'Candle? Come on, someone! There's got to be a candle!
Hagman had one in his pack, a greasy but serviceable stump, and there was a pause while it was lit. Sharpe stared into the blackness. Here was where Wellington's hopes were pinned? It was ludicrous.
He took the candle and began the slow descent into the tomb and to a different kind of smell. This was not a sweet smell, not rank, but dusty because the bodies had been here a long time, some long enough for the coffins to have collapsed and to show the gleam of dry bones. Others were newer, still intact, the stonework below their niches stained with seeping liquid, but Sharpe was not looking at coffins. He held the miserable light high, sweeping it round the small space and saw, bright in the corruption, the flash of metal. It was not gold, just a discarded piece of brass that had once bound the corner of a casket.
Sharpe turned to look at Kearsey. 'There's no gold.
'No. The Major looked round, as if he might have missed sixteen thousand gold coins on the empty floor. 'It's gone.
'Where was it stored? Sharpe knew it was hopeless, but he would not give up.
'There. Where you are.
'Then where's it gone, sir?
Kearsey sniffed, drew himself up to his full height. 'How would I know, Sharpe? All I know is that it is not here. He sounded almost vindicated.
'And where's Captain Hardy? Sharpe was angry. To have come this far, for nothing.
'I don't know.
Sharpe kicked the vault's wall, a petty reaction, and swore. The gold gone, Hardy missing, Kelly dead and Rorden dying. He put the candle on the ledge of a niche and bent down to look at the floor. The dust had been disturbed by long, streaking marks, and he congratulated himself ironically for guessing that the smears had been made when the gold was removed. The knowledge was not much use now. The gold was gone. He straightened up.
'Could El Catolico have taken it?
The voice came from above them, from the top of the steps, and it was a rich voice, deep as Kearsey's but younger, much younger. 'No, he could not. The owner of the voice wore long grey boots and a long grey cloak over a slim silver scabbard. As he descended the steps into the dim light, he proved to be a tall man with dark, thin good looks. 'Major. How good to see you back.
Kearsey preened himself, flicked at his moustache, gestured at Sharpe. 'Colonel Jovellanos, this is Captain Sharpe. Sharpe, this is —
'El Catolico. Sharpe's voice was neutral, no pleasure in the meeting.
The tall man, perhaps three years older than Sharpe, smiled. 'I am Joaquim Jovellanos, once Colonel in the Spanish army, and now known as El Catolico. He bowed slightly. He seemed amused by the meeting. 'They use my name to frighten the French, but you can see that I am really harmless. Sharpe remembered the man's extraordinary speed with the sword, his bravery in facing the French charge alone. The man was far from harmless. Sharpe noticed the hands, long-fingered, that moved with a kind of ritual grace when he gestured. One of them was offered to Sharpe. 'I hear you rescued my Teresa.
'Yes. Sharpe, as tall as El Catolico, felt lumpish beside the Spaniard's civilized languor.
The other hand came from behind the cloak, briefly touched Sharpe's shoulder. 'Then I am in your debt. The words were given the lie by eyes that remained watchful and wary. El Catolico moved back and smiled deprecatingly as if in admission that Spanish manners could be a trifle flowery. A slim hand gestured at the tomb. 'Empty.
'So it seems. A lot of money.
'Which it would have been your pleasure to carry for us. The voice was like dark silk. 'To Cadiz?
El Catolico's eyes had not left Sharpe. The Spaniard smiled, made the same gesture round the vault. 'Alas, it cannot be. It is gone.
'Do you know where? Sharpe felt like a grubby street-sweeper in the presence of an exquisite aristocrat.
The eyebrows went up. 'I do, Captain. I do.
Sharpe knew he was being tantalized, but ploughed on. 'Where?
'Does it interest you? Sharpe did not reply and El Catolico smiled again. 'It is our gold, Captain, Spanish gold.
'I'm curious.
'Ah. Well, in that case, I can relieve your curiosity. The French have it. They captured it two days ago, along with your gallant Captain Hardy. We captured a straggler who told us so.
Kearsey coughed, looked to El Catolico as if for permission to speak, and received it. 'That's it, Sharpe. Hunt's over. Back to Portugal.
Sharpe ignored him, continued to stare at the watchful Spaniard. 'You're sure?
El Catolico smiled, raised amused eyebrows, spread his hands. 'Unless our straggler lied. And I doubt that.
'You prayed with him?
'I did, Captain. He went to heaven with a prayer, and with all his ribs removed, one by one. El Catolico laughed.
It was Sharpe's turn to smile. 'We have our own prisoner. I'm sure he can deny or confirm your straggler's story.
El Catolico pointed a finger up the stairs. 'The Polish Sergeant? Is that your prisoner?
Sharpe nodded. The lies would be nailed. 'That's the one.
'How very sad. The hands came together with a graceful hint of prayerful regret. 'I cut his throat as I arrived. In a moment of anger."
The eyes were not smiling, whatever the mouth did, and Sharpe knew this was not the moment to accept, or even acknowledge, the delicate challenge. He shrugged, as if the death of the Sergeant meant nothing to him, and followed the tall Spaniard up the steps and into the hermitage that was noisy with newcomers who quietened as their leader appeared. Sharpe stood, in the thick, sweet smell, and watched the grey-cloaked man move easily among his followers: the figure of a leader who disbursed favour, reward, and consolation.
A soldier, Sharpe knew, was judged not merely by his actions but by the enemies he destroyed, and the Rifleman's fingers reached, unconsciously, for his big sword. Nothing had been admitted, nothing openly said, but in the gloom of the vault, in the wreckage of British hopes, Sharpe had found the enemy, and now, in the scent of death, he groped for the way to victory in this sudden, unwanted, and very private little war.
CHAPTER 10
The rapier moved invisibly, one moment on Sharpe's left, the next, as if by magic, past his guard and quivering at his chest. There was enough pressure to bend the blade, to feel the point draw a trace of blood; then El Catolico stepped backwards, flicked the slim blade into a salute, and took up his guard again.
'You are slow, Captain.
Sharpe hefted his blade. 'Try changing weapons.
El Catolico shrugged, reversed his blade, and held it to Sharpe. Taking the heavy cavalry sword in return, he held it level, turned his wrist, and lunged into empty air. 'A butcher's tool, Captain. En garde!
The rapier was as delicate as a fine needle, yet even with its balance, its responsiveness, he could do nothing to pierce El Catolico's casual defence. The Partisan leader teased him, led him on, and with a final contemptuous flick he beat Sharpe's lunge aside and stopped his hand half an inch before he would have laid open Sharpe's throat.
'You are no swordsman, Captain.
'I'm a soldier.
El Catolico smiled, but the blade moved just enough to touch Sharpe's skin before the Spaniard dropped the sword on the ground and held out a hand for his own blade.
'Go back to your army, soldier. You might miss the boat.
'The boat? Sharpe bent down, pulled his heavy blade towards him.
'Didn't you know, Captain? The British are going. Sailing home, Captain, leaving the war to us.
'Then look after it. We'll be back.
Sharpe turned away, ignoring El Catolico's laugh, and walked towards the gate leading into the street. He was in the ruins of Moreno's courtyard, where Knowles had smashed the volleys into the lancers, and all that was left were bullet marks on the scorched walls. Cesar Moreno came through the gate and stopped. He smiled at Sharpe, raised a hand to El Catolico, and looked round as if frightened that someone might be listening.