Sharpe’s Gold Page 17

  Parry Jenkins, Tongue's partner, seemed almost in tears. The Welshman stooped over Tongue's body, unbuckling the ammunition pouch and canteen, and Sharpe threw him the dead man's rifle. 'Here!' A French ball thudded into his pack, pushing him forward, and he knew that the enemy skirmish line had bent down the hill, cutting their southward advance, and he waved his men down and ran back to Jenkins.

  'Have you got everything?'

  'Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. God, I'm sorry, sir.'

  Sharpe hit him on the shoulder. 'Come on, Parry. Not your fault. Down!'

  They went down the hill, the musket balls over their heads, and found cover in the rocks. Tongue's body would have to stay there, another Rifleman lost in Spain, or was this Portugal? Sharpe did not know, but he thought of the school in the Midlands where Tongue had once taught, appropriately enough, languages, and he wondered if anyone would remember the clever young man with the friendly eyes who took to drink.

  'Sir!'

  Knowles was pointing behind and Sharpe rolled over and looked back the way they had come. French skirmishers in faded bluejackets with red epaulettes were angling down the hill behind them. He stayed on his back, facing his men.

  'Rifles! Bayonets!'

  The French would understand that all right, and feel the fear. He had unconsciously counted the bullets that missed him when he went forward to Tongue's body and he knew, though he had not thought about it, that the hillside in front was sparsely held. The French had put a skirmish line there, thin and spaced, thinking it was enough to drive the British back downhill where, still unseen, the cavalry must wait.

  'Lieutenant!'

  'Sir?'

  'You'll follow us.'

  We buy ten minutes, he thought, but we might get outside their cordon, and we might find a place to defend. He knew it was hopeless, but it was better than being driven like fat sheep, and he tugged out his sword, felt its edge, and was on his feet.

  'Forward!'

  One man of each pair watched, the other ran, and Sharpe heard the Bakers cracking the morning apart as the Frenchmen put up their heads to fire at the small, spread band of men in green who screamed at them and had twenty-three inches of steel fixed to their rifles. The few skirmishers in their front ran, or else died from the spinning rifle bullets that could not miss at fifty paces, and the Company kept running. Sharpe was ahead, his sword across his body and his rifle bumping on his back. He saw skirmishers above them on the hillside, and below, but muskets were a terrible instrument for precision work, and he let the enemy fire and knew the odds were in the Company's favour. One man went down, hit in the buttocks, but he was dragged up and they were through the gap and there were just a few panicked French fugitives ahead who had not had the sense to climb the hill. One turned, reached with his musket, and found himself faced with a giant Irishman who split him neatly between the ribs, kicked the blade free, and went on. Sharpe cut at a man with his sword, felt the bone-hammering jar as the Frenchman parried with his musket, and then he ran on and wondered what kind of a dent he had put in the heavy steel edge.

  'Come on! Uphill!'

  That was not what the French expected, so it was the only way to go. The Company had smashed the cordon, lost only one man, and now they forced their tired legs to go up the slope, towards the western crest, and behind them the French orders rang out, the blue-coated officers realigning their men, and there was no time for anything but to force the legs up the impossible slope, feel the pain as the breath hurt the lungs, and then Sharpe made the crest and, without stopping, turned and kept running. The damned French were there, not expecting the British, but there all the same and lined up in files and ranks waiting for orders. Sharpe had a glimpse of a gently falling slope, well grassed, and the French battalion lined in companies, and the French watched, astonished, as the British ran past their front, only a hundred paces away, and not a musket was fired.

  There was no escape to the west, none to the north where the skirmishers chased them, and Sharpe knew they must go south and east where the cavalry expected them. It was the only direction that gave time, and time was the only hope. He turned, waved the Riflemen down, and pushed Knowles and the red-jacketed men down the slope.

  '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 hurry 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 al
one 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.

  Chapter 17

  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?'