would make a superb seal, pressed into the red wax with the ornate coat of arms downwards. He wondered how El Catolico had obliterated the writing round the edge of the coin, but then thought how he would do it himself with a file, or by hammering the soft gold flat.
Cox sighed. 'You will deliver the gold to Colonel Jovellanos and his men, and you will do it quickly. Is that understood?
'Yes, sir. Understood! He was standing ramrod straight, staring at a point just above Cox's head.
The Brigadier sighed. 'I don't think it is, Captain. Cox sat down wearily, pulled a sheet of paper towards him, uncapped his ink, and took a fresh goose-quill. 'At ten o'clock tomorrow morning, Captain, twenty-seventh August 1810. He was writing quickly, paraphrasing the formal order as the quill scratched on the paper. 'A detachment of my troops will take charge of the bullion… He paused; the room listened to the scrape of the pen. … Led by…' Cox looked round the room, found one of his officers. … Colonel Barrios. Barrios nodded, a formal gesture. 'You, Colonel, will deliver the gold to Colonel Jovellanos, who will be ready to leave at the north gate. El Catolico nodded, clicked his heels for attention. Cox looked up. 'Colonel?
El Catolico smiled. His voice was at its silkiest. 'I was hoping to persuade you, sir, to allow myself and some of my men to stay and help in your gallant defence.'
Sharpe could not believe it. The bastard. He had as much intention of staying as Sharpe had of handing over the gold.
Cox smiled, blinked with pleasure. 'That's uncommonly decent of you, Colonel. He gestured at the paper. 'Does it change anything?
'Only that the gold, sir, could be handed to Senor Moreno, or one of my Lieutenants.
'Of course, of course. Cox dipped the quill, scratched out some words. 'To the Spanish contingent of Colonel Jovellanos. He raised an eyebrow to El Catolico. 'I think that covers it.
El Catolico bowed. 'Thank you, sir. He shot a look of triumph at Sharpe. 'And, sir? El Catolico bowed again. 'Could the transfer be tonight?
Sharpe held his breath, let it out slowly as Cox spoke. The Brigadier was frowning, looking at the paper.
'Ten o'clock will do, Colonel. Sharpe suspected he did not want to cross out the top lines of the closely written order. Cox smiled at El Catolico, gestured at Sharpe. 'After all, Captain Sharpe can hardly leave!
El Catolico smiled politely. 'As you say, sir.
So what was the bastard playing at? Why the suggestion that he might stay on? Sharpe stared at the tall Spaniard, trying to fathom the motive. Could it be just to curry favour with Cox? Sharpe doubted it; the Spaniard was getting most of what he wanted without trying. Except that El Catolico did want one thing more. Sharpe thought of the dark hair on the pillow, the slim body on the stiff, white linen sheets. The Spaniard wanted the girl, and his revenge, and if it could not be tonight, then El Catolico would stay on till it was accomplished.
Sharpe was suddenly aware that Cox had spoken his name. 'Sir?
The Brigadier had pulled another sheet of paper forward. 'At ten o'clock tomorrow morning, Captain, your Company will join my defences on the south wall. The pen splattered ink on the paper.
'Pardon, sir?
Cox looked up from the paper, irritated. 'You heard me, Sharpe! You join the garrison. Captain Lossow leaves. I don't need cavalry, but you stay. No infantry can hope to escape now. Understand?
God in heaven! 'Yes, sir.
The cathedral clock began chiming. Kearsey put a hand on Sharpe's elbow. 'I'm sorry, Sharpe.
Sharpe nodded, listening to the bell. He was oblivious of Kearsey's concern, of El Catolico's triumph, of Cox's preoccupation. Ten o'clock, and all not well. The decision had been forced on him, but it was still his decision. The last echo of the last note died flatly away, and Sharpe wondered if any bell would ever ring, ever again, in the grey-starred, ill-starred fortress town.
CHAPTER 21
'We're stuck. That's the problem. We're stuck.
'Pardon, sir? Sergeant Harper was waiting for Sharpe outside Cox's headquarters.
'Nothing. Sharpe stood there, conscious of Patrick Harper's worried look. The Sergeant probably thought that his wound was going bad, poisoning the blood and sending insane vapours into his head. 'Are you alone?
'No, sir. Private Roach, Daniel Hagman, and three Germans.
Sharpe saw the others waiting in the shadows. The small, squat German Sergeant was there and Harper jerked a thumb at him.
'That's Helmet, sir.
'You mean Helmut?
'That's what I said, sir. He's a one-man army. Are you all right, sir?
'Yes.
Sharpe still stood on the steps, his escort waiting below, and fingered a piece of his sword's silver-wire hilt-wrapping that had worked itself loose. He made a mental note to have it soldered flat when they were back with the Battalion, and then marvelled that the mind could dwell on such a triviality at a moment like this.
Harper coughed. 'Are you ready, sir?
'What? Yes. He still did not move. He stared at the cathedral.
Patrick Harper tried again. 'Home, sir?
'No. Over there. He pointed at the cathedral.
'Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir.
They walked across the Plaza, lit by the moon, and Sharpe pulled his thoughts back to the present.
'Is the girl all right?
Harper nodded. 'Lovely, sir. She's fought all day.
'Fought?
The Irishman grinned. 'Helmet taught her how to use a sabre.'
Sharpe laughed. It sounded like Teresa. He looked at the small German Sergeant and smiled at the man's curious walk: the legs bent apart like a lyre-frame, the stocky, immensely strong body scarcely moving as the legs pushed it forward.
Harper saw Sharpe's change of mood. 'We reckon you could just point Helmet at anything, sir, and he'd chew his way through. Houses, walls, regiments. They'd all have a wee hole, just his shape, straight through them. Harper laughed. 'Bloody good with a sabre.
Sharpe thought of the girl, knew that El Catolico had another score to settle, more personal than the gold, and was glad of his escort, of Harper with his seven-barrelled gun. 'What happened at the house today?
Harper laughed. 'Not a lot, sir. They turned up for the gold, so they did, and first we couldn't speak the Portuguese and then Mr Lossow couldn't understand their English, and then Helmet growled a bit, chewed up some furniture, and the lads put on their spikes, and the Portuguese went home.
'Where's the girl now?'
'Still there, sir. Harper grinned at him, reassuringly. 'Down in the kitchen with the lads, having her weapons training. She'd make a good recruit.'
'And Mr Knowles?
'Enjoying himself, sir. All round defence, sir, and keep your eyes open, and Air Knowles doing the rounds every ten minutes. They won't get in. What's happening to us, sir?
Sharpe shrugged, looked up at the dark windows of the houses. 'We're supposed to hand the gold over tomorrow. To El Catolico.
'And are we, sir?
'What do you think?
Harper grinned, said nothing, and then one of the Germans crouched, sabre held up, and the group stopped. One of the few Portuguese civilians left in the town, hurrying from an alleyway, shrank into the wall and babbled incoherently at the odd group of soldiers who bristled with swords and guns and were looking at him as if sizing
