The Spaniard chuckled, waved a hand in one of his elegant gestures. 'You're not going to answer my question. I suppose you are searching for the gold? Am I right?' Sharpe said nothing and El Catolico's voice became insistent. 'Am I right?'

'Yes.'

'You have a voice!' El Catolico turned and spoke to one of his men, waited, and turned back holding a spade. 'Then dig, Captain. Dig. We never had time to bury Carlos properly. We did it in a hurry last Saturday night, so you can do us a service.' He threw the spade at Sharpe, the blade catching the light, and it thumped into the soil next to the Rifleman's feet.

Sharpe did not move. Part of him damned Harper, unfairly, for the suspicions about a Sunday burial, but he knew that he would have come back anyway. And where was the big Irishman? He could not have been captured, not without a struggle that would have been audible a mile away, and Sharpe felt the faintest stirring of hope.

El Catolico took a step forward. 'You won't dig?'

The tall Spaniard chopped down with his left hand and Sharpe saw the musket barrel come up, heard the bang, saw the stab of flame in the gout of smoke, and the ball flattened itself on the wall behind him. Had the bastards cut Harper's throat? There was no hope of a rescue from Hagman; Sharpe had drummed it into the group that they were not to come into the village unless summoned. Damn everything! And Knowles would lumber into the same trap, and everything, every last bloody thing, had collapsed around him because he had been too clever. He picked up the spade – there was no choice – and he thrust its blade into the earth beside the body, and his mind, refusing to take the finality of utter defeat, still hoped that beneath the rotting corpse he might find bags of gold. Beneath the body was flinty soil, full of sharp rocks, hard-packed and jarring as he thrust down with the spade.

El Catolico laughed. 'Have you found your gold, Captain?' He turned to his men, spoke in quick Spanish, and they laughed at the Englishman, mocked the Rifle Captain with the dirty face who was being forced to dig a grave like a peasant.

'Joaquim?' Teresa's voice, and suddenly she was there, dressed in a long white dress, and she stood beside her man, put her arm through his, and asked what was happening. Sharpe heard her laughter as El Catolico explained.

'Dig, Captain, dig! The gold! You must have the gold!' El Catolico was enjoying himself.

Sharpe threw down the spade. 'There is no gold.'

'Ah!' El Catolico's face showed mock horror; his hands flew up, releasing the girl, and he translated to his men. He turned back, ignoring their laughter. 'Where are your men, Captain?'

'Watching you.'

It was a feeble answer and El Catolico treated it with the contempt it deserved. He laughed. 'You were seen crawling to the grave, Captain, all alone and in the darkness. But you're not alone, are you?'

'No. And I didn't expect to find you here.'

El Catolico bowed. 'An unexpected pleasure, then. Teresa's father is leading the ambush. I decided to come back.'

'To protect your gold?' It was a futile attempt, but everything was futile now.

El Catolico put an arm round Teresa's shoulders. 'To protect my treasure, Captain.' He translated again, and the men laughed. The girl's face stayed enigmatic as ever. El Catolico waved a hand at the gate. 'Go, Captain. I know your men are near. Go home, little gravediggcr, and remember one thing.'

'Yes?'

'Watch your back. Very carefully. It's a long road.' El Catolico laughed, watched Sharpe bend down to retrieve his rifle. 'Leave the rifle, little gravedigger. It will save us picking it up from the road.'

Sharpe picked it up, slung it defiantly on his shoulder, and swore uselessly at the Spaniard. El Catolico laughed, shrugged, and gestured again at the gate.

'Go, Captain. The French have the gold, as I told you. The French.'

The gate was not locked; it could have been opened easily, but Patrick Harper, with the blood of Irish heroes in his veins, chose to stand back and kick it with one enormous foot. It exploded inwards, the hinges tearing from the dry mortar, and there he stood, six feet four inches of grinning Irishman, filthy as a slaughterer, and with seven barrels held in one hand that pointed casually at El Catolico and his men.

'Top of the morning! And how's our lordship this morning?'

Sharpe was rarely given a glimpse of Harper's imitation of what the rest of the world thought of as Irish mannerisms, but this was obviously a rich performance. The dreadful shroud of failure vanished because Sharpe knew, with an absolute certainty, that Patrick Harper was boiling with good news. There was the grin, the jigging walk, and the inane words that bubbled from the huge soldier.

'And a fine morning it is, to be sure, your honour.' He was looking at El Catolico. 'I wouldn't move, your grace, not while I've got the gun on you. It could go off with a desperate bang, so it could, and take the whole of your precious head off.' He glanced at Sharpe. 'Morning, sir! Excuse my appearance.'

Sharpe smiled, began to laugh with the relief of it. Harper was disgusting, covered with glistening and decaying muck, and the Sergeant grinned through the mask of manure.

'I fell in the shit, sir.' Only one thing about the Sergeant was not smothered in manure – the gun – and that, despite his excitement, was held very steadily on El Catolico. The Irishman glanced quickly again at Sharpe. 'Would you mind calling the lads, sir?'

Sharpe drew the whistle from its holster on his leather crossbelt and blew the signal that would bring the Riflemen running to the village. Harper still looked steadily at El Catolico. 'Thank you, sir.' This was his moment, his victory, and Sharpe was not going to spoil it for him.

The Sergeant smiled at El Catolico. 'You were saying, your holiness, that the French have the gold?'

El Catolico nodded, said nothing. Teresa looked defiantly at Harper, then at Sharpe, who now pointed his rifle at the small group of Partisans.

'The French have the gold.' Her voice was firm, her tone almost contemptuous of the two men with the guns. The Spaniards had guns, but none of them dared move while the vast muzzle of the seven-barrelled gun stared at them from the flank. Teresa repeated herself. 'The French have the gold.'

'That's good, miss, so it is.' Harper's voice was suddenly gentle. 'Because what you don't know about, as my old mother used to say, you won't miss. And look what I found in the dung-heap.' He grinned at them all, raised his free hand, and from it, trickling in a glittering cascade, fell thick gold coins. The grin became wider.

'The Good Lord,' said Patrick Augustine Harper, 'has been kind to me this morning.'

CHAPTER 13

Sharpe pointed at a stunted olive tree, apparently a marker between two fields, and shouted up at Hagman. 'See the tree, Daniel?'

The voice came down from the bell-tower. 'Sir?'

'Olive tree! Four hundred yards away. Beyond the big house!'

'Got it, sir.'

'Shoot that hanging branch off!'

Hagman muttered something about bloody miracles, El Catolico sneered at the impossibility of the marksmanship, and Sharpe smiled at him.

'If any of your men try to leave the village, they get shot. Understand?'

The Spaniard did not reply. Sharpe had put four Riflemen in the bell-tower with orders to shoot any horsemen spurring away from Casatejada. For the moment he needed all the time he could gain before El Catolico's whole band of hardened Partisans began the pursuit of the Light Company through the hills. The Baker rifle banged, the hanging branch leaped into the air, hinged on a strip of bark, and then fell back. Hagman had not fully severed the pale bark, but the demonstration was more than enough, and El Catolico watched the ragged branch swaying like a pendulum. He said nothing. His men, disarmed and perplexed, sat by the cemetery wall and watched five other Riflemen, led by Harper, raking at the huge pile of manure with their bayonets. They were pulling out leather bags, filled with coins, and dumping them at Sharpe's feet; bag after bag, thick with gold, more money than Sharpe had ever seen in one place, a fortune beyond his imaginings.