'A thousand pounds, sir.' Knowles was looking serious.

'What?'

'I guess that's what it weighs, sir. A thousand, probably more.'

Nearly half a ton of gold, to be carried through the enemy hills, and probably in weather that was about to break disastrously. The clouds were overhead now, heavy with rain, moving south so that soon there would be no blue sky. Sharpe pointed at the bags.

'Split them up, Lieutenant. Thirty piles. Fill thirty packs, throw away everything except ammunition, and we'll just have to take it in turns to carry them.'

El Catolico stood up, walked slowly towards Sharpe, keeping an eye on the Riflemen, who still covered the Spaniards with their guns.

'Captain.'

'Yes?'

'It's Spanish gold.' He spoke with pride, making one last effort.

'I know.'

'It belongs to Spain. It must stay here.'

Sharpe shook his head. 'It belongs to the Supreme Junta in Cadiz. I am merely delivering it.'

'It does not need to go.' El Catolico had summoned up all his dignity. He spoke quietly, persuasively. 'It will be used to fight the French, Captain. To kill Frenchmen. If you take it, then Britain will steal it; it will go home in your ships. It should stay here.'

'No.' Sharpe smiled at the Spaniard, trying to annoy him. 'It goes with us. The Royal Navy is sending it to Cadiz. If you don't believe me, why don't you come, too? We could do with more backs to pile it on.'

El Catolico returned the smile. 'I will be coming with you, Captain.'

Sharpe knew what he meant. The journey home would be a nightmare of fear, fear of ambush, but Wellington's 'must' was the imperative in Sharpe's head. He turned away and, as he did, felt one solitary raindrop splash on his cheek. He waited, but there were no more, though he knew that soon, within the hour, the clouds would burst and the streams and rivers would rise with unimaginable speed.

Harper came back, scrubbed clean, his clothes soaking wet. He nodded at the Partisans. 'What do we do with them, sir?'

'Lock them up when we go.' It would gain a little time, not much, but every minute was valuable. He turned to Knowles. 'Are we ready?'

'Nearly, sir.'

Knowles was splitting open the bags while two men, Sergeant McGovern and Rifleman Tongue, poured the coins into packs. Sharpe was grateful that so many of his men had looted French cowhide packs at Talavera; the British canvas and wood packs would have split open under the weight. The men hated the British packs, made by the firm of Trotter's, with their terrible chest straps, which, at the end of a long march, made the lungs feel as if they were filled with acid: 'Trotter's pains', it was called, and all but a couple of the men had captured French equipment on their backs.

Rifleman Tongue looked up at Sharpe. 'Shouldn't there be sixty-four bags, sir?'

'Sixty-four?'

Tongue pushed back a hank of hair that continually fell over his eyes. 'Supposed to be sixteen thousand coins, sir. We've got sixty-three bags, two hundred and fifty in that one.' He pointed to the opened bag. 'That makes fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty. Two hundred and fifty short.'

'That's not all that's missing.' Harper's voice was soft and it took a moment for Sharpe to understand. Hardy. He had forgotten Captain Hardy in the excitement of finding the gold. He looked at El Catolico. 'Well?'

The Spaniard shrugged. 'We used one bag, yes. We must buy weapons, powder, shot, even food.'

'I wasn't talking about gold."

'What then?' El Catolico was very still.

Another drop of rain, and another, and Sharpe glanced up at the clouds. It would be a hard march. 'Captain Hardy is missing.'

'I know.'

'What else do you know?'

El Catolico's tongue flicked out, licked his lips. 'We think he was captured by the French.' He dropped into his sneering tone. 'No doubt they will exchange him, politely. You do not understand real war, Captain.'

Harper growled, stepped forward. 'Let me ask the questions, sir. I'll break him apart.'

'No.' It was the girl who spoke. 'Hardy tried to escape the French. We don't know where he is.'

'They're lying.' The Irishman's hands clenched.

The rain was beating on the dry ground, big, warm drops. Sharpe turned to the Company. 'Wrap your locks! Stop muzzles!'

Rain was the enemy of gunpowder and the most they could do was try to keep the rifles and muskets dry. Sharpe saw the ground soaking up the water. They had to leave soon, before the dust turned to mud.

'Sir!' Hagman again, calling from the tower.

'Daniel?'

'Horsemen, sir. Couple of miles south.'

'French?'

'No. Dagoes, sir.'

Now time was everything. Sharpe turned to Harper.

'Lock them up. Find somewhere, anywhere.' They must forget Captain Hardy and march fast, try to build a lead over the Partisans' pursuit, but Sharpe knew it was impossible. The gold was heavy. El Catolico understood. As the Spaniards were herded unceremoniously towards the village he pushed his way past a Rifleman.

'You won't get far, Captain.'

Sharpe walked up to him. 'Why not?'

El Catolico smiled, gestured at the rain, the gold. 'We'll chase you. Kill you.'

It was true. Sharpe knew that even by using the horses that were still in the village he could not travel fast enough. The rain was falling harder, bouncing up from the ground so that the earth seemed to have a sparkling mist an inch or two above its surface. Sharpe smiled, pushed past the Spaniard.

'You won't.' He put out his hand, took hold of Teresa's collar, and pulled her out of the group. 'She dies if even one of us gets hurt.'

El Catolico lunged for him, the girl twisted away, but Harper brought his fist into the Spaniard's stomach and Sharpe grabbed Teresa with a choking hold on her neck.

'Do you understand? She dies. If that gold does not reach the British army, she dies!'

El Catolico straightened up, his eyes furious. 'You will die, Sharpe, I promise you, and not an easy death.'

Sharpe ignored him. 'Sergeant?'

'Sir?'

'Rope.'

The Spaniard watched, silent, as Harper found a scrap of rope and, at Sharpe's directions, looped and tightened it round Teresa's neck.

Sharpe nodded. 'Hold her, Sergeant.' He turned to El Catolico. 'Remember her like that. If you come near me, she's dead. If I get back safely, then I'll release her to marry you.'

He gestured and the Company pushed the Spaniards away. Sharpe watched them go, knowing that soon they would be on his tracks, but he had bought more than time now. He had his hostage. He looked at her, seeing the hatred in her proud face, and knew he could not kill her. He hoped El Catolico did not know that, or else, in the seething rain, the Light Company were all dead men.

They started out, silent and wet, on the long journey home.