‘You got the gold.’
‘You know about it?’
‘Why do you think I am here? A patrol to the south, me here, and all for you, Captain. The lord Wellington wants the gold badly!’
Kearsey sniffed, said nothing, and Sharpe sipped at the stew. It tasted miraculous after the hard tack of the last week.
‘He can have it.’
‘Yes, but there are problems.’
Sharpe put the mug down, willed the pain in his shoulder to go down. ‘Problems?’
‘French patrols.’ Lossow’s hand described an arc to the west. ‘Like fleas on a bottom.’
Sharpe laughed and the pain came back, but he forced his left hand round to hold the hot mug and it worked. He spooned the tough beef into his mouth.
‘We must get to the army.’
‘I know.’
‘We must.’
He looked to his right and saw one of Lossow’s men sharpening his sword, using a stone and oil to smooth down the dent. It was only this morning that he had cut down on the voltigeur and the man – Sharpe remembered yellow teeth – had pushed his musket up and saved his life. ‘We must.’
‘We will try.’
Sharpe lifted Lossow’s brandy bottle; the Germans were never short of captured brandy, and the spirit flowed like cream into his throat. He coughed.
‘The Partisans? Have you seen Partisans?’
Lossow turned and spoke to one of his officers, a short exchange, and turned back to Sharpe. ‘Two miles away, Captain, keeping in touch with us. They want the gold?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘And me.’ He looked at the girl and back to the German.
‘Don’t worry, Captain.’ Lossow stood up and hitched his sword-belt round. ‘You’re in good hands.’
The girl smiled at Sharpe, stood up and came to him. Her dress was another four inches shorter and Sharpe realized he had been bandaged after the cauterizing iron had driven him in agony back to unconsciousness. She still had the rifle, slung proprietarily on a shoulder, with Tongue’s ammunition pouch and bayonet strapped to her waist. Lossow moved to one side to let her sit by Sharpe.
‘Any more wounded, Captain, and she will be naked!’ The German Captain laughed. ‘We should all cut ourselves!’
Teresa looked at Sharpe, spoke softly. ‘The Captain’s already seen me. Haven’t you?’
How did she know? Sharpe thought. He wondered if his telescope was undamaged by the fight and he remembered a French bullet thumping into his pack and throwing him forward. He could not be bothered to check right now, but leaned back, sipped at the brandy, and slept in the sun. The girl sat beside him, watching the Light Company rest, while beyond them, beyond the tethered horses, Lossow’s picquets watched French patrols comb the western valleys. The Light Company would move soon, cutting westward, but for now they could sleep and forget the one more river they had to cross.
CHAPTER 18
Dogs barked in the town, horses moved restless feet on the wooden stable-boards, and on the stone front steps the sentries shuffled in the darkness. In the hallway of the house a clock ticked heavily, but in the ground-floor room, lit by candles, the only sound was the rustling of paper until the tall, hooked-nosed man leaned back and tapped a long finger on the table’s edge.
‘The siege has not begun?’
‘No, my lord.”
The General leaned forward and drew a square map towards him, scraping it over the table, and put the long finger on a white space in its centre.
‘Here?’
Major Michael Hogan leaned into the candlelight. The map showed the country from Celorico, where they sat, across the border to Ciudad Rodrigo. Crawling up the map, dividing it into three, were the Coa and Agueda rivers, and the long finger was pointing between the rivers, north of Almeida.
‘As best we can judge, my lord.’
‘And what is there, pray?’
The General’s finger relaxed and traced an unconscious line down to the writing on the bottom. Drawn by Maj. Kearsey. Q’Master Gen’s Dep’t. Hogan wondered idly when Kearsey had drawn the map, but it did not matter. He drew a piece of paper to him.
‘Four new French battalions, sir. We know the 18th of the Line are there, probably at strength. A regiment of lancers, one of chasseurs.’