stinking cargo. The daydreaming soldier straightened as Sharpe approached. “You can't go in there, senar!” He moved to block Sharpe's path. “Senor!”
“Shut up! Get out of my bloody way!” Sharpe, disgusted with all things Spanish, rammed his forearm onto the soldier's chest, piling him backward. Sharpe expected Blair's door to be locked, but unexpectedly it yielded to his thrust. He pushed it wide open as Harper ran into the porch's shelter. The dazed sentry took one look at the tall Irishman's size and decided not to make an issue of the confrontation. Sharpe stamped inside. “Damn Marquinez! Damn Bautista! Damn the bloody Spaniards!” He took off his wet greatcoat and shook the rain off it. “Bloody, bloody Spaniards! They never bloody change! You remember when we liberated their Goddamned bloody country and they wanted to charge customs duty on the powder and shot we used to do it? Goddamned bloody Spaniards!”
Harper, who was married to a Spaniard, smiled soothingly. “We need a cup of tea, that's what we need. That and some decent food, but I'll settle for dry clothes first.” He started climbing the stairs, but halfway to the landing he suddenly checked, then swore. “Jesus!"
“What?”
“Thieves!” Harper was charging up to the landing. Sharpe followed.
“Get down!” Harper screamed, then threw himself sideways through an open doorway. Sharpe had a glimpse of two men in a second doorway, then the landing was filled with smoke as one of the men fired a gun. The noise was huge, echoing around the house. Bitter-smelling smoke churned in the corridor. Sharpe did not see where the bullet went. He only knew it had not hit him.
He scrambled to his feet and ran past the doorway where Harper had sheltered. He could hear the thieves running ahead of him. “We've got the buggers trapped!” He shouted the encouragement for Harper, then he saw that there was another staircase at the back of the house, presumably a stair for servants, and the two thieves were jumping its steps three at a time.
“Stop!” Sharpe bellowed. He had visited the Citadel in civilian clothes, not bothering to wear any weapons. “Stop!” he shouted again, but the two men were already scrambling out into the stableyard. The mestizo cook was screaming.
Sharpe reached the kitchen door as the thieves tugged open the stableyard gate. Sharpe ran into the rain, still shouting at the men to stop. Both thieves were carrying sacks of plunder, and both were armed with short-barreled cavalry carbines. One carbine had been fired, but now the second man, fearing Sharpe's pursuit, turned and aimed his gun. The man had black hair, a bushy moustache and a scar on his cheek, then Sharpe realized the carbine was at point-blank range and he hurled himself sideways, slithering through puddles of rain and heaps of stable muck to thump against a bale of straw. The gate was open now, but the moustached gunman did not run; instead he carefully leveled the carbine at Sharpe. He was holding the gun one-handed. There was a pause of a heartbeat, then he smiled and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. For a second the man just gaped at Sharpe, then, suddenly scared, he hurled the carbine like a club and took off through the gate after his companion.
Sharpe was climbing to his feet, but had to drop flat again as the gun flew over his head. He stood again, slipped as he began running, found his balance, then clung to the gatepost when he saw that the two men had disappeared into a crowded alley. He swore.
He closed the gate, brushed the horse manure off his jacket and breeches, picked up the thief's carbine and went back to the kitchen. “Stop your noise, woman!” he snapped at the cook, then stared up to where Harper had appeared at the top of the back stairs. “What's the matter with you?”
“God save Ireland.” Harper came slowly down the stairs. He had gone pale as paper, and had a hand clapped to the side of his head. Blood showed between
“Shut up! Get out of my bloody way!” Sharpe, disgusted with all things Spanish, rammed his forearm onto the soldier's chest, piling him backward. Sharpe expected Blair's door to be locked, but unexpectedly it yielded to his thrust. He pushed it wide open as Harper ran into the porch's shelter. The dazed sentry took one look at the tall Irishman's size and decided not to make an issue of the confrontation. Sharpe stamped inside. “Damn Marquinez! Damn Bautista! Damn the bloody Spaniards!” He took off his wet greatcoat and shook the rain off it. “Bloody, bloody Spaniards! They never bloody change! You remember when we liberated their Goddamned bloody country and they wanted to charge customs duty on the powder and shot we used to do it? Goddamned bloody Spaniards!”
Harper, who was married to a Spaniard, smiled soothingly. “We need a cup of tea, that's what we need. That and some decent food, but I'll settle for dry clothes first.” He started climbing the stairs, but halfway to the landing he suddenly checked, then swore. “Jesus!"
“What?”
“Thieves!” Harper was charging up to the landing. Sharpe followed.
“Get down!” Harper screamed, then threw himself sideways through an open doorway. Sharpe had a glimpse of two men in a second doorway, then the landing was filled with smoke as one of the men fired a gun. The noise was huge, echoing around the house. Bitter-smelling smoke churned in the corridor. Sharpe did not see where the bullet went. He only knew it had not hit him.
He scrambled to his feet and ran past the doorway where Harper had sheltered. He could hear the thieves running ahead of him. “We've got the buggers trapped!” He shouted the encouragement for Harper, then he saw that there was another staircase at the back of the house, presumably a stair for servants, and the two thieves were jumping its steps three at a time.
“Stop!” Sharpe bellowed. He had visited the Citadel in civilian clothes, not bothering to wear any weapons. “Stop!” he shouted again, but the two men were already scrambling out into the stableyard. The mestizo cook was screaming.
Sharpe reached the kitchen door as the thieves tugged open the stableyard gate. Sharpe ran into the rain, still shouting at the men to stop. Both thieves were carrying sacks of plunder, and both were armed with short-barreled cavalry carbines. One carbine had been fired, but now the second man, fearing Sharpe's pursuit, turned and aimed his gun. The man had black hair, a bushy moustache and a scar on his cheek, then Sharpe realized the carbine was at point-blank range and he hurled himself sideways, slithering through puddles of rain and heaps of stable muck to thump against a bale of straw. The gate was open now, but the moustached gunman did not run; instead he carefully leveled the carbine at Sharpe. He was holding the gun one-handed. There was a pause of a heartbeat, then he smiled and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. For a second the man just gaped at Sharpe, then, suddenly scared, he hurled the carbine like a club and took off through the gate after his companion.
Sharpe was climbing to his feet, but had to drop flat again as the gun flew over his head. He stood again, slipped as he began running, found his balance, then clung to the gatepost when he saw that the two men had disappeared into a crowded alley. He swore.
He closed the gate, brushed the horse manure off his jacket and breeches, picked up the thief's carbine and went back to the kitchen. “Stop your noise, woman!” he snapped at the cook, then stared up to where Harper had appeared at the top of the back stairs. “What's the matter with you?”
“God save Ireland.” Harper came slowly down the stairs. He had gone pale as paper, and had a hand clapped to the side of his head. Blood showed between
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