‘Nearly, sir.’
Knowles was splitting open the bags while two men, Sergeant McGovern and Rifleman Tongue, poured the coins into packs. Sharpe was grateful that so many of his men had looted French cowhide packs at Talavera; the British canvas and wood packs would have split open under the weight. The men hated the British packs, made by the firm of Trotter’s, with their terrible chest straps, which, at the end of a long march, made the lungs feel as if they were filled with acid: ‘Trotter’s pains’, it was called, and all but a couple of the men had captured French equipment on their backs.
Rifleman Tongue looked up at Sharpe. ‘Shouldn’t there be sixty-four bags, sir?’
‘Sixty-four?’
Tongue pushed back a hank of hair that continually fell over his eyes. ‘Supposed to be sixteen thousand coins, sir. We’ve got sixty-three bags, two hundred and fifty in that one.’ He pointed to the opened bag. ‘That makes fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty. Two hundred and fifty short.’
‘That’s not all that’s missing.’ Harper’s voice was soft and it took a moment for Sharpe to understand. Hardy. He had forgotten Captain Hardy in the excitement of finding the gold. He looked at El Catolico. ‘Well?’
The Spaniard shrugged. ‘We used one bag, yes. We must buy weapons, powder, shot, even food.’
‘I wasn’t talking about gold.”
‘What then?’ El Catolico was very still.
Another drop of rain, and another, and Sharpe glanced up at the clouds. It would be a hard march. ‘Captain Hardy is missing.’
‘I know.’
‘What else do you know?’
El Catolico’s tongue flicked out, licked his lips. ‘We think he was captured by the French.’ He dropped into his sneering tone. ‘No doubt they will exchange him, politely. You do not understand real war, Captain.’
Harper growled, stepped forward. ‘Let me ask the questions, sir. I’ll break him apart.’
‘No.’ It was the girl who spoke. ‘Hardy tried to escape the French. We don’t know where he is.’
‘They’re lying.’ The Irishman’s hands clenched.
The rain was beating on the dry ground, big, warm drops. Sharpe turned to the Company. ‘Wrap your locks! Stop muzzles!’
Rain was the enemy of gunpowder and the most they could do was try to keep the rifles and muskets dry. Sharpe saw the ground soaking up the water. They had to leave soon, before the dust turned to mud.
‘Sir!’ Hagman again, calling from the tower.
‘Daniel?’
‘Horsemen, sir. Couple of miles south.’
‘French?’
‘No. Dagoes, sir.’
Now time was everything. Sharpe turned to Harper.
‘Lock them up. Find somewhere, anywhere.’ They must forget Captain Hardy and march fast, try to build a lead over the Partisans’ pursuit, but Sharpe knew it was impossible. The gold was heavy. El Catolico understood. As the Spaniards were herded unceremoniously towards the village he pushed his way past a Rifleman.
‘You won’t get far, Captain.’
Sharpe walked up to him. ‘Why not?’
El Catolico smiled, gestured at the rain, the gold. ‘We’ll chase you. Kill you.’
It was true. Sharpe knew that even by using the horses that were still in the village he could not travel fast enough. The rain was falling harder, bouncing up from the ground so that the earth seemed to have a sparkling mist an inch or two above its surface. Sharpe smiled, pushed past the Spaniard.
‘You won’t.’ He put out his hand, took hold of Teresa’s collar, and pulled her out of the group. ‘She dies if even one of us gets hurt.’
El Catolico lunged for him, the girl twisted away, but Harper brought his fist into the Spaniard’s stomach and Sharpe grabbed Teresa with a choking hold on her neck.
‘Do you understand? She dies. If that gold does not reach the British army, she dies!’
El Catolico straightened up, his eyes furious. ‘You will die, Sharpe, I promise you, and not an easy death.’
Sharpe ignored him. ‘Sergeant?’
‘Sir?’
‘Rope.’
The Spaniard watched, silent, as Harper found a scrap of rope and, at Sharpe’s directions, looped and tightened it round Teresa’s neck.
Sharpe nodded. ‘Hold her, Sergeant.’ He turned to El Catolico. ‘Remember her like that. If you come near me, she’s dead. If I get back safely, then I’ll release her to marry you.’