CHAPTER 13
Sharpe pointed at a stunted olive tree, apparently a marker between two fields, and shouted up at Hagman. ‘See the tree, Daniel?’
The voice came down from the bell-tower. ‘Sir?’
‘Olive tree! Four hundred yards away. Beyond the big house!’
‘Got it, sir.’
‘Shoot that hanging branch off!’
Hagman muttered something about bloody miracles, El Catolico sneered at the impossibility of the marksmanship, and Sharpe smiled at him.
‘If any of your men try to leave the village, they get shot. Understand?’
The Spaniard did not reply. Sharpe had put four Riflemen in the bell-tower with orders to shoot any horsemen spurring away from Casatejada. For the moment he needed all the time he could gain before El Catolico’s whole band of hardened Partisans began the pursuit of the Light Company through the hills. The Baker rifle banged, the hanging branch leaped into the air, hinged on a strip of bark, and then fell back. Hagman had not fully severed the pale bark, but the demonstration was more than enough, and El Catolico watched the ragged branch swaying like a pendulum. He said nothing. His men, disarmed and perplexed, sat by the cemetery wall and watched five other Riflemen, led by Harper, raking at the huge pile of manure with their bayonets. They were pulling out leather bags, filled with coins, and dumping them at Sharpe’s feet; bag after bag, thick with gold, more money than Sharpe had ever seen in one place, a fortune beyond his imaginings.
The Riflemen were awed by the gold, elated at its discovery, and disbelieving in their excitement as the warm, reeking bags thumped down at Sharpe’s feet. El Catolico’s face was as rigid as a child’s mask sold at a country fairground, but Sharpe knew the controlled muscles hid a raging anger. The Spaniard crossed to Sharpe, gestured at the bags.
‘Our gold, Sharpe.’
‘Ours?’
‘Spanish.’ The dark eyes searched the Rifleman’s face.
‘So we take it to Cadiz for you. Do you want to come?’
‘Cadiz!’ For a moment the mask slipped and the voice was a snarl of anger. ‘You won’t take it to Cadiz! It will go back to England with your army, to buy comforts for your Generals.’
Sharpe hoped his own face mirrored the scorn on El Catolico’s. ‘And what were you going to do with it?’
The Spaniard shrugged. ‘Take it to Cadiz. By land.’
Sharpe did not believe him; every instinct told him that El Catolico had planned to steal the gold, keep it, but he had no proof except that the gold had been hidden. He shrugged back at the guerrilla leader. ‘Then we’ll save you a journey. It will be our pleasure.’
He smiled at El Catolico, who turned away and spoke rapidly to his men, gesturing at Sharpe, and the seated fighters by the wall muttered angrily so that Sharpe’s men had to heft their rifles and step one pace forward.
Patrick Harper stopped beside Sharpe and stretched his back muscles. ‘They’re not happy, sir.’
Sharpe grinned. ‘They think we’re stealing their gold. I don’t think they want to help us take it to Cadiz.’
Teresa was staring at Sharpe as a cat might look at a bird. Harper saw her expression.
‘Do you think they’ll try to stop us, sir?’
Sharpe raised innocent eyebrows. ‘We’re allies.’ He raised his voice and spoke slowly so that any of the Spaniards with a smattering of English would understand. ‘We take the gold to Cadiz, to the Junta.’
Teresa spat on the ground and raised her eyes again to Sharpe. He wondered if they had all known that the gold was hidden in the manure, but doubted it. If too many of the Partisans had known, then there was always a danger that someone would talk and the secret would be gone. But there was no doubting the fact that now the gold had been revealed, they were determined to stop him taking it away. It was an undeclared war, nasty and private, and Sharpe wondered how the Light Company was to carry the coins through a countryside that was familiar hunting territory to El Catolico’s men.
‘Sir!’ Hagman was calling from the bell-tower. ‘Mr Knowles in sight, sir!’