Sharpe's Eagle (11 page)

"We're going forward. To the colours." Some of the faces were white with fear. "There's
nothing to be frightened about. As long as you stay in ranks. Understand? You must stay in
ranks." He spoke simply and forcibly. Some of the men still looked towards the fugitives and the
bridge. "If anyone breaks ranks they will be shot." Now they looked at him. Harper grinned. "And
no-one fires without my orders. No-one." They understood. He unslung his rifle, threw it to
Pendleton and drew his great killing blade. "Forward!"

He walked a few paces in front listening to Harper call out the dressing and rhythm of the
advance. He hurried. There was little time, and he guessed that the first two hundred yards would
be easy enough. They advanced over the flat, open ground, unencumbered by horsemen. The difficult
stretch was the final hundred paces when the company would have to keep in ranks while they
stepped over the dead and wounded and when the French would realise the danger and challenge
them. He wondered how much time had elapsed since the fatal Spanish volley; it could only be
minutes, yet suddenly he was feeling again the sensations of battle. There was a familiar
detachment; he knew it would last until the first volley or blow, and he noticed irrelevant
details; it seemed as if the ground were moving beneath him rather than he walking on the dusty,
cracked soil of early summer. He saw each sparse blade of pale grass; there were ants scurrying
round white specks in the dirt. The fight round the colours seemed far away, the sounds tiny, and
he wanted to close the gap. There were the beginnings of excitement, elation even, at the
nearness of battle. Some men were fulfilled by music, others by trade; there were men who took
pleasure in working the soil, but Sharpe's instincts were for this. For the danger of battle. He
had been a soldier half his life, he knew the discomforts, the injustices, he knew the
half-pitying glances of men whose business let them sleep safe at night, but they did not know
this. He knew that not all soldiers felt it; he could feel ashamed of it if he gave himself time
to think, but this was not the time.

The French were being held. Someone had organised the survivors of the British square, and
there was a kneeling front rank, its muskets jammed into the turf, bayonets reaching up at the
chests of the horses. The sabres cut ineffectively at the angled muskets; there were shouts,
screams of men and horses, a veil of powder smoke in which flashes of flame and steel ringed the
colours. As he walked, the great sword held low in his hand, he could see riderless horses
trotting round the melee where Chasseurs had been shot or dragged from the saddles. Some of the
French were on foot, scything their blades or even tearing with bare hands at the British ranks.
An officer of the South Essex forced his horse out of the ring, the ranks closing instantly
behind him. He was hatless, his face unrecognisable under a mask of blood. He wrenched his horse
into a charge and lunged his slim, straight sword into the body of a Chasseur. The blade stuck.
Sharpe watched him tug at the handle, his crazed fanaticism turning to fear, and in an instant a
Frenchman showed how it should be done, his sabre neatly spearing into the Englishman's chest;
the blade turned, easily drawn out as the red-coated officer fell with his victim. Another
Chasseur, on foot, hacked blindly at the unyielding ranks. A soldier parried the blow, jabbed
forward with the bayonet, and the Frenchman was dead. Well done, thought Sharpe, the point always
beats the edge.

A bugle call. He looked right and saw the French reserve walk forward. They advanced
deliberately towards the carnage round the colours. They held no sabres, and Sharpe knew what was
in the mind of the French Colonel. The British square, or what was left of it, had held and the
light cavalry sabres could not break it. But Chasseurs, unlike most cavalry, carried carbines,
and they planned to pour a volley from close range into the red-coated ranks that would tear them
apart and let the swordsmen into the gap. He increased his pace but knew they could not reach the
colours before the fresh cavalry, and he watched, sickened, as with meticulous discipline some of
the hacking swordsmen wheeled their mounts away from the crude square to give the carbines a
field of fire. The horsemen picked their way through the dead and wounded. Sharpe saw the British
feverishly loading muskets, skinning their knuckles on the barrels, but they were too late. The
French stopped, fired, wheeled to let a second rank stop and hurl their volley at the South
Essex. A few muskets replied, one Chasseur toppled to the ground, a ramrod wheeled wickedly
through the air as some terrified soldier shot it from his half loaded musket. The French volleys
tore the front ranks apart; a great wound was opened in the red formation, and the enemy poured
in their curved blades to hold it apart and claw deeper into the infantry, where they could
snatch and win the greatest prize a man could win on the battlefield.

Sharpe's men were among the bodies now. He stepped over a British private whose head had been
virtually severed by a sabre cut. Behind him someone retched. He remembered that most of the men
of the South Essex had never seen a battle, had no real idea what weapons did to man's flesh. The
survivors of the square were falling back towards him, retreating from the wounded edge, losing
cohesion. He saw the colours dip and rise again, caught a glimpse of an officer screaming at the
men, urging them to fight back at the horses that lashed with their hooves and carried the
terrible sabres. There was so little time. More Frenchmen were fighting on foot, trying to beat
aside the bayonets and force their way to the flag-staffs, to glory. Then he had his own
problems. He saw a French officer tugging and hitting at his men; Sharpe's company had been
spotted, and the Frenchman knew what a hundred loaded muskets could do to the packed horsemen who
were concentrated round the flags. He pulled some of the men out of the fight, aligned them
hurriedly, and launched them against the new danger. He had only managed to scrape together a
dozen men and horses. Sharpe turned.

"Halt!"

He kept his back to the horsemen. In his head he knew how many seconds he had, and the
frightened men of the South Essex who stared at him desperately needed a demonstration of what
well-fought infantry could do to cavalry.

"Rear rank! About turn!" He needed to guard the rear in case any horsemen circled round.
Harper was there. "Front rank, kneel!"

He walked towards them, calmly, and climbed over the kneeling front rank so that he was in the
safety of the formation. The horses were fifty yards away.

"Only the middle rank will fire! Only the middle rank! Riflemen, hold your fire! Only the
middle rank! Wait for it! Aim low! Aim at the stomach! We're going to let them come close! Wait!
Wait! Wait!"

The swords of the French were bloodied to the hilt, their horses were lathered, the riders'
faces drawn back in the rictus of men who have fought and killed desperately. Yet their victory
over four times their number had been so easily gained that these horsemen thought themselves
capable of anything. The dozen Frenchmen rode at Sharpe's company, oblivious of their danger,
confident in their ecstasy that these British would collapse as easily as the two squares. Sharpe
watched them come at a reckless gallop, saw the clods of turf thrown up by the hooves, the bared
teeth and flying manes of the horses. He waited, kept talking in a measured, loud
voice.

"Wait for them! Wait! Wait!" Forty yards, thirty. At the last moment the French officer
realised what he had done. Sharpe watched him saw at his horse's bit, but it was too
late.

"Fire!"

The Chasseurs disintegrated. It was a small volley, only a couple of dozen muskets, but he
fired it murderously close. The horses fell; a couple skidded almost to the front rank; riders
were hurled onto the ground in a maelstrom of hooves, sabres and arms. Not one Chasseur was
left.

"On your feet! Forward!"

He stepped in front again and led them past the bloody remains of their attackers. One
Frenchman was alive, his leg broken by his falling horse, and he slashed upwards at Sharpe with
his sabre. Sharpe did not bother to cut back. He kicked the wounded man's wrist so that the blade
fell from his hand. The company stepped round the dead men and horses; they began to hurry; the
fight round the colours was being lost, the British being forced back, the French inching forward
behind the searing blades. Sharpe saw the long pikes of the Sergeants who guarded the colours
being used; one of them swung over the chaos; it crashed on to a horse's head so that it reared
up, throwing its rider, blood streaming from its forelock. The discipline of the square had
vanished with the French carbine fire. Sharpe could see no officers; they had to be there, but
now the French were close to the colours and men from the shattered square were running towards
Sharpe and the safety of his levelled bayonets. He beat them aside with his sword, screamed at
them to go to the side. He had to halt, unable to make headway against the fugitives, and he
swung the flat of his blade at them. Harper joined him and beat at the fugitives with his rifle
butt; the Irishman's huge bulk forced the running men to the flanks, where they could safely join
Sharpe's company. Then it was clear and he went on, the blade still swinging, his blood seething
with the joy of it. He had not intended a bayonet charge but there was so little time. The
colours were swaying, a Frenchman's hand on a staff was cut down by an officer's sword, and then
the colours collapsed.

Sharpe screamed unintelligible words; he was running, the men behind him stumbling on bodies
and slipping on the smears of new blood. A dismounted Chasseur came for him, the sabre cutting at
him in a great sweep. He put up his blade, the Frenchman's sword shattered, he cut at his neck,
felt the man fall and stumbled on. Horses blocked his sight of the colours; there were the cracks
of the rifles; a man fell. He caught a glimpse of Harper bodily pulling a Chasseur off his horse;
the Sergeant's face was a terrible mask of rage and strength. Another horseman came, heaving on
his rein to clear his swing at Sharpe, and disappeared backwards as Sharpe cracked his great
sword into the horse's jaw. He saw the horse rear up, screaming, the Chasseur let go of his sabre
and Sharpe caught a glimpse of the shining blade hanging from its wrist strap as man and horse
fell backwards. There was still a group of redcoats by the fallen colours, surrounded by
horsemen, and Sharpe saw two Frenchmen dismount to pull at the last defenders with their bare
hands.

Then the red jackets seemed to disappear; there were only Chasseurs and French shouts of
triumph as the dead were heaved from the staffs and the colours snatched up. Sharpe turned and
held the blood-covered blade high over his head.

"Halt! Present!" He was directly in their line of fire and he threw himself flat, pulling
Harper down, as he screamed the order to fire. The volley smashed overhead, and then they were up
and running. The musket balls had plucked the Frenchmen from the colours, the flags had fallen
again, but this time surrounded by enemy as well as British dead.

There were only a few yards to go but there were more horsemen spurring in towards the place
where so many had died for the possession of the colours. Sharpe threw himself over the bodies,
scrambled on blood and limbs, reached for a staff and pulled it towards him. It was the
Regimental Colour, its bright yellow field torn with fresh holes, and he jammed his sword point
downwards into a corpse and swung the staff like a primitive club at the horsemen. The King's
Colour was too far away. Harper was going for it, but a horse cannoned into the Sergeant and
threw him back. Another horse reared and swerved from the great billow of yellow silk in Sharpe's
hand, a sword struck the staff and Sharpe saw splinters fly from the new wood; then he was hit by
the net of forage strapped to the saddle and thrown over. He could smell the horses, see the
hooves in the air over him, the face of the Frenchman framed by his silver shako chain bending
towards him to pluck the colour from his hands. He held on. A hoof came down by his face, the
horse twisted away from the corpses it had stepped on, the rider tugged and suddenly let go.
Sharpe saw Harper swinging a great sergeant's pike. He had hit the rider in the spine with its
blade and the man slid gently on top of Sharpe, his last breath sighing softly in the Rifleman's
ear.

Sharpe pulled himself from beneath the body. He left the colour there; it was as safe as in
his hands. Harper was swinging the pike, keeping the horsemen at bay. Where was the company?
Sharpe looked round and saw them running towards the fight. They were so slow! He looked for his
sword, found it, and plucked it from the body where he had thrust it. The horsemen still came,
trying desperately to force their unwilling horses onto the mounds of dead. Sharpe screamed
again; Harper was bellowing, but there was no enemy within sword's length. He went forward
towards the King's Colour. He could see it lying beneath two bodies some five yards away. He
slipped on blood, stood again, but there were three dismounted Frenchmen coming for him with
drawn sabres. Harper was beside him; one Chasseur went down with the pike blade in his stomach,
the other sank beneath Sharpe's blade which had cut through the sabre parry as though the
Frenchman's sword was made of fragile ivory. But the third had got the Union Jack, had tugged it
from the bodies and was holding it out to the mounted men behind. Sharpe and Harper lunged
forward; the pike thunked into the Chasseur's back but he had done his job. A horseman had
snatched the fringe of the flag and was spurring away. There were more Frenchmen coming, clawing
at the two Riflemen for the second colour, too many!

"Hold them, Patrick! Hold them!"

Harper whirled the pike, screamed at them, was Cuchulain of the Red Hand, the inviolable. He
stood with his legs apart, his huge height dominating the fight, begging the green-uniformed
Frenchmen to come and be killed. Sharpe scrambled back to the Regimental Colour, pulled it from
the body, and threw it like a javelin at the advancing company. He watched it fall into their
ranks. It was safe. Harper was still there, growling at the enemy, defying them, but there was no
more fight. Sharpe stood beside him, sword in hand, and the Frenchmen turned, found horses, and
mounted to ride away. One of them turned and faced the two Riflemen, lifted a bloodied sabre in
grave salute, and Sharpe raised his own red sword in reply.