Kearsey shook his head. ‘How do you know?’
For an instant Sharpe was about to tell him, and then remembered that no one, outside the Company, knew that Teresa was no longer a prisoner. ‘I was told, sir.’
Kearsey was not prepared to give up. He shook his head, as if trying to clear a bad dream. ‘But you stole the gold!’
‘I obeyed orders, sir.’
‘Whose orders? I am the ranking officer!’
Sharpe suddenly felt sorry for the Major. Kearsey had found the gold, told Wellington, and had never been told of the General’s plans. Sharpe felt in his pocket, found the square of paper, and hoped that the rain had not soaked through the folds. It had, but the writing was still legible. He handed it up to Kearsey.
‘There, sir.’
Kearsey read it, his anger growing. ‘It says nothing!’
‘It orders all officers to assist me, sir. All.’
But Kearsey was not listening. He waved the scrap of damp paper towards Sharpe. ‘It says nothing about the gold! Nothing! You could have kept this for months!’
Sharpe laughed. ‘It hardly would mention gold, would it, sir? I mean, suppose the Spanish saw the orders; suppose they guessed what the General intended to do with the gold?’
Kearsey looked at him. ‘You know?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘It’s not going to Cadiz, sir.’ He said it as gently as he could.
Kearsey’s reaction was extraordinary. For a few seconds he sat motionless, his eyes screwed tight, and then he tore the paper into shreds, violent gesture after violent gesture.
‘God damn it, Sharpe!’
‘What?’ Sharpe had tried to save the paper, but too late.
Kearsey suddenly realized he had sworn. Remorse and anger fought on his face. Anger won. ‘I have worked. God knows I have worked to help the Spanish and the British to work together. And I am rewarded by this!’ He held the scraps of paper up and then, with a sudden jerk, scattered them into the wind. ‘Are we to steal the gold, Sharpe?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s about the long and short of it.’
‘We can’t.’ Kearsey was pleading.
‘Whose side are you on?’ Sharpe made the question brutal.
For an instant he thought that Kearsey’s rage would come back, would explode into a blow aimed at the Rifleman, but Kearsey controlled it, and when he spoke his words were low and measured.
‘We have honour, Sharpe. That is our private strength, our honour. We’re soldiers, you and I. We cannot expect riches, or dignity, or continual victory. We will die, probably, in battle, or in a fever ward, and no one will remember us, so all that is left is honour. Do you understand?’
It was strange, standing in the growing warmth of the sun, and listening to the words that were wrenched from the centre of Kearsey’s soul. He must have been disappointed, Sharpe thought, somewhere in his life. Perhaps he was lonely, spurned by the officers’ mess, or perhaps once in his life the small man had been turned down by a woman he loved and now, growing old in his honour, he had found a job he loved. Kearsey loved Spain, and the Spanish, and the task of riding alone behind the enemy lines like a Christian who kept the faith in a world of heretics and persecution. Sharpe spoke gently.
‘The General spoke to me, sir. He wants the gold. Without it the war is lost. If that’s stealing, then we’re stealing it. I assume that you will help us?’
Kearsey seemed not to hear. He was staring over Sharpe’s head at the tower of the castillo and he muttered something so low that Sharpe could not hear the words.
‘Pardon, sir?’
Kearsey’s eyes flicked to the Rifleman. ‘What shall it profit a man, Sharpe, if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’
Sharpe sighed. ‘I doubt if we’re losing our soul, sir. And anyway, do you think that El Catolico planned to give the gold to Cadiz?’
Kearsey slumped on his saddle as if he knew that Sharpe had spoken the truth. ‘No.’ The Major spoke softly. ‘I suppose not. I suppose he wanted to keep it. But he would have used it to fight the French, Sharpe!’