The Riflemen were awed by the gold, elated at its discovery, and disbelieving in their excitement as the warm, reeking bags thumped down at Sharpe's feet. El Catolico's face was as rigid as a child's mask sold at a country fairground, but Sharpe knew the controlled muscles hid a raging anger. The Spaniard crossed to Sharpe, gestured at the bags.

'Our gold, Sharpe.'

'Ours?'

'Spanish.' The dark eyes searched the Rifleman's face.

'So we take it to Cadiz for you. Do you want to come?'

'Cadiz!' For a moment the mask slipped and the voice was a snarl of anger. 'You won't take it to Cadiz! It will go back to England with your army, to buy comforts for your Generals.'

Sharpe hoped his own face mirrored the scorn on El Catolico's. 'And what were you going to do with it?'

The Spaniard shrugged. 'Take it to Cadiz. By land.'

Sharpe did not believe him; every instinct told him that El Catolico had planned to steal the gold, keep it, but he had no proof except that the gold had been hidden. He shrugged back at the guerrilla leader. 'Then we'll save you a journey. It will be our pleasure.'

He smiled at El Catolico, who turned away and spoke rapidly to his men, gesturing at Sharpe, and the seated fighters by the wall muttered angrily so that Sharpe's men had to heft their rifles and step one pace forward.

Patrick Harper stopped beside Sharpe and stretched his back muscles. 'They're not happy, sir.'

Sharpe grinned. 'They think we're stealing their gold. I don't think they want to help us take it to Cadiz.'

Teresa was staring at Sharpe as a cat might look at a bird. Harper saw her expression.

'Do you think they'll try to stop us, sir?'

Sharpe raised innocent eyebrows. 'We're allies.' He raised his voice and spoke slowly so that any of the Spaniards with a smattering of English would understand. 'We take the gold to Cadiz, to the Junta.'

Teresa spat on the ground and raised her eyes again to Sharpe. He wondered if they had all known that the gold was hidden in the manure, but doubted it. If too many of the Partisans had known, then there was always a danger that someone would talk and the secret would be gone. But there was no doubting the fact that now the gold had been revealed, they were determined to stop him taking it away. It was an undeclared war, nasty and private, and Sharpe wondered how the Light Company was to carry the coins through a countryside that was familiar hunting territory to El Catolico's men.

'Sir!' Hagman was calling from the bell-tower. 'Mr Knowles in sight, sir!'

Knowles had evidently lost his way, strayed hopelessly in the dark, and the young Lieutenant's face was exasperated and tired as the red-jacketed men straggled into the village. He stopped when he saw the gold, and then turned to Sharpe again. His expression went to one of joy.

'I don't believe it.'

Sharpe picked up one of the coins and casually tossed it to him. 'Spanish gold.'

'Good God!' The newcomers pressed round the Lieutenant, leaned over and fingered the coin. Knowles looked up. 'You found it!'

Sharpe nodded at Harper. 'Harps did.'

'Harps!' Knowles used the Sergeant's nickname quite unconsciously. 'How the devil did you do it?'

'Easy, sir. Easy!'

Harper launched himself on the retelling of his exploit. Sharpe had heard it four or five times already, but this was the Sergeant's achievement, and he must hear it again. Harper had been in the bushes, as Sharpe had told him, and listening to the sound of his Captain scrabbling at the grave. 'Noisy! I thought he'd woken the dead, so I did, scratch, and all the time the light coming up.' Then there had been noises, footsteps from the village. Harper nodded at Sharpe. 'I knew he hadn't heard a thing, still scratching away like the graveyard had fleas, so he was, and I thought I 'm not going to move. The bastards might know about the Captain, but I was hidden away and better off there.' He pointed at El Catolico, who stared back expressionless. 'Then your man there comes round here, all on his own. Buttoning up his trousers, he was, and he peeks through the gate. So, I thought, going to jump on the Captain, are you? I was about to do a wee bit of jumping myself, but then he turns round, draws out his fancy sword, and pokes the bloody manure! So I knew then, sure enough, and when the bastard has gone off I poked in there myself.' He grinned broadly, seemed to wait for applause, and Knowles laughed.

'But how did you know?'

Sharpe interrupted. 'This is the clever bit. Honest Sergeant Harper at work.'

Harper grinned, happy to bask in the approbation. 'Would you ever have seen a pickpocket at work, sir?' Knowles shook his head, muttered something about moving in different circles, and Harper's grin grew even wider. 'It's like this, sir, so it is. There are two of you, right? One brashes against a wealthy man in the street, jostles him, you know how it is? You don't hurt the man, but you wobble him off balance. So what does he do? He thinks you may have lifted his money so he immediately puts a hand on his pocket to see if it's there. So your other man's watching, sees which pocket he pats, and it's as good as picked!' He jerked, a thumb at the Partisan leader. 'Silly bastard falls right into it. Hears that the Captain's disturbing the worms so he can't resist sneaking round to make sure that the stuff is still safe! And here it is!'

Knowles laughed. 'How does a simple Irish lad from Donegal know about pickpockets?'

Harper raised a sage eyebrow. 'We learn a lot of things in Tangaveane, sir. It's surprising, sir, so it is, what you learn at your mammy's knee.'

Sharpe walked over to the strewn manure. 'How many more bags?'

Harper brushed his hands together. 'That's it, sir. Sixty-three bags; can't see any more.'

Sharpe looked at his ebullient Sergeant. He was covered in dung, animal and human, his clothes slimy with liquid. He grinned.

'Go and wash, Patrick. And well done.'

Harper clapped his hands. 'Right, lads! Clean up time!'

Sharpe walked back to the gold and picked up another coin from the bag he had opened. It was a thick coin, he guessed weighing near to an ounce, and on one side was the arms of Spain, surmounted by a crown, and with a legend chased round its perimeter. He read it aloud, working his way slowly through the syllables. '"Initium sapientiae timor domini." Do you know what that means, Lieutenant?'

Knowles looked at his coin and shook his head. Rifleman Tongue, the educated one, chimed in with a translation.

'The beginning of wisdom, sir, is the fear of the Lord."

Sharpe grinned. He turned the coin over. On the other side was the profile of a man, his head covered in a wig of profuse curls, and the legend was easily understood. Philip the Fifth, by the Grace of God King of Spain and the Indies. At the foot of the profile was a date: 1729. Sharpe looked at Knowles.

'Know what it is?'

'Doubloon, sir. Eight escudo piece."

'What's it worth?'

Knowles thought about it, hefted the coin in his hand, tossed it into the air. 'About three pounds ten shillings, sir.'

Sharpe looked disbelieving. 'Each?'

Knowles nodded. 'Each.'

'Sweet Jesus.'

Sixteen thousand coins, each worth three pounds and ten shillings, and Sharpe tried to work it out in his head. Isaiah Tongue beat them all, his voice full of wonder as he gave the figure.

'Fifty-six thousand pounds, sir.'

Sharpe started to laugh, feeling almost hysterical in his reaction. He could buy well over thirty Captaincies with this money. It would pay a day's wages to more than a million men. If Sharpe should live for a hundred years he would never earn the amount that was sagging in the leather bags at his feet: fat, great, thick, yellow-gold coins with their pictures of a fancy-haired, hook-nosed, soft-looking King. Money, gold, more than he could comprehend on his salary of ten shillings and sixpence a day, less two shillings and eightpence for the mess charge, and then more deductions for washing and the hospital levy, and he stared disbelieving at the pile. As for the men, they were lucky if in a year they earned as much as just two of these coins. A shilling a day, less all the deductions, brought them down to the Three Sevens: seven pounds, seven shillings, and sevenpence a year. But there were few men who made even that much. They were charged for lost equipment, broken equipment, replacement equipment, and men had deserted for less than the value of a handful of this gold.