Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (82 page)

‘Form up a hundred paces down!’

‘Sir!’ Knowles acknowledged, leapt over a boulder, and the Company was gone.

‘Rifles! Hold them up!’

This was a better way of fighting, letting the enemy come to them, and killing them when they were too far away to reply to the rifle fire. Sharpe fought as a Private, ramming the balls down the rifling, picking his targets and waiting for the victim to rush forward. He aimed low, never waited to see if the man fell, but dragged out another cartridge, bit off the bullet, and started to reload. He could hear the rifles around him, firing as fast as they could, which was not fast enough, and he knew that the French would come to their senses soon and overwhelm them with targets and rush them with bayonets. He heard Harper giving instructions, and wondered which of the Riflemen needed to be told that you wrapped the bullet in the small greased patch so that it gripped the rifling, and he was so curious that he dodged through the lingering smoke and saw Teresa, with Tongue’s weapon, her face already blackened with powder smoke, kneeling up to fire at a Frenchman.

Then the enemy disappeared, gone to ground, and Sharpe knew the rush was coming.

‘Forget the patches!’

It was faster to load a naked ball, even though the rifle lost its accuracy, and then he whistled at them, pulling them back, keeping low, so that the enemy would charge an empty piece of ground and find itself under fire from new cover.

‘Wait for them!’

They waited. There were French shouts, French cheers, and the men in blue and red were criss-crossing towards them, muskets and bayonets catching the light, and still they came and Sharpe knew they were outnumbered horribly, but it was always best to wait.

‘Wait! Wait!’ He saw a confused enemy officer, looking for the British, and knew the man would lose his nerve in just a second.

‘Fire!’

It was a small volley, but the last they would fire with greased patches, and it was murderous. The enemy dived for cover, threw themselves behind rocks or their own dead, and the Riflemen reloaded, spitting the bullets into the guns, tapping them down by hammering the butts on the ground and not even bothering with ramrods.

‘Back!’

There were a hundred skirmishers in front of them, pressing forward, lapping them, and the Riflemen went back, tap-loading, firing at their enemies, and always losing ground, going downhill towards the rest of the Company, who were getting closer and closer to the open ground of the valley.

‘Back!’ It was no place to die, this, not while the cavalry had still not appeared and there was a chance, however slim, that the Company could fall back to the far side of the valley. There was no time to think of that, only to keep the Riflemen out of range of the muskets, to harry the Company down the hill, stopping and firing, running, reloading, and finding new cover. They were doing no damage to the enemy, but the French, terrified of rifles, kept their distance and did not seem to realize that the bullets were no longer spinning; that, bereft of the small leather patch, the rifles were less accurate than the ordinary musket. It was enough for the French that their opponents wore green, the ‘grasshoppers’ of the British army who could kill at three hundred paces and tear the heart out of an enemy skirmish line.

Pausing to watch the men go back, Sharpe glanced up the hill and saw the crest lined with the French companies. He noticed the uniforms were bright, unfaded by the sun, and he knew this was a fresh regiment, one of the new regiments that had been sent by Bonaparte to finish the Spanish business once and for all. Their Colonel was giving them a grandstand view of the fight and it annoyed Sharpe. No damned French recruit was going to watch his death! He looked at the voltigeurs, trying to find an officer to aim for, and it struck him, as he banged his rifle-butt on the ground, that only twenty minutes ago he had felt as if he were utterly alone on the face of the planet. Now he was outnumbered, ten to one, and the bastards were still coming, bolder now as the British reached the foot of the slope, and a ball smacked into the rock beside him and glanced up to hit Sharpe’s left armpit. It hurt like a dog chewing his flesh, and, throwing up the rifle for a quick shot, he suddenly knew the ricochet had done damage. He could hardly hold the rifle, but he squeezed the trigger and went backwards, keeping pace with his men and looking behind him, to see Knowles pausing on the very edge of the valley like a man fearful of pushing away from the shore. God damn it! There was no choice.

‘Back! Back!’

He ran to Knowles. ‘Come on. Cross the valley!’

Knowles was looking at his shoulder. ‘Sir! You’re hit!’

‘It’s nothing! Come on!’ He turned to the Riflemen, red eyes peering from blackened faces. ‘Form up, lads.’

The girl fell in like another Rifleman and he grinned at her, loving her for fighting like a man, for her eyes that sparkled with the hell of it, and then he waved his right arm.

‘March!’

They went away from the rocks, from the voltigeurs, out into the unnatural calmness of the grass. The French infantry did not follow but stopped at the foot of the slope for all the world as if the Light Company were on a boat and they could not follow. Major Kearsey was jigging with the excitement, his sabre drawn, but his smile went as he saw Sharpe.

‘You’re hit!’

‘It’s nothing, sir. A ricochet.’

‘Nonsense, man.’

Kearsey touched Sharpe’s shoulder, and to the Rifleman’s surprise the hand came away red and glistening.

‘I’ve had worse, sir. It’ll mend.’ It was hurting, though, and he hated the thought of peeling away jacket and shirt to find the wound. Kearsey looked back at the motionless French infantry.

‘They’re not following, Sharpe!’

‘I know, sir.’ His tone was gloomy and Kearsey glanced sharply at him.

‘Cavalry?’

‘Bound to be, sir. Waiting for us to get into the centre of the valley.’

‘What do we do?’ Kearsey seemed to see nothing odd in asking Sharpe the question.

‘I don’t know, sir. You pray.’

Kearsey took offence, jerking his head back. ‘I have prayed, Sharpe! Precious little else for the last few days.’

It had been only a few days, Sharpe thought, and was it all to end like this, between a French battalion and cavalry? Sharpe grinned at the Major, spoke gently.

‘Keep praying, sir.’

It was thin pastureland, close-cropped and tough, and Sharpe looked at the grass and thought that in a year’s time the sheep would be back as if there had been no skirmish. The sun had reached the valley floor and insects were busy in the grass-stems, oblivious of the battle overhead, and Sharpe looked up and thought the valley was beautiful. It wound south and west, climbing between steep hills, and ahead of him, out of reach, was a streambed that in spring would make the place a small paradise. He looked behind, saw the voltigeurs sitting by the rocks, the other French companies coming slowly down the hill, and somewhere in the tortuous valley, he knew, the cavalry would be waiting. He was sure they would come from behind now; the way ahead seemed to offer no hiding place, and he knew the Company was trapped. He looked at the ground, level and firm, and imagined the horses walking the first hundred yards, trotting the next fifty, into the canter, the swords raised, and the final gallop of twenty yards that would be split by the fire of the small square, but forty infantry could not hold out long. Pipe smoke went up from the sitting French infantry, front seats for the slaughter.

Patrick Harper fell in beside him. ‘How bad?’ He was looking at the shoulder.

‘It’ll mend.’

The Sergeant grabbed his elbow and, ignoring Sharpe’s protest, pulled the arm up. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Jesus!’ He could feel a grating in the shoulder, but the huge Irishman’s hands were there, squeezing and hurting. Harper let go.

‘There’s no bone broken, sir. The ball’s trapped. Ricochet?’

Sharpe nodded. A full hit would have broken his shoulder and upper arm. It hurt. Harper looked at the girl and back to Sharpe. ‘It’ll impress the wee girl.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Harper was worried, trying not to show it.

Trumpets sounded and Sharpe stopped, turned, and as the Company marched on he saw the first horses appear to the north. His heart sank. Lancers again, always bloody lancers, and their green uniforms and pink facings mocked his meagre hopes. The lances were tipped with red and white pennants, held jauntily, and they trotted into formation in the valley and stared at the small group of British infantry. Harper came back to him. ‘Two hundred, sir?’

‘Yes.’

He had heard men say they would rather die of a lance than a sabre, that a sabre just gave horrific cuts that festered and bled a man dry over weeks of agony, whereas a lance was quick and deep. Sharpe spat into the grass; he cared for neither, and he looked left and right.

‘That way.’ He pointed to the eastern side of the valley, back the way they had come, away from the French infantry. ‘On the double!’

They ran, a lurching, stumbling, hopeless run, because even if the lancers waited a full two minutes before they were ordered forward they would still catch the Light Company and lean their weight into the silver blades. Then it really was all over, the whole thing hopeless, and Sharpe remembered the stories of small bands of soldiers who fought out against hopeless odds. He had been wrong. There was a hiding place further up the valley, a deep fold of dead ground to the south that had been shadowed and hidden but suddenly he saw horsemen were filing from it, men in foreign uniforms, sabres drawn, and they were not waiting like the lancers. Instead they trotted forward, knee to knee, and Sharpe knew it was all over.

‘Halt! Company square!’ He put the girl in the centre, with Kearsey. ‘Bayonets!’

They did it calmly and he was proud of them. His shoulder hurt like the devil and he suddenly remembered the rumour that had gone through the army that the French poisoned their musket balls. He had never believed it, but something was wrong, everything blurred, and he shook his head to clear his vision and gave his rifle to Kearsey.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t hold it.’

His sword was still drawn, a dent in the foreblade, and he pushed his way through to the front of the tiny square, an almost useless gesture of defiance, and suddenly realized his men were grinning. They looked at him, started to cheer, and he tried to order silence. Perhaps it was a fine way to die, to cheer the enemy on to the bayonets, but it made no sense to Sharpe. They should save their breath for the killing. The sabres were nearer, the men riding like veterans, without excitement or haste, and Sharpe tried to place the French regiment with blue uniforms, a yellow stripe on the overalls, and tall brown busbies. God damn it! Who were they? At least a man should know who he’s fighting. Sharpe tried to order the muskets up, for the men to take aim, but nothing happened. His voice faded; his eyes seemed not to see.

Harper caught him, lowered him gently.

‘Hold on, sir, for God’s sake, hold on.’

Captain Lossow, resplendent in blue and yellow, saw Sharpe fall, cursed that his squadron had been delayed, and then, like a good professional of the King’s German Legion, forgot about Sharpe. There was work to be done.

Lossow had two minutes, no more, and he used them well. He saw the Company disappear behind his left shoulder; then the lancers were all that was ahead of him while far off to the left a battalion of infantry scrambled untidily down the hill to add their firepower to the valley. He would not wait for the infantry. He spoke to his trumpeter, listened to the charge, loved every note, and then he put his sabre in the air and let Thor have his head. A good name for a horse, Thor, especially a horse like this one that could bite a man’s face off or beat an enemy down with its hooves. It was good ground, comfortable, with no damned rabbits, and Lossow would pray at night for an opportunity like this. Lancers, idiots with long spikes who never knew how to parry, and all you had to do was get inside the point and the life was yours. He could hear his men galloping behind; he twisted in the saddle to see the fine sight, the horses neck and neck, as they should be, clods of turf flung up behind, blades and teeth shining, and was it not good of the German King who sat on the English throne to give him this chance?

The French were slow and he guessed they were new troops, on remounts, and a lancer should always meet the enemy at full speed or he was done. He steered Thor to the right; they had practised this, and the trumpeter gave the call again, ragged this time because of the motion of the horse but enough to make a man’s blood run cold, and he touched Thor with his left heel, never a spur in his life, and the huge horse turned like a dancer; the sabre was dropped so it pointed down like a spike from Lossow’s outstretched hand, and he galloped, laughing along the face of the enemy, and simply knocked the lances away. It would not last, it never did, and someone was bright enough to face him, but by then the chaos he had created in half a dozen Frenchmen had let his first troop into the gap, and Lossow knew the job was done and he let Thor rear up and deal with the brave fellow who challenged him. The trumpeter was there, of course, because that was his duty.

‘Left!’ Lossow ordered, and the Germans turned, chewing up the French line, the sabres wicked in their work, and Lossow was satisfied.

‘Lieutenant?’

The man saluted, oblivious of the fight. ‘Sir?’

‘Stirrup the infantry.’

‘Sir.’

And his duty was done. He had a minute left and Thor needed exercise so Lossow touched with his heels and the horse went forward, and the sabre turned a galloping lance so neatly that Lossow thought he would remember that moment till the day he died, preferably in Germany, and the Kligenthal steel of the curved blade opened the Frenchman’s throat as far as his spine, and he wished that every moment was this good, with a fine horse, a good turf, a blade made by the dwarves themselves, and an enemy for breakfast.

He watched his men work, proud of them. They were disciplined, protecting one another, their sword drill immaculate and thorough, and Lossow knew why the lord Wellington preferred German cavalry. Not as flashy as the English, not as good for a parade, but for killing Frenchmen—they were as good as British infantry at that. Lossow, a happy man, thought in the valley’s bottom—as part of his mind watched the enemy infantry, another checked on the fleeing lancers—that this army, Wellington’s army, could be as perfect an instrument of war as any in history. With men like these horsemen and with that infantry? It was beautiful!

‘Re-call.’

The trumpet sounded, the men pulled back in perfect order, and Lossow waved the sabre. The lancers were done for, utterly beaten, but he had expected no less. Poor devils. They were not to know that Lossow’s men had tracked this valley for three days, waiting for a sight of Sharpe, and Lossow was glad it was he and not that pig Schwalbach further south who had found the British infantry. He looked up the valley. The rescued infantry were moving fast, each man holding on to a cavalryman’s stirrup, and Lossow brought the other hundred and fifty sabres back slowly, screening the retreat, enjoying the warm sun, and saluting the French infantry who were forming up, too late, their show spoiled.

‘Compliments of Hanover!’ he shouted, but the garlic-eating slime did not understand German.

An hour later Sharpe opened his eyes, saw Harper leaning over him, pinning him to the ground, and Teresa was holding one hand, and then a German soldier came to him with a piece of iron, glowing hot, and Sharpe knew the dream of the last few minutes, of his shoulder being pinned by an Indian with a lance, was just that: a dream. The Indian, turbaned and smiling, had played with him, and every time Sharpe had tried to jerk free the lance would come back, hoisting him a little higher.

‘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.’

‘
Ja
, 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 proprietorially 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.