horses took the disorganized mass northwards. Sharpe guessed there were a hundred Frenchmen, in undisciplined groups, crossing and recrossing the fields. He looked back to the village, saw more horsemen standing in the street, watching the chase, and he wondered how he would feel if those two bodies were his men, and he knew that he would do what the French were doing: try to rescue them.
'Good. Knowles seemed to have sided, instinctively, with the French.
One of the horses had been caught and quieted, and dismounted French cavalrymen were unbuckling the girth and untying the prisoner. A trumpet sounded, calling order to the scattered Hussars who still raced after the other horse, and at that exact moment, as the trumpet notes reached the gully, El Catolico launched his own horsemen from the northern hills. They came down on to the scattered and outnumbered French in a long line, blacks and browns and greys, swords of all descriptions held over their heads, the dust spurting behind them, while from the rocks on the hillside Sharpe saw muskets firing over their heads at the surprised French.
Kearsey almost jumped over the rim with joy. His fist slammed into the rock. 'Perfect!
The ambushers had been ambushed.
CHAPTER 5
El Catolico, the Catholic, led the horsemen from the cover of the hills, and Sharpe found him in the telescope. Kearsey barked out a description, but even without it Sharpe would have recognized the tall man as the leader. 'Grey cloak, grey boots, long rapier, black horse.
Kearsey was thumping his fist on the rock, willing the Partisans on, closer and closer to the wheeling French. Sharpe scanned the guerrilla line, looking for the blue and silver of a Prince of Wales Dragoon, but he could see no sign of Captain Hardy. He remembered Kearsey saying that El Catolico's fiancee, Teresa, fought like a man, but he could see no woman in the charging line, just men screaming defiance as the first horses met and the swords chopped down on the outnumbered French.
In the village the trumpets split the quiet; men scrambled on to nervous mounts, sabres hissed from scabbards, but El Catolico was no fool. He was not going to fight a regiment and lose. Sharpe saw him waving at his men, turning them back, and the Rifleman searched with the telescope in the obscuring dust for clues to what was happening. The French had been hard-punished. Outnumbered two to one, they had fallen back, taking casualties, and the Spanish charge had given them no time to form a disciplined line. Sharpe saw prisoners, dragged by the arms, going back with the horsemen who had been disciplined, presumably by El Catolico, to make the one killing charge and then get out of danger's way. Sharpe admired the action. The French had been baited, had fallen for the lure, and then been savagely hurt in one quick charge. It was hardly two minutes since the Spanish had appeared and already, hidden by dust, they were returning to the hills and taking with them more prisoners whose fate would be worse than that of the two men who had drawn the Hussars from the safety of the village walls. One man alone stayed in the valley.
El Catolico stood his horse and watched the Hussars stretching out from the village. Closer to him were the survivors of the Spanish charge and they now spurred their horses to attack the lone Partisan. El Catolico seemed unconcerned. He urged his horse into a canter, away from the safety of the hills, circled in the uncut barley and looked over his shoulder as the French came close. A dozen men were chasing him, leaning over their horses' manes, sabres stretched out, and it was certain that the tall Partisan leader must be taken until, at the last moment, his horse sidestepped, the thin rapier flashed, one Frenchman was down and the big, black horse with its grey rider was in full gallop to the north and the Hussars were milling in uncertainty where their leader lay dead. Sharpe whistled softly.
Kearsey smiled. 'He's the finest swordsman on the border. Probably in Spain. I've seen him take on four Frenchmen and he never stopped saying the prayer for their death.
Sharpe stared into the valley. A hundred horsemen had ridden out to rescue the two prisoners and now two dozen of the Hussars were dead or captured. The Partisans had lost none; the speed of their charge and withdrawal had ensured that, and their leader, staying till the end, had slapped French pride in the face. The black horse was cantering to the hills, its strength obvious, and the French would never catch El Catolico.
Kearsey slid down from the skyline. 'That's how it's done. Sharpe nodded. 'Impressive. Except for one thing. The fierce eyebrow shot up. 'What?
'What are the French doing in the village? Kearsey shrugged. 'Clearing out a hornet's nest. He waved southwards. 'Remember their main road is down there. All the supplies for the siege of Almeida go through this area, and when they invade Portugal proper, then everything will come through here. They don't want Partisans in their rear. They're clearing them out, or trying to.
The answer made sense to Sharpe, but he was worried. 'And the gold, sir?
'It's hidden.
'And Hardy?
Kearsey was annoyed by the questions. 'He'll be somewhere, Sharpe; I don't know. At least El Catolico's here, so we're not friendless! He gave his bark of a laugh and then pulled at his moustache. 'I think it would be sensible to let him know we've arrived. He slid down the inner side of the gully. 'Keep your men here, Sharpe. I'll ride to El Catolico.
Knowles looked worried. 'Isn't that dangerous, sir?
Kearsey gave the Lieutenant a pitying look. 'I was not planning to go through the village, Lieutenant. He gestured towards the north. 'I'll go round the back. I'll see you again tonight sometime, probably late. Don't light any fires! He strode away, small legs urgent, and Harper waited till he was out of earshot.
'What did he think we were going to do? Borrow a light from the French? He looked at Sharpe and raised his eyebrows. 'Bloody muddle, sir.
'Yes.
But it was not too bad, Sharpe decided. The French could not stay forever; the Partisans would be back in the village, and then there was only the small problem of persuading El Catolico to let the British 'escort' the gold towards Lisbon. He turned back towards the Valley, watched as the Hussars walked their horses disconsolately towards the village, one of them bearing the bloody horror that had been one of the naked prisoners, then raised his eyes and looked at the hermitage. It was a pity it was the far side of the valley, beyond the village, or else he would have been tempted to search the place that night, Kearsey or no Kearsey. The idea refused to go away and he lay there, the sun hot on his back, and thought of a dozen reasons why he should not make the attempt, and one huge, overriding reason why he should.
The valley settled in peace. The sun burned down on the grass, turning it a paler brown, and still, on the northern horizon, the great cloud bank loomed. There would be rain in a couple of days, Sharpe thought, and then he went back to the route he had planned in his head, down the slope to the road that led to the ford at San Anton, proceed to the big rock that would be a natural marker and then follow the edge of the barley field as far as the stunted fruit trees. Beyond the trees was another barley field that would give good cover and from there it was just fifty yards of open ground to the cemetery and the hermitage. And if the hermitage were locked? He dismissed the idea. A dozen men in the Company had once earned a living by opening up locks they had no right to be near; a lock was no problem, but then there was the task of finding the gold. Kearsey had said it was in the Moreno vault, which should be easy enough to find, and he let his imagination play with the idea of finding the gold in the middle of the night, just two hundred yards from a French regiment, and bringing it safely back to the gully by daybreak. Harper lay beside him, thinking the same thoughts.
'They won't move out the village, sir. Not at night.
'No.
'Be a bit difficult finding our way.
Sharpe pointed to the route he had planned. 'Hagman will lead.
Harper nodded. Daniel Hagman had an uncanny ability to find his way in the darkness. Sharpe often wondered how the old poacher had ever been caught, but he supposed that one night the Cheshireman had drunk too much. It was the usual story. Harper had one more objection. 'And the Major, sir? Sharpe said nothing and Harper nodded. 'As you say, sir. A pox on the bloody Major. The Irish Sergeant grinned. 'We can do it.'
Sharpe lay in the westering sun, looking at the valley, following the course he had planned until he agreed.
