‘Couldn’t have done it better myself, Harry. Those idiots think they’re winning. Tell your Riflemen to look for the officers.’
Price took the redcoats of his company to the left of the line, while his green-jacketed Riflemen spread themselves among the remainder of the battalion. The Riflemen kept firing as the French arranged themselves in three ranks. Sharpe reckoned the field was some two hundred paces deep, and he would wait till the enemy was halfway to the trees before he opened fire with his muskets. Vincent was still at Sharpe’s elbow. ‘Are we going to be saddled with our wounded?’ the Major asked, plainly worried that coping with injured men would slow the journey.
‘We’ll put them in the nearest farmhouse, leave some money to pay for their care, and let the army deal with them when they get here.’
The French had brought some drummers who now began beating their instruments, provoking the whole line forward. They stumbled on the uneven turf. The bright moonlight glinted from shako badges and the metal furniture of the muskets. No bayonets were fixed. The drumbeats were slow, which meant the advance was slow. Sharpe stepped back into deeper shadow and unslung his rifle. He could see an officer at the centre of the advancing line, a man wearing a bicorne hat with a white plume. The man carried a sword, and Sharpe guessed he was the commander of the garrison. He steadied the rifle against the trunk of an oak and folded up the rear sight, then saw there was not enough moonlight to show the sights clearly, so folded it down again. ‘By guess and by God, Dan,’ he muttered, then peered along the barrel. He aimed at the officer’s moonlit plume, reckoning the ball would drop to hit the man in the chest. He heard the other rifles firing, saw a man stumble and fall, then pulled the trigger.
The flint fell on the striker, ignited the priming with a small shower of sparks and, a heartbeat later, the rifle fired, kicking back into Sharpe’s shoulder as a fleck of burning powder landed on his cheek. A billow of smoke hid the enemy, and Sharpe moved sideways until he could see again. The officer had vanished, and Sharpe reloaded the rifle.
He reloaded without thinking what he was doing, nor did he need to think. Sharpe had begun his career in the ranks of the 33rd, a soldier who had been taught how to load and fire a musket and, though it was ten years since he had been commissioned as an officer, he still carried a longarm. For Sharpe a rifle was a soldier’s proper weapon, even more so than the heavy cavalry sword he wore at his left hip. The sword denoted that he was an officer, but the rifle said he was a soldier, one of the green-jacketed killers who had haunted the French through the long wars. He rammed the leather-wrapped ball hard down the rifled barrel, slotted the ramrod back in place, and saw the French were halfway up the field.
‘South Essex!’ he bawled, using the battalion’s old name. ‘Stand!’
The French stopped instantly when they saw the soldiers suddenly appear from the shadows of the wood. The redcoats made a line of two ranks that was almost as wide as the French line. ‘Present!’ Sharpe bellowed. ‘And aim low!’
The muskets came up to the shoulders. A few French muskets fired, the shots whipping overhead.
‘Fire!’ Sharpe bellowed, and the long line of muskets flamed and belched smoke. ‘Reload!’
The last command had been unnecessary because the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers were as well trained as any battalion in the army. And they could fire three shots a minute which, Sharpe guessed, was at least twice the rate of the opposing Frenchmen. ‘Platoon fire!’ Sharpe bellowed. ‘Number Two Company first!’
A small night wind drifted the smoke towards the river and, as it cleared, Sharpe saw his opening volley had struck the French hard. There were gaps in the line and dark shapes heaped on the grass. The attackers, bereft of orders, had not continued their advance, but were now reloading muskets. Sharpe’s men began the platoon firing from the right, the half company volleys following each other in a deadly rhythm.
The French, staggered by the initial volley, began advancing again, but unsteadily. Portions of their line came forward, others hesitated. Sharpe saw men still reloading their muskets, and just then Jefferson unleashed a volley from the Frenchmen’s left flank. Sharpe saw the enemy recoil, but knew he dared not leave his Grenadier Company exposed for too long. The platoon volleys were still firing, hammering a steady rhythm of musket balls into the moon-shadowed enemy. Sharpe slung his rifle and took a step forward. ‘Cease fire!’ he shouted. ‘And fix swords!’
The command was a Rifleman’s order, because only Riflemen carried the longer sword-bayonet, but the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers were accustomed to Sharpe’s ways and they obediently slotted their bayonets onto their muskets. ‘If you’re loaded,’ Sharpe bellowed, ‘present!’
About half of the battalion’s muskets were raised to shoulders. ‘Fire!’ Sharpe paused to let the sound of the volley fade. ‘Battalion will advance! March!’
Another volley crashed from the Grenadiers as Sharpe drew his sword and took his place between companies Four and Five. Major Vincent fell into step beside him. ‘Careful, Major,’ Sharpe growled, ‘I’m supposed to keep you alive.’
‘They’re shooting high,’ Vincent said.
‘Not all of them.’ Sharpe had seen some of his men fall and heard the sound of enemy balls striking musket stocks.
The battalion went forward in line while the enemy’s progress stopped entirely. The few French drums had gone silent, but Sharpe could hear their remaining officers urging their men forward, but the sight of a long line of bayonets advancing on them had taken away the enemy’s resolve. Sharpe still kept the battalion at a walk, and it was not till he had halved the distance that he shouted his next command. ‘Charge!’
The Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers let out a cheer as they began to run, and the sound, or else the sight of the closing bayonets, decided the enemy. They turned and ran, a mob streaming for the gate in the hedge, some even throwing down their heavy muskets. Sharpe ran ahead of his advancing line and waved them to a stop. ‘Let them go!’ he bellowed. ‘Let them go!’
‘’Talion, halt!’ Harper roared, and the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers came to a stop.
The French nearest the redcoat battalion gate turned and stared at their enemy, apparently puzzled. Sharpe walked towards them, sword in hand. ‘Who commands you?’ he shouted in French. ‘Tell him to come here!’
He shouted it again, then stood amidst the French casualties, waiting. Eventually two officers came from the enemy still crushed about the gate. Sharpe pointedly pushed his sword into its scabbard, then nodded a curt greeting as the two stopped a few paces away. ‘You can rescue your wounded,’ he said. ‘There’s a hospital in Valenciennes?’