dig. We never had time to bury Carlos properly. We did it in a hurry last Saturday night, so you can do us a service.’ He threw the spade at Sharpe, the blade catching the light, and it thumped into the soil next to the Rifleman’s feet.
Sharpe did not move. Part of him damned Harper, unfairly, for the suspicions about a Sunday burial, but he knew that he would have come back anyway. And where was the big Irishman? He could not have been captured, not without a struggle that would have been audible a mile away, and Sharpe felt the faintest stirring of hope.
El Catolico took a step forward. ‘You won’t dig?’
The tall Spaniard chopped down with his left hand and Sharpe saw the musket barrel come up, heard the bang, saw the stab of flame in the gout of smoke, and the ball flattened itself on the wall behind him. Had the bastards cut Harper’s throat? There was no hope of a rescue from Hagman; Sharpe had drummed it into the group that they were not to come into the village unless summoned. Damn everything! And Knowles would lumber into the same trap, and everything, every last bloody thing, had collapsed around him because he had been too clever. He picked up the spade – there was no choice – and he thrust its blade into the earth beside the body, and his mind, refusing to take the finality of utter defeat, still hoped that beneath the rotting corpse he might find bags of gold. Beneath the body was flinty soil, full of sharp rocks, hard-packed and jarring as he thrust down with the spade.
El Catolico laughed. ‘Have you found your gold, Captain?’ He turned to his men, spoke in quick Spanish, and they laughed at the Englishman, mocked the Rifle Captain with the dirty face who was being forced to dig a grave like a peasant.
‘Joaquim?’ Teresa’s voice, and suddenly she was there, dressed in a long white dress, and she stood beside her man, put her arm through his, and asked what was happening. Sharpe heard her laughter as El Catolico explained.
‘Dig, Captain, dig! The gold! You must have the gold!’ El Catolico was enjoying himself.
Sharpe threw down the spade. ‘There is no gold.’
‘Ah!’ El Catolico’s face showed mock horror; his hands flew up, releasing the girl, and he translated to his men. He turned back, ignoring their laughter. ‘Where are your men, Captain?’