go and get the money.’ Sharpe grinned at the Irishman. ‘How? Steal it?’
‘Shall we say “borrow”?’ Hogan’s voice was serious. Sharpe said nothing and the Irishman sighed, leaned back. ‘There is a problem, Richard, which is that the gold belongs to the Spanish government, in a manner of speaking.’
‘What manner?’
Hogan shrugged. ‘Who knows where the government is? Is it in Madrid, with the French? Or in Cádiz?’
‘And where’s the gold? Paris?’
Hogan gave a tired smile. ‘Not quite that far. Two days’ march.’ His voice became formal, reciting instructions. ‘You leave tonight, march to Almeida. The crossing of the Coa is guarded by the Sixtieth; they’re expecting you. In Almeida you meet Major Kearsey. From then on you are under his orders. We expect you to take no longer than one week, and should you need help, which pray God you do not, here is all you’re going to get.’
He pushed a piece of paper over the table. Sharpe unfolded it. Captain Sharpe is directed by my orders and all Officers of the Allied Armies are requested and instructed to offer Captain Sharpe any assistance he may require. The signature was a simple Wellington.
‘There’s no mention of gold?’ Sharpe had expected elucidation at this meeting. He seemed to find only more mysteries.
‘We didn’t think it wise to tell too many people about a great pile of gold that’s looking for an owner. It sort of encourages greed, if you follow me.’
A moth flew crazy circles round the candle flames. Sharpe heard dogs barking in the town, the tramping of horses in the stables behind the headquarters.
‘So how much gold?’
‘Kearsey will tell you. It can be carried.’
‘Christ Almighty! Can’t you tell me anything?’
Hogan smiled. ‘Not much. I’ll tell you this much, though.’ He leaned back, locked his fingers behind his head. ‘The war’s going bad, Richard. It’s not our fault. We need men, guns, horses, powder, everything. The enemy gets stronger. But there’s only one thing can save us now, and that’s this money.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t tell you.’ Hogan sighed, pained by hiding something from a trusted friend. ‘We have something that is secret, Richard, and it must stay that way.’ He waved down an interruption. ‘It’s the biggest damned secret I’ve ever seen, and we don’t want anyone to know – anyone. You’ll know in the end, I promise you; everyone will. But for the moment, get the gold; pay for the secret.’
They had marched at midnight. Hogan had waved them farewell, and now with the dawn bleaching the sky the Light Company was climbing the gorge of the river Coa towards the fortress town of Almeida. A shadowy picquet had waved them across the narrow, high bridge that spanned the river, and it had seemed to Sharpe, in that moment, that he was marching into the unknown. The road from the river zigzagged up the side of the gorge. Jagged rocks loomed over the path; the creeping dawn showed a savage landscape half hidden by mist from the water. The men were silent, saving their breath for the steep road.
Almeida, a mile or so ahead, was like an island in French territory. It was a Portuguese fortress town, manned by the Portuguese army under British leaders, but the countryside around was in French hands. Soon, Sharpe knew, the French would have to take Almeida by siege, batter their way through its famous walls, storm the breach, drown the island in blood so they could march safely towards Lisbon. The sentries on the bridge had stamped their feet and waved at the dark hills. ‘No patrols yesterday. You should be all right.’
The Light Company were not worried by the French. If Richard Sharpe wanted to lead them to Paris they would go, blindly confident that he would see them through, and they had grinned when he had told them they were to march behind the enemy patrols, across the Coa, across the river Agueda – for Hogan had known that much – and then back again. But something in Sharpe’s voice had been wrong; no one had said anything, but the knowledge was there that the Captain was worried. Harper had picked it up. He had marched alongside Sharpe as the road dropped towards the Coa, its surface still sticky from the rain.
‘What’s the problem, sir?’
‘There isn’t one.’ Sharpe’s tone had shut off the conversation, but he was remembering Hogan’s final words. Sharpe had been pushing and probing, trying for information that Hogan was not giving. ‘Why us? It sounds like a job for cavalry.’
Hogan nodded. ‘The cavalry tried, and failed. Kearsey says the country’s not good for horses.’
‘But the French cavalry use it?’
Another tired nod. ‘Kearsey says you’ll be all right.’ There was something constrained about Hogan’s voice.
‘You’re worried about it.’
Hogan spread his hands. ‘We should have fetched the gold out days ago. The longer it’s there, the riskier it gets.’
There had been a fraction of silence in the room. The moth had burned its wings, was flapping on the table, and Sharpe crushed it. ‘You don’t think we’ll succeed, do you.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Hogan looked up from the dead moth. ‘No.’
‘So the war’s lost?’ Hogan nodded. Sharpe flicked the moth on to the floor. ‘But the General says there are other tricks up his sleeve. That this isn’t the only hope.’
Hogan’s eyes were tired. ‘He has to say that.’
Sharpe had stood up. ‘So why the hell don’t you send three bloody regiments in? Four. Send the bloody army! Make sure you get the gold.’
‘It’s too far, Richard. There are no roads beyond Almeida. If we attract attention, then the French will be there before us. The regiments could never get across both rivers without a fight, and they’d be outnumbered. No. We’re sending you.’
And now he was climbing the tight bends of the border road, watching the dull horizon for the telltale gleam of a drawn enemy sabre, and marching in the knowledge that he was expected to fail. He hoped Major Kearsey, who waited for the Company in Almeida, had more faith, but Hogan had been diffident about the Major. Sharpe had probed again. ‘Is he unreliable?’
Hogan shook his head. ‘He’s one of the best, Richard, one of the very best. But he’s not exactly the man we’d have chosen for this job.’
He had refused to elaborate. Kearsey, he had told Sharpe, was an exploring officer, one of the men who rode fast horses behind enemy lines, in full uniform, and sent back a stream of information, despatches captured from the French by the Partisans and maps of the countryside. It was Kearsey who had discovered the gold, informed Wellington, and only Kearsey knew its exact location. Kearsey, suitable or not, was the key to success.
The road flattened on the high crest of the Coa’s east bank, and ahead, silhouetted in the dawn light, was Portugal’s northern fortress, Almeida. It dominated the countryside for miles around, a town built on a hill that rose to the huge bulk of a cathedral and a castle side by side. Below those buildings, massive and challenging, the thick-tiled houses fell away down the steep streets until
