'Still, Captain.' Harper spoke gently, gripped hard.

The cauterizing iron hit him like the devils of hell. His shout was cut off as he fainted, as the flash burned and stank, and it took all Harper's strength to hold him down, but it was done and Lossow's horse-doctor nodded his satisfaction. They splashed water on his face, trickled brandy into his throat, and Sharpe opened his eyes, grimaced as the pain shot through him, and struggled upwards. He looked at Harper.

'You said it would mend.'

'Didn't want to worry you, sir. Almost bled to death.' He propped Sharpe against a rock. 'Food! Bring that food!"

Sharpe looked up to see a German officer with crinkled eyes and a good smile looking down on him. He had met the man before. Where? He remembered. In the village where Batten had been caught by the provosts. He stuck out his good hand.

'Captain -'

'Lossow, sir. At your service!'

Sharpe smiled, a bit wanly. 'You have our thanks, sir.'

The German waved away the formality. 'On the contrary. You have ours. A lovely fight!'

'Did you lose anyone?'

'Lose anyone? They were lancers, Captain! An angry toad would be more dangerous! Now, if they put lances in the front rank, and sabres behind, they might be dangerous. But just lancers? No problem to us!'

Sharpe nodded, grateful. 'But thank you.'

Lossow took the mug of stew from Harper and put it on Sharpe's lap.

'You got the gold.'

'You know about it?'

'Why do you think I am here? A patrol to the south, me here, and all for you, Captain. The lord Wellington wants the gold badly!'

Kearsey sniffed, said nothing, and Sharpe sipped at the stew. It tasted miraculous after the hard tack of the last week.

'He can have it.'

'Yes, but there are problems.'

Sharpe put the mug down, willed the pain in his shoulder to go down. 'Problems?'

'French patrols.' Lossow's hand described an arc to the west. 'Like fleas on a bottom.'

Sharpe laughed and the pain came back, but he forced his left hand round to hold the hot mug and it worked. He spooned the tough beef into his mouth.

'We must get to the army.'

'I know.'

'We must.'

He looked to his right and saw one of Lossow's men sharpening his sword, using a stone and oil to smooth down the dent. It was only this morning that he had cut down on the voltigeur and the man – Sharpe remembered yellow teeth – had pushed his musket up and saved his life. 'We must.'

'We will try.'

Sharpe lifted Lossow's brandy bottle; the Germans were never short of captured brandy, and the spirit flowed like cream into his throat. He coughed.

'The Partisans? Have you seen Partisans?'

Lossow turned and spoke to one of his officers, a short exchange, and turned back to Sharpe. 'Two miles away, Captain, keeping in touch with us. They want the gold?'

Sharpe nodded. 'And me.' He looked at the girl and back to the German.

'Don't worry, Captain.' Lossow stood up and hitched his sword-belt round. 'You're in good hands.'

The girl smiled at Sharpe, stood up and came to him. Her dress was another four inches shorter and Sharpe realized he had been bandaged after the cauterizing iron had driven him in agony back to unconsciousness. She still had the rifle, slung proprietarily on a shoulder, with Tongue's ammunition pouch and bayonet strapped to her waist. Lossow moved to one side to let her sit by Sharpe.

'Any more wounded, Captain, and she will be naked!' The German Captain laughed. 'We should all cut ourselves!'

Teresa looked at Sharpe, spoke softly. 'The Captain's already seen me. Haven't you?'

How did she know? Sharpe thought. He wondered if his telescope was undamaged by the fight and he remembered a French bullet thumping into his pack and throwing him forward. He could not be bothered to check right now, but leaned back, sipped at the brandy, and slept in the sun. The girl sat beside him, watching the Light Company rest, while beyond them, beyond the tethered horses, Lossow's picquets watched French patrols comb the western valleys. The Light Company would move soon, cutting westward, but for now they could sleep and forget the one more river they had to cross.

CHAPTER 18

Dogs barked in the town, horses moved restless feet on the wooden stable-boards, and on the stone front steps the sentries shuffled in the darkness. In the hallway of the house a clock ticked heavily, but in the ground-floor room, lit by candles, the only sound was the rustling of paper until the tall, hooked-nosed man leaned back and tapped a long finger on the table's edge.

'The siege has not begun?'

'No, my lord."

The General leaned forward and drew a square map towards him, scraping it over the table, and put the long finger on a white space in its centre.

'Here?'

Major Michael Hogan leaned into the candlelight. The map showed the country from Celorico, where they sat, across the border to Ciudad Rodrigo. Crawling up the map, dividing it into three, were the Coa and Agueda rivers, and the long finger was pointing between the rivers, north of Almeida.

'As best we can judge, my lord.'

'And what is there, pray?'

The General's finger relaxed and traced an unconscious line down to the writing on the bottom. Drawn by Maj. Kearsey. Q'Master Gen's Dep't. Hogan wondered idly when Kearsey had drawn the map, but it did not matter. He drew a piece of paper to him.

'Four new French battalions, sir. We know the 18th of the Line are there, probably at strength. A regiment of lancers, one of chasseurs.'

There was a brief silence. Wellington snorted. 'After food, I suppose?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'And round the town?'

Another piece of paper. 'A loose ring, my lord. Mostly to the south where the artillery park is building. We know of just two battalions of foot and, of course, cavalry patrols.'

'They're slow, Hogan, slow!'

'Yes, sir.'

Hogan waited. If the French were slow, all to the good, and the reports that filtered back from Partisans and exploring officers suggested that Massena was having problems assembling his transport, his siege materials, and, above all, his rations. There was also a rumour that he was with his mistress and reluctant to leave the comfort of her bedroom for the discomforts of the campaign. The General put his hand back on the map.

'Nothing from the KGL?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'Damn, damn, damn.' The words were spoken softly, almost reflectively.

He picked up a letter, postmarked London, and read it aloud, though Hogan suspected the words were known by heart.

'"I write in confidence, trusting to your discretion that however precarious the position of the army it is matched by our own. An opposition rampant, a press malignant, an ailing monarch, and there can be no hopes for a further draft of monies before the autumn. We put our faith in your exertions."' He put down the letter, dismissing the new government's fears, and looked at the map. 'I wonder where he is?'

It was not like the General, Hogan reflected, to articulate his worries. 'If I know him, my lord, and I do, then I suspect he will be avoiding Almeida. Coming the direct way.'

'He'd be better off in Almeida.'

'He would, my lord, but no one could expect that. And in two days…' Hogan shrugged. In two days the enemy would lock up the town as effectively as the countryside.

The General frowned, drummed the table with his fingers. 'Do I warn Cox?'

The question was asked of himself, not Hogan, but the Irishman knew what was in Wellington's mind. The fewer people who knew of the gold, the better. The Spanish government, in impotent obscurity at Cadiz, would assume the gold to have been captured by the French when the armies collapsed in the north, and if they were to discover that their allies, the British, had purloined it? No. The General's fingers slapped down in finality; he would not burden Almeida's commander with another problem.