dress, and they could see the bright blood which stained the cloth. Sharpe was holding a gleaming, saw-backed bayonet at her head and if she stumbled he pulled at the sling round her throat. Kearsey felt a terrible shame as he watched the Rifle Officer shield himself from El Catolico's guns with the girl's body, and as the Company, in a silence that seemed as if it could explode at any instant in a dreadful violence, marched past the poised horsemen, Cesar Moreno gazed at the blood-soaked bandage, at the spots of blood on his daughter's dress, and he promised himself the luxury of this English Captain's death. Kearsey touched his arm.
'I'm sorry.
'It does not matter. I will catch them and kill them. Cesar Moreno watched the faces of the Company and he thought they looked shocked, as if their Captain had dragged them into new depths of horror. 'I will kill him.
Kearsey nodded. 'I'm sorry.
Moreno looked at him. 'It was not your doing, Major. He nodded at where the Light Company were beginning their crossing, the lightly loaded men forming a human dam to help the gold-carriers to cross. 'Go in peace.
Sharpe crossed last, holding the girl and feeling the long weeds snatch at his legs and try to drag him under. The water level was low but the current still strong, and it was awkward with one arm round Teresa's neck, but they made it and were pulled on to the far bank by Patrick Harper, who nodded back over the river.
'Felt sorry for her father, sir.
'He'll find out she wasn't touched.
'Aye, that's true. The Major's coming.
'Let him.
They set off across the grassland, in the heat of the morning, their boots leaving a wide swath through the pale stalks and with the Partisans never far behind. Harper walked with Sharpe and Teresa and he looked over the girl's head at his Captain.
'How's the arm, sir?
'It's fine. Sharpe had cut open his left forearm for the blood with which to soak Teresa's bandage.
Harper nodded ahead, to the Company. 'Should have cut open Private Batten. It's all he's good for.
Sharpe grinned. The thought had occurred to him, but he had rejected it as petty. 'I'll survive. You'd better tell the lads that the girl's not harmed. Quietly.
'I’ll do that.
Harper went ahead. The men were silent, shocked, because Sharpe had let them believe he was working the great blade on the girl. If they had known the truth they would have marched past El Catolico with grinning faces, suppressed glee, and the whole thing would have been lost. Sharpe looked at the Partisans, to the side and behind, and then at Teresa.
'You must keep pretending.
She nodded, looked up at him. 'You keep your promise?
'I promise. We have a bargain.
It was a good one, too, he decided, and he admired Teresa for its terms. At least, now, he knew why she was on his side, and there was only one regret: he knew they would not be together long, that the bargain called for them to be far apart, but the war would be long and, who knew, perhaps he would meet her again.
At midday the Company climbed a steep ridge that ran directly west, towards their goal, and Sharpe led the way up its steep, razor-stoned flank with a sense of relief. The Partisans could not take their horses up the slope and their figures grew smaller and smaller as the Company laboured upwards. The men carrying the gold needed frequent rests, lying and panting beneath the sun, but each hour took them nearer the Coa, and for a time Sharpe dared to hope that they had shaken off El Catolico and his men. The spine of the ridge was a bare, rocky place and littered with small bones left by wolves and vultures. Sharpe had the feeling of walking in a place where no man ever trod, a place that was commanded by the beasts, and all round them the hills crouched in the searing, aching sun, and nothing moved except for the Company crawling along the high crest, and Sharpe felt as if the world had ended and they had been forgotten. Ahead he could see the hazed hills that led to the river, to safety, and he forced the Company on. Patrick Harper, carrying two packs of gold, nodded at the western hills to their front.
'Are the French there, sir?
Sharpe shrugged. 'Probably.
The Sergeant looked round their high, sun-bleached path. 'I hope they're not watching for us.
'Better than being down with the Partisans. But he knew Harper was right. If the French were patrolling the hills, and they must be, then the Company would be visible for miles, Sharpe made his own gold-filled pack more comfortable on his shoulder. 'We'll keep going west in the night. He looked at his tired men. 'Just this one effort, Sergeant, just this one.
It was not to be. At dusk, as the westering sun dazzled them, the ridge dropped away and Sharpe saw they had been cheated. The ridge was like an island, separated from the other hills by a wide, convoluted valley, and in its shadows, far below, he could see the tiny dots that were El Catolico's men. He stopped the Company, let them rest, and stared down.
'Damn. Damn. Damn. He spoke quietly. The Partisans had ridden an easy path, either side of the ridge, and the Company had slogged its useless toil over the baking rocks, the edged stones, the scorpion-infested ridge. On the far side of the valley the hills rose again and he looked at the bouldered slope they would have to climb, but he knew that before they could go on they must cross the valley. It was a perfect place for an ambush. Like an indented sea-coast the valley had hidden spurs, deep shadows; even, to the north, some scrubby trees. Once they were on the valley's grassed floor they would be terribly vulnerable, unable to see what lurked behind the spurs of the hill, in the dead folds of ground. Sharpe stared into the shadowed depth and then at his exhausted Company with their battered weapons and heavy packs.
'We cross at dawn.
'Yes, sir. Harper looked down. 'The Major's coming, sir.
Kearsey had abandoned his horse and, his blue uniform melding with the shadows, was climbing the slope towards the Company. Sharpe grunted.
'He can say a prayer for us. He looked at the valley. A prayer, maybe, would not be a bad thing.
CHAPTER 16
The water in the canteens was brackish, the food down to the last mildewed crumbs, and in the hour before dawn the ground was slippery with dew. It was cold. The Company, foul-mouthed and evil-tempered, slithered and fell as they went down the dark hillside to the black valley. Kearsey, his steel scabbard crashing against rocks, tried to keep up with Sharpe.
'Almeida, Sharpe. It's the only way!
Sharpe stopped, towered over the Major. 'Damn Almeida, sir.
'There's no need for cursing, Sharpe. Kearsey sounded peevish. He had arrived, as night fell, and launched himself into a rehearsed condemnation of Sharpe that had petered out when he saw an undamaged Teresa calmly watching him. She had spoken to him in Spanish, driving down his objections, until the Major, confused by the speed of events that he could not control, had fallen into an unhappy silence. Later, when the wind stirred the night grass, and sentries twitched as the black rocks seemed to move, he had tried to persuade Sharpe to turn south. Now, in the creeping dawn, he had returned to the subject.
'The French, Sharpe. You don't understand. They'll be blocking the Coa. You must go south.
'And damn the bloody French, sir!
Sharpe turned away, slipped, and cursed as a boot flew from beneath him and he sat down, painfully, on a stone. He would not go to Almeida. The French were about to start the siege and would be concentrating in force. He would go west, towards the Coa, and take the gold to the General.
The turf on the valley floor was springy, easy to walk, but Sharpe crouched and hissed at his men to be quiet. He could hear nothing, see nothing, and his instinct told him the Partisans had gone. Sergeant Harper crouched beside him.
'Bastards have gone, sir.
