'They're somewhere.
'Not here.
And if not, then why had they gone? El Cat6lico would not give up the gold, nor Moreno the chance to punish the man whom he thought had mutilated his daughter, so why was the valley so empty and quiet? Sharpe led the way over the grass, his rifle cocked, and looked at the hill ahead, littered with rocks, and he imagined the muskets ambushing them as they climbed. The hillside could hide a thousand men.
He stopped again, at the foot of the slope, and the eerie feeling came back of being alone in the world, as if, while they were walking on the ridge the day before, the world had ended and the Angel of Death had forgotten the Light Company. Sharpe listened. He could hear his men breathing, but nothing else. Not the scrabble of a lizard on the rocks, the thump of a frightened rabbit, no birds, not even the wind on the stones. He found Kearsey.
'What's over the hill, sir?
'Summer pasture for sheep. Spring water, two shelters. Cavalry country.
'North?
'A village.
'South, sir?
'The road to Almeida.'
Sharpe bit his lip, stared up the slope, and pushed away the sensation of being alone. His instinct told him that the enemy was near, but which enemy? Ahead was foraging country, enemy patrols, and Kearsey had claimed that the French would hold the countryside in force so that they could strip it of food. And if the French were not there? He looked behind, at the valley, and was tempted to stay in the low ground, but where was El Catolico? Waiting up the valley? Or had his men hidden the horses and climbed the hill? He knew the Company was nervous, frightened both of the stillness and Sharpe's caution, and he stood up.
'Rifles! Skirmish line. Lieutenant! Follow with the Company. Forward!
This, at least, was a trade they knew, and the Riflemen split into skirmishing pairs and spread out into the thin, elastic screen that sheltered the main battle-line in a fight. The Rifles were trained to this, taught to think independently and to fight on their own initiative without orders from an officer. One man moved as his partner covered him, just as in battle one man reloaded while the other watched to see if any enemy was aiming at his comrade during the vulnerable and clumsy wielding of ramrod and cartridge. Fifty yards behind the Green Jackets, clumsy and noisy, the Redcoats climbed the hill, and Teresa stayed with Knowles and watched the elusive shapes, fleeting glimpses, of the Riflemen. She was wearing Sharpe's greatcoat, covering the white dress, and she could sense the apprehension among the men. The world seemed empty, the dawn rising on grey rocks and limitless grass, but Teresa knew, better even than Sharpe, that only one thing could have driven away the Partisans and that the world was not empty. Somewhere, watching them, were the French.
The sun rose behind them, lancing its light across the ridge they had walked the day before, and Sharpe, ahead of the Riflemen, saw it touch gold on the hill-crest seventy yards ahead. The rock was covered in light and at its base, half hidden by shadowed grass, was a dull red colour and he turned, casually, and waved his men flat as if he wanted to give them a rest. He yawned, massively, stretched his arms, and sauntered across the line to where Harper had stopped the left-hand pairs. He looked down the slope and waved at Knowles, laconically indicating for the heavily laden group to lie down, and then he nodded amicably at the Sergeant.
'Bloody voltigeurs on the crest.
Voltigeurs, the French skirmishers, the light infantry who fought against the British Light Companies. Sharpe squatted on the ground, his back to the enemy, and talked softly.
'Saw the red epaulette.
Harper looked over Sharpe's shoulder, flicking his eyes along the crest, and swore quietly. Sharpe plucked a blade of grass and pushed it between his teeth. Another twenty yards and they would have been in range of the French muskets. He swore as well.
Harper squatted. 'And if there are infantry, sir…
'There are bloody cavalry as well.
Harper jerked his head sideways, down the slope, to the empty, still-shadowed valley. 'There?
Sharpe nodded. 'They must have seen us yesterday. Walking on a bloody ridge like virgins. He spat into the grass, scratched irritably through the torn hole in his left sleeve. 'Bloody Spanish.
Harper yawned for the benefit of the watching enemy. 'Time we had a proper fight, sir. He spoke mildly.
Sharpe scowled. 'If we could choose where. He stood up. 'We go left.
The hillside to the left, to the south, offered more cover, but he knew, with a terrible certainty, that the Light Company was outnumbered by the enemy and almost certainly outflanked as well. He blew his whistle, waved to the south, and the Company moved along the side of the hill while Sharpe and Harper, quietly and slowly, warned the Riflemen of the enemy skirmishers above.
Kearsey climbed up from the Redcoats. 'What are we doing, Sharpe?
Sharpe told him about the skirmishers above. Kearsey looked triumphant, as if he had been proved right.
'Told you, Sharpe. Pastureland, village. They're locking up the country and the food. So what do you do now?
'What we do now, sir, is get out of this.
'How?
'I have no idea, Major, no idea.
'Told you, Sharpe! Capturing Eagles is all very well, but out here in enemy country things are different, eh? El Catolico didn't get caught! Must have smelt the French and vanished. We're sitting ducks.
'Yes, sir.
There was no point in arguing. If El Catolico had the gold he would not even have come this far, but as Sharpe worked his way round the hill he knew that at any moment the journey could end, die men with the gold caught between voltigeurs and cavalry, and in a month's time someone at the army headquarters would wonder idly whatever happened to Captain Sharpe and the Light Company that was sent on the impossible job of bringing back Spanish gold. He turned on Kearsey.
'So where is El Catolico?
'I doubt if he'll help you, Sharpe.
'But he won't give up the gold, will he, Major? I suppose he's happy to let the French ambush us and then he'll ambush them, right?
Kearsey nodded. 'It's his only hope.
Rifleman Tongue, educated and argumentative, spun round. 'Sir!
The shout was his last; the bang of a musket muffled it, the smoke hanging in front of a rock just twenty yards from him, and Tongue went on spinning and falling, and Sharpe ignored Kearsey and ran ahead. Harper was crouching and searching for the man who had fired at Tongue. Sharpe raced past, knelt by the Rifleman, and lifted up the head. 'Isaiah!
The head was heavy; the eyes were sightless. The musket ball had gone cleanly between two ribs and killed him even as he shouted the warning. Sharpe could hear the ramrod rattle as the enemy skirmisher pushed his next round into die barrel; then the unseen enemy's partner fired, the ball missing Sharpe by inches because the Frenchman had suddenly seen Harper. The Sergeant's rifle bullet lifted the Frenchman up off the ground; he opened his mouth to scream, but only blood came out and he dropped back. Sharpe could still hear the scraping of the iron ramrod; he stood up with Tongue's rifle and ran forward. The voltigeur saw him coming, panicked, and scrambled backwards, and Sharpe shot him in the base of the spine and watched the man drop his musket and fall in agony to the hillside.
Parry Jenkins, Tongue's partner, seemed almost in tears. The Welshman stooped over Tongue's body, unbuckling the ammunition pouch and canteen, and Sharpe threw him the dead man's rifle. 'Here! A French ball thudded into his pack, pushing him forward, and he knew that the enemy skirmish line had bent down the hill, cutting their southward advance, and he waved his men down and ran back to Jenkins.
'Have you got everything?
'Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. God, I'm sorry, sir.
Sharpe hit him on the shoulder. 'Come on, Parry. Not your fault. Down!
