CHAPTER NINE

It was well into the night, nearly dawn, when the British saw fires burning in a Spanish town. They reined their horses while Paget examined it with a spy glass. "What is that place?"he asked.

"Sahagun,"Miller supplied helpfully after a length silence.

Paget nodded, as though that explained everything, and put away the spyglass. "French cavalry,"he diagnosed.

Sharpe spoke quietly to Lockhart. "What now? Do we charge?"

Lockhart made an uncertain gesture in response. "Depends what orders we're given."

Sharpe grimaced at the obviousness of the answer and strained to hear what Paget was saying.

"Slade, take the 10th hussars and advance into the town,"Paget ordered another general. "The 15th will circle the town and enter from the south. That should leave those frogs trapped, what?"

There was a general agreement with the orders and Sharpe joined the 15th in circling around the town. He felt frustrated that he would likely miss out on all the action but it wasn't as if he could suddenly switch regiments. Lockhart leaned in. "Have you any experience of fighting on horseback?"

"No,"Sharpe replied curtly, making it clear he didn't want to discuss the matter.

They had almost completed their circle when they saw something in the dawn light. French horsemen, coming from Sahagun, unmolested. Of the 10th, there was no sign. "That damn fool Slade!"Paget blasted. "He's let them get away!"

Sharpe wondered what the French would do now. Would they spur their horses, getting as far away as possible? Would they charge at them? But instead of doing either of those things, they seemed to come to a stop. They formed up in two lines, chasseurs at the front and dragoons behind. "Daring us to come at them,"Spence realised.

Sharpe saw light glinting off French carbines, aimed at them, ready to fire at their approach. He had seen cavalry charge at a square and knew the likely fate. This was a different proposition, of course: Fewer men, no trained infantry. The challenge seemed irresistible.

"Charge!"Paget bellowed.

The 15th hussars hammered through the snow towards the French lines, yelling a war cry. The French carbines fired and some of them hit a target but most went wild. And then the British were upon them, swords thrust out, their momentum carrying them straight through both French lines. French horses were upended and men ended up on the ground, desperately avoiding the hooves of panicked horses. Some tried to run but pursuing cavalry convinced them that surrender was their best option.

Sharpe saw swords flashing at him and dodged them, unsure of his ability to fight back. One of his dives to avoid a slash saw him lose his balance, and he fell from the saddle, ending up in the snow. He looked around, aware of his vulnerability, but the French discipline had been broken completely by the devastating charge. They were in full retreat, every man for himself whether on foot or on horse, with the British hussars pursuing them.

And then Sharpe saw him, the chasseur colonel who was among the last to retreat. A face that he had seen only once before but pictured many times in his dreams, hoping for this moment. And now fate had brought them together. "Colonel Laurent!"he roared.

Laurent heard his name being called and looked round at the strange scruffy figure standing in the snow. "You know me, Englishman, but I do not know you."

"Lieutenant Sharpe, 95th. I met some of your men. In a Spanish village, raping women. They died very easily."

Laurent felt fury inside of him. He had wondered as the British had charged if the one who had slaughtered his men was among them. And now this scruffy ageing lieutenant was claiming responsibility? For Laurent, there was only one option. He turned his horse round, raised his sabre and charged.

It was a move that would probably have worked against a dismounted cavalry officer. But Laurent was facing a rifleman. Calmly, Sharpe unslung the rifle from his back, loaded it with the precision of years of practise, raised it and fired. The bullet went through the neck of Laurent's horse and the beast went down, throwing Laurent into the snow.

Sharpe drew his sword and approached cautiously, as Laurent staggered to his feet, sabre in hand. Sharpe wondered what he would do if Laurent tried to surrender. But then he saw the anger and hatred in Laurent's eyes and knew that wasn't going to happen. Laurent wanted to kill him. Which was fine, because Sharpe wanted to kill Laurent.

They circled each other and then Laurent slashed with the sword. The slashes were wild but no less dangerous and Sharpe was forced to fling himself backwards to avoid them. On and on Laurent came and Sharpe was forced to bring his sword up to parry them. Then he slipped in the snow and ice and fell onto his back. Laurent lunged forward, sword thrusting downwards, and Sharpe only just managed to roll to one side. But now Laurent was off balance. Sharpe recovered and swung his sword, imbedding it deep in Laurent's side. The colonel gave a strangled gasp and coughed blood, then fell. Sharpe got to his feet and braced his foot against Laurent, pulling the sword out of him. Then he stabbed down into his chest, putting an end to Laurent's misery.

Sharpe looked up and saw French chasseurs everywhere with their weapons dropped and their hands raised. They had clearly decided that neither fight nor flight was an option for them. "'Ware cavalry behind!"came a shout and the horsemen that had been pursuing the remaining French stopped and turned back, ready to face this new enemy.

Then they recognised the British uniforms. The 10th hussars had arrived at last.

Paget galloped forward to berate his opposite number. "Slade, where the devil have you been..?" Other men grumbled at the retreating French survivors, claiming they would have caught them all if they hadn't been called back.

But Sharpe did not care about the French who had got away. He cared only about the one whose blood stained the snow around him. A private battle had been fought at Sahagun. And Sharpe had won.