He gestured and the Company pushed the Spaniards away. Sharpe watched them go, knowing that soon they would be on his tracks, but he had bought more than time now. He had his hostage. He looked at her, seeing the hatred in her proud face, and knew he could not kill her. He hoped El Catolico did not know that, or else, in the seething rain, the Light Company were all dead men.
They started out, silent and wet, on the long journey home.
CHAPTER 14
Six horses had been in the village and for the first two miles, back along the same track they had come, the going was easy enough. The horses carried the packs of gold, the men climbed the slope, the rain hissed in their ears, and there was the elation of success, of being at least on the road home, but it could not last. The direct route westwards, the path they were using, was not the most sensible route. It was the obvious track, the one that El Catolico would search first, and it led straight towards Almeida and the burgeoning French army that was concentrating on the town. Sharpe felt the temptation to stay on the easy route, to make the march easier, but once the village was out of sight he turned the men north, up into the hills, and abandoned the horses. Lieutenant Knowles with three men took them on, further westward, and Sharpe hoped the continuing hoof-marks would delay the pursuit while the Company, astonished at the weight of the coins, struggled into the northern wasteland, up rocks and slopes that no horse could have climbed. The rain kept on steadily, soaking their uniforms, driving their tired, aching, sleepless bodies to new layers of discomfort.
Teresa seemed unafraid, as if she knew Sharpe would not kill her, and she refused the offer of a greatcoat with a disdainful shake of her head. She was cold, soaked through, humiliated by the rope round her neck, but Sharpe left it on because it would have been simple for her to run away, unencumbered, into the slippery rocks where the heavily laden men of the Light Company would never have caught her. Harper held the other end looped round his wrist.
‘Where are you heading, sir?’ He had to shout over the rain.
‘The ford at San Anton. You remember? The Major told us about it.’ Sharpe wondered where Kearsey was, what his reaction would be.
It took Knowles an hour and a half to catch up, his men worn out by the effort but glad to be back in the safety of the full Company. Knowles shook his head. ‘Didn’t see a thing, sir. Nothing.’
Sharpe was not reassured. These hills could have been full of hidden watchers and the ploy of laying the false trail might not delay El Catolico for one minute, but as the day went on, and their tiredness became a numbness beyond pain, Sharpe let his hopes rise. They were walking a nightmare landscape on a plateau that was criss-crossed with ravines, streambeds, and rock. No horse would make fast time up here and Sharpe forced the men on pitilessly, cracking his anger like a whip, driving them north and west, through the relentless weather, kicking the men who fell, and carrying two of the packs of gold to prove to them it could be done.
Teresa watched it all, her mouth curved in an ironic smile, as her captors slipped, crashed painfully into the rocks, and blundered onwards in the storm. Sharpe prayed that the wind stayed in the north; he had lost all bearings and his only guide was the rain on his face. He stopped occasionally, let the men rest, and searched the wind-scoured plateau for the sign of a horseman. There was nothing, just the rain sweeping in slow curtains towards him, the bounce of drops from the rocks, and the grey horizon where air and stone became indistinguishable. Perhaps the ploy had worked, he thought, and El Catolico was searching miles away on the wrong road, and the longer they stayed undetected the more Sharpe dared to hope that the crude ploy of the false tracks had worked.