‘The beginning of wisdom, sir, is the fear of the Lord.”
Sharpe grinned. He turned the coin over. On the other side was the profile of a man, his head covered in a wig of profuse curls, and the legend was easily understood. Philip the Fifth, by the Grace of God King of Spain and the Indies. At the foot of the profile was a date: 1729. Sharpe looked at Knowles.
‘Know what it is?’
‘Doubloon, sir. Eight escudo piece.”
‘What’s it worth?’
Knowles thought about it, hefted the coin in his hand, tossed it into the air. ‘About three pounds ten shillings, sir.’
Sharpe looked disbelieving. ‘Each?’
Knowles nodded. ‘Each.’
‘Sweet Jesus.’
Sixteen thousand coins, each worth three pounds and ten shillings, and Sharpe tried to work it out in his head. Isaiah Tongue beat them all, his voice full of wonder as he gave the figure.
‘Fifty-six thousand pounds, sir.’
Sharpe started to laugh, feeling almost hysterical in his reaction. He could buy well over thirty Captaincies with this money. It would pay a day’s wages to more than a million men. If Sharpe should live for a hundred years he would never earn the amount that was sagging in the leather bags at his feet: fat, great, thick, yellow-gold coins with their pictures of a fancy-haired, hook-nosed, soft-looking King. Money, gold, more than he could comprehend on his salary of ten shillings and sixpence a day, less two shillings and eightpence for the mess charge, and then more deductions for washing and the hospital levy, and he stared disbelieving at the pile. As for the men, they were lucky if in a year they earned as much as just two of these coins. A shilling a day, less all the deductions, brought them down to the Three Sevens: seven pounds, seven shillings, and sevenpence a year. But there were few men who made even that much. They were charged for lost equipment, broken equipment, replacement equipment, and men had deserted for less than the value of a handful of this gold.
‘A thousand pounds, sir.’ Knowles was looking serious.
‘What?’
‘I guess that’s what it weighs, sir. A thousand, probably more.’
Nearly half a ton of gold, to be carried through the enemy hills, and probably in weather that was about to break disastrously. The clouds were overhead now, heavy with rain, moving south so that soon there would be no blue sky. Sharpe pointed at the bags.
‘Split them up, Lieutenant. Thirty piles. Fill thirty packs, throw away everything except ammunition, and we’ll just have to take it in turns to carry them.’
El Catolico stood up, walked slowly towards Sharpe, keeping an eye on the Riflemen, who still covered the Spaniards with their guns.
‘Captain.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Spanish gold.’ He spoke with pride, making one last effort.
‘I know.’
‘It belongs to Spain. It must stay here.’
Sharpe shook his head. ‘It belongs to the Supreme Junta in Cadiz. I am merely delivering it.’
‘It does not need to go.’ El Catolico had summoned up all his dignity. He spoke quietly, persuasively. ‘It will be used to fight the French, Captain. To kill Frenchmen. If you take it, then Britain will steal it; it will go home in your ships. It should stay here.’
‘No.’ Sharpe smiled at the Spaniard, trying to annoy him. ‘It goes with us. The Royal Navy is sending it to Cadiz. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you come, too? We could do with more backs to pile it on.’
El Catolico returned the smile. ‘I will be coming with you, Captain.’
Sharpe knew what he meant. The journey home would be a nightmare of fear, fear of ambush, but Wellington’s ‘must’ was the imperative in Sharpe’s head. He turned away and, as he did, felt one solitary raindrop splash on his cheek. He waited, but there were no more, though he knew that soon, within the hour, the clouds would burst and the streams and rivers would rise with unimaginable speed.
Harper came back, scrubbed clean, his clothes soaking wet. He nodded at the Partisans. ‘What do we do with them, sir?’
‘Lock them up when we go.’ It would gain a little time, not much, but every minute was valuable. He turned to Knowles. ‘Are we ready?’