back, flickered his sword out in a blind lunge and felt it parried, pushed aside, and he leaped back, knowing the attack was coming, tripped on the dead man and fell backwards.
The fall saved his life. The seven-barrelled gun, held against the far wall, fizzed as the spark lit the pan and then blasted a channel clear across the street. The sound, magnified by the close walls, rang in Sharpe's head, but he saw three men staggering, one down, and Roach pulled him to his feet and he went forward, into the confusion of the blast, and chopped down on one man, kicked a second, and suddenly the four British were together, across the street, and the Spanish were caught between them and the three men of the King's German Legion.
The Germans had done well. The sabre was their weapon and they fought the swordsmen with their own skills. Sharpe knew he had to learn the art of the sword but this was no time to try. He hacked forward, his left arm hurting but the right chopping diagonally down, left and right, pushing opponents to either side, where Roach and Hagman bayoneted them, and the Partisans, their surprise gone, began to run, to slip past the Germans and escape into the night.
Helmut growled. With these odds there was no point in trying to kill, and he had small chance of beating the long rapiers with their delicate finesse. He used his curved sabre in short, economic strokes, going for the eyes, always the eyes, because a man will run before he loses his sight, and Helmut sent his attackers reeling, one after the other, hands clasped to their faces and blood showing between the fingers. The Spanish had had enough; they ran, but the short Sergeant dropped his sabre, grabbed one by the arm, hugged him like a bear, and then, quickly releasing him, swung him against a wall with all his force. It sounded like a sack of turnips falling from the top of a barn on to a stone floor.
Harper grinned at him, wiped blood from his sword-bayonet. 'Very nice, Helmet.
There was a shout from down the street, the flare of torches, and the six men whirled round, weapons raised, but Sharpe ordered them to wait. A Portuguese patrol, muskets ready, pounded towards them, and Sharpe saw the officer leading with a drawn sword. The officer stopped, suspicion on his face, and then grinned, spread his arms, and laughed.
'Richard Sharpe! Of all the devils! What are you doing?
Sharpe laughed, wiped the blood off his blade, and pushed it into the scabbard. He turned to Harper. 'Sergeant, meet Tom Garrard. Once a Sergeant in the Thirty-third, now a Lieutenant in the Portuguese army. He took Garrard's hand, shook it. 'You bastard. How are you?
Garrard beamed at him, turned to Harper. 'We were Sergeants together. Christ, Dick, it must be bloody years. I remember you blowing the face off that bloody little heathen! It's good to see you. A bloody Captain! What's the world coming to? He gave Sharpe a salute and laughed.
'It's years since anyone called me Dick. You well?
'Chipper. Couldn't be better. He jerked a thumb at his men. 'Good lads, these. Fight like us. Well, well, well. You remember that girl in Sering? Nancy?
Sharpe's men looked at Garrard curiously. It was a year since the Portuguese government had asked the British to reorganize their army and one of the changes, started by the Englishman, Marshal Beresford, who now commanded the Portuguese troops, was to offer commissions to experienced British Sergeants so that the raw, untrained Portuguese troops were given officers who knew how to fight. It was good, Garrard said, and working well, and he looked at Harper.
'You should join up, Sergeant.
Harper grinned, shook his head. 'I'll stay with him.
'You could do worse. Garrard looked at Sharpe. Trouble?
'It's over.
Garrard sheathed his sword. 'Anything I can do?
'Open a gate for us. Tonight.
Garrard looked at him shrewdly. 'How many of you?
'Two hundred and fifty. Cavalry and us.
'Christ, mate. That's impossible. I thought you meant just you seven only. He stopped, grinned. 'You with this gold?
'That's us. You know about it?
'God Almighty! Bloody orders from everyone to stop the gold leaving. We didn't even know there was any gold here. He shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Dick. Can't help.
Sharpe grinned. 'Doesn't matter. We'll manage.
'You will. He grinned again. 'I heard about Talavera. That was bloody well done. It really was.
Sharpe pointed at Harper. 'He was with me.
Garrard nodded to the Irishman. 'Proud of you. He looked at his men. 'We'll do it next time, won't we, lads? The Portuguese smiled back, nodded shyly to Sharpe.
'We must go, Tom. Work to do. The farewells were said, promises to look each other up, that might or might not ever be kept, and Sharpe accepted Garrard's offer for the Portuguese soldiers to clear the bodies off the street.
'Go easy, Dick!
'And you. Sharpe looked at Harper. 'Did you see El Catolico?
The Sergeant shook his head. 'There were enough of them, sir. But not him. Perhaps he doesn't do his own dirty work?
Then where? Sharpe looked up at the roofs. The rooftops. He turned to the Sergeant.
'Do we have sentries on the roof?
'The roof? Alarm showed on the big face. 'Sweet Jesus!
'Come on! They began running. Not again, thought Sharpe. Please, God, not again. He remembered Josefina lying in the blood-stained sheets; he ran faster, the sword in his hand. 'Open up!
The sentries turned, startled, and pushed open the courtyard gate. There was the smell of horses, torchlight, and he leapt up the steps, banged open the kitchen door, and there was the Company, eating, the firelight, candles, and Teresa, unharmed, at the end of the table. He breathed a sigh of relief, shook his head, and Lossow came over the floor.
'Welcome back! What is it?
Sharpe pointed to the ceiling. 'Upstairs! He was trying to catch his breath. 'Upstairs. The bastard's waiting upstairs.
CHAPTER 22
Lossow shook his head. 'He's not here.
'He's close.
The German shrugged. 'We've searched. They had looked in every room, every cupboard, even up chimneys and on the thick-tiled roof, but there was no sign of El Catolico or his men.
Sharpe was not satisfied. 'The other houses?
'Yes, my friend. Lossow was patient. The Germans had opened up houses either side, to sleep in glorious space and comfort, and all had been searched. The cavalryman took Sharpe's elbow. 'Come and eat.
The Company, those not on guard, were in the kitchen, where a pot bubbled on the flames. Parry Jenkins lifted it clear with a pot-hook. 'Real stew, sir.
The gold was locked in a store-room with a barrel of wine, Sergeant McGovern in grim charge, and Sharpe glanced at the door as he spooned down the meat and vegetables. Behind the padlock and bolts was the dragon's hoard and Sharpe remembered the stories well. If a man stole buried gold, the dragon would take its vengeance; and there would be only one way to avoid that revenge: by killing the dragon. The attack in the street, only half pressed home, was not the end of the matter. Sharpe guessed that El Catolico had parties throughout the small town looking for the Riflemen, but the dragon would want to be there at the death, to see the agony.
Lossow watched Sharpe eat.
'You think he'll come tonight?
Sharpe nodded. 'He offered to stay on tomorrow, to help the defence, but that's just insurance. He wants it
