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!
'So will we, sir.
'Yes. But it's Spanish gold, and we're not Spaniards. He jerked himself upright and looked somewhat ruefully at the scraps of Sharpe's torn orders. 'We will take the gold to Wellington, Captain. But under my orders. You must release the girl, do you understand? I will not be a party to these threats, to this underhand procedure.'
'No, sir.
Kearsey looked at him, uncertain whether Sharpe was agreeing with him. 'You do understand, Sharpe?
'I understand, sir. Sharpe turned and stared at the castillo and then across the Agueda to the far hills where the French patrols were still waiting and where the siege guns would be inching their way to the fortress walls of Almeida.
'I presume the girl has not been harmed?
'No, sir, she has not. Sharpe's patience was at an end. If El Catolico thought, for one second, that the girl was safe, then his men would fall on the Light Company and Sharpe would face a death more painful than the imagination could invent. He looked up at Kearsey. 'In ten minutes, Major, I am going to cut off one of her ears. Only halfway, so it will mend, but if any of those murderous bastards with El Catolico tries to interfere with our crossing of the ford, then the whole ear will be sliced off. And the other ear, and her eyes, and her tongue, and do you understand me, sir? We are leaving, with the gold, and the girl is our passport and I'm not giving her up. Tell her father, tell El Catolico, that if they want the gold they can collect it with a toothless, blind, deaf, ugly, and dumb girl. Understand!
Sharpe's anger battered at the Major, drove him two steps down the slope. 'I am ordering you, Sharpe…
'You're ordering nothing, sir. You tore up my orders! We are going. So tell them, Major! Tell them! You hear the scream in ten minutes!
He turned away, his anger deafening him to Kearsey's words, and climbed into the stockade of the fort. His men saw his face and said nothing, but turned away and watched as the small, blue-uniformed Major rode his horse back to the Partisans.
Kearsey delivered the message, shaking with rage, and watched, with Cesar Moreno beside him, the high, silent fort. El Catolico was with them and swore his vengeance on Sharpe. The Major touched his sleeve.
'He won't do it. Believe me. He won't.
Kearsey squinted up at the Castillo, at the silhouettes of the sentries. There was something more on his mind, something that he could not keep in, and he turned to the tall Spaniard. 'Captain Hardy. He stopped.
El Catolico soothed his horse, looked at Kearsey. 'What about him?
Kearsey was embarrassed. 'Sharpe says you killed him.
El Catolico laughed. 'He would say anything. He spat on to the ground. 'You are the only officer we can trust, Major. Not people like Sharpe. He has no proof, does he? He asked the question confidently.
Kearsey shook his head. 'No.
'He just wants to turn you against us. No, Major, Captain Hardy was captured. Ask Cesar.
He gestured at Teresa's father, whose face was tortured with worry. The Major shook his head, felt a sense of relief, a feeling that was shattered by the sound that came from the ruined tower of the Castillo. The scream seemed to linger in the oak grove. It rose to an unbearable pitch and then wavered down to a thin, sobbing desperation that chilled every man. Cesar Moreno spurred forward with a dozen men, his face set with a determination they had forgotten, but a sentry on the ramparts gave a signal to the tower and the scream came again, higher this time, like the sound of the Frenchmen whose lives they had stripped, inch by inch, with their long knives. Teresa's father reined in, knowing he was beaten, swearing that for every blade that was laid to his daughter Sharpe would suffer a hundred.
El Catolico had killed northerners before, Frenchmen, and some had taken three moons to die and every second they had known their own pain. Sharpe, El Catolico promised himself, would plead for such a death.
After the sobbing, the noise of boots on stone, came shouted orders, and the Company marched out with fixed bayonets on shouldered guns, and in the lead was the Captain holding a rifle sling looped round the neck of Teresa Moreno. The Partisans growled, looked at the father, at El Catolico, but dared not move. Teresa was crying, her face half hidden by her hands, but every man could see the white bandage, torn from the bottom of her
