EIGHT

The guns boomed, the men grabbing and wheeling them back into place, dumping water over the entire design as they reloaded and aimed. Sharpe stood off to the side, the black smoke drifting across and impeding his view of the courtyard.

The cannon kept firing, the balls whistling out and smacking dead square into the seemingly endless ranks of French soldiers. They simply stepped over or around, and kept coming. Sharpe looked over at the Chosen Men, their fingers itching on the triggers eagerly.

"Dan?" he called, and Hagman looked up. "Too far?" he asked.

"Aye. Give 'em a moment, sir, they'll make it easier as time goes on," he said wisely, and looked back through his sights. Sharpe huffed to himself and looked back over the top. He shifted his weight to his right leg, feeling his left thigh throb with the waiting. The gun closest him boomed and he felt its thud vibrate all the way through him. He looked back over the top.

"Good shooting, lads!" he cried, as the ball again ripped through the centre of the closing force. He lifted his rifle, unaware of the gunners of the 42nd watching him, unaccustomed as they were to officers firing worn, battered but much-loved rifles. Sharpe looked down its smooth barrel to the ranks coming toward him, using the sights to search for a plumed officer's hat. He found one and smiled cruelly, squeezing his eye closed and concentrating on the moving, bouncing hat. He shifted it down slightly, noted the wind on his face and left hand supporting the barrel, and shifted slightly.

It might be too far, but it's a matter of principal. He let his finger smooth over the trigger, letting a few precious seconds, and therefore feet, pass by. He waited, and then knew he had him. He squeezed back on the trigger gently.

The rifle cracked, his finger shot pain through his hand. He opened his eye and through the clearing smoke saw the plume was gone. He hoped that meant he'd got his target. There was a cheer from the men and then suddenly the rifles began cracking away with wild enthusiasm. He didn't bother to reload his rifle; the damage to his finger had been done, and he doubted he'd be writing in the Day Book for at least a week. He watched the riflemen aim and get off perfect shots, unhurried except in their reloading. They managed two shots every minute, the seven men finding targets and taking down every one. The guns continued to boom, the smoke drifted and cleared, the men from the 42nd sloshed water, used pages for tapers, and ran around aiming and moving the cannon. The riflemen ignored everything except their targets, and Sharpe took a few steps back, watching everything flow with precision.

He walked to the side and looked over the ramparts to the courtyard. He spotted Hardwick, readying the lines, and nodded to himself. He hoped he'd make it through today; he found he quite liked James Hardwick, for all his flowery manner and sometimes misplaced exuberance. He shook his head, sitting his rifle against the stone wall and taking his telescope from his tunic. He raised it to see the French were just ten feet from the wall. He couldn't see a single officer, save the proud Colonel himself, astride a huge bay horse. He closed up the telescope and took a deep breath.

Here they come.

And come they did.

The blue uniforms swarmed over the broken stone, easily hopping over the minimal obstacle and racing into the courtyard. Something was wrong, and from Sharpe's viewpoint he could easily see what it was; the loss of the officers had prompted the infantry to simply dash in and hack at anything they could find with their bayonets.

He turned to the Chosen Men and gunners. "You, gunners, keep firing! Choose yer spaces, don't waste yer balls," he commanded. "Stop 'em from getting away again!"

"But sir, they're coming in," one gunner said bravely.

"They won't be fer long! Chosen Men! The courtyard, now!" he shouted. The Green Jackets shuffled away from the wall, getting to their feet and pausing to fix bayonets to the rifles. They looked to Sharpe, who found Harper's head easily. "Sergeant! Get 'em down there and into the Frogs!" he commanded.

"Yes sir!" he shouted with spirit. "Come on then lads, last one down there loses his tea ration!"

The men stampeded past Sharpe and round the parapet to the door. Sharpe grinned as they fought for the door, running down as fast as their legs could carry them. He turned to look at the gunners.

"Remember, get the bastards as they run fer the hills," he called.

"Yes sir!" they called. Sharpe drew his sword, turned, and ran for the door.

"I think I'd like to join the Rifles," one man said thoughtfully. Another soldier, his partner at the gun, picked out a good taper and twisted it carefully. He stopped and looked at him.

"Are you mad? You have to be a crack shot to get in there," he said. "Why would you want to join the Rifles, anyway?"

"They gets tea rations," he pointed out. "If I wants tea, I have to shag some senorita," he added.

"Oh yeah," the man replied. "Good point."

Sharpe hobbled down the steps to the courtyard, finding the ranks of the 42nd trying to cut down marauding Frenchmen in ripples of three smooth volleys. If the French had been in formation and organised, it would have been easy. But without officers to harry them into ranks, they simply swarmed around the lines of fire.

"42nd! Fix bayonets! Break ranks! Kill the bastards!" he bellowed from halfway down the steps. Colonel Adams looked up at him and opened his mouth, but any answer was lost in the cheer of the 42nd as they hastily fixed their bayonets. Sharpe reached the bottom of the steps and threw himself into the fray.

Blue coats rushed him, meeting his sword too easily. The redcoats swarmed out from the ranks like angry bees, rushing and hacking down blue coats. More French appeared over the wall, running into the melee. Colonel Adams was shouting orders, but no-one bothered to stop and listen. The men had been given their head, and all Hell had broken loose.

Bayonets slapped on musket stocks, swords and bayonet blades slammed into bone and man, and soldiers screamed war cries, scrambling to get closer to the enemy. Sharpe hacked at anything blue that moved, transferring his sword to his left hand. His right was becoming numb. He kicked and rammed his elbow into moving blue men, swinging the heavy sword and using its own weight to drive it into any man that came within reach.

He found himself closer to the wall than was practicable. He chopped and elbowed his way free, tripping on something sprawled in the mud. He fell and grabbed at the form, ready to run it through.

"Sharpe!" he heard. He looked down and saw Colonel Adams, blood running freely from his arm and neck. He looked up and parried a blow meant for his head. He stood and belted down with his sword, and it easily cleaved through the man's arm. He fell away, screaming. Sharpe dropped to one knee over Adams.

"Get up, man!" he shouted, grabbing his red officer's jacket roughly. He yanked on it, helping the officer to his feet. His right leg buckled and Sharpe grabbed his arm, pulling him up by sheer dint of willpower. He looked at Adams, seeing fresh blood from his knee. He shifted his arm to under his, supporting the shorter man easily. "Come on! Over there!" he shouted.

Adams simply grabbed onto his green tunic, trying to make his legs work as best he could. Sharpe half walked, half dragged him across the courtyard, battering at men and blades with his own. He pushed Adams to the wall, letting him cling on to the wooden stocks sticking out of it as he turned and hacked with all his strength at a screaming Frenchman. The man fell, his face lacerated, and Adams looked around.

"I've lost my sword, man!" he cried fearfully. Sharpe seemed to ignore him, standing in front of him, chopping and hacking down anyone and anything that got too close. He belted one soldier aside, then bent and snatched up the dead man's sword. He turned, handing it to him.

"Here. Stay with yer back to the wall, kill anything that moves, you'll be alright," he shouted above the noise.

"Much obliged, man, much obliged!" he called back, and Sharpe disappeared again into the noise of men and steel. He realised the blue coats were slowly disappearing, and made his way back to the stone steps. He climbed up them as fast as he could manage, stopping halfway to get some breath back and look out.

He grinned. The French were turning and finding their own ways out of the courtyard. The Colonel, on his horse, was fuming and standing in the stirrups, shouting at the men. What I wouldn't give fer me rifle right now, he realised, shaking his head.

He heard a crack and then Hagman's voice: "Got him." He watched the French officer tumble from his horse. He turned, finding Hagman lying on the stone step, almost invisible, picking off men easily. He laughed out loud.

"Hiding from the Frogs, Dan?" he asked. Hagman looked at him.

"O' course not, sir!" he said, grinning. "But all that swordin' and bayonetin' is a young man's game, not fert likes o' me, sir," he allowed. "I'm happy up here, where I can do more damage."

Sharpe laughed again. "Yer right," he allowed, climbing a few steps higher, letting himself down to sit on the steps wearily. He heard the guns start to boom again and grinned, lifting his sword, still in his left hand, to look at the tip idly. He sniffed and wiped his forehead with his right arm, looking down into the courtyard again.

The men were finding themselves without a foe, and they started cheering and holding their muskets in the air. Colonel Adams, supported by two redcoats, walked to the middle of the courtyard and shouted, praising and grinning. The men of the 42nd cheered and walked back into ranks slowly, and Sharpe watched Hardwick take note of who was missing. He took a deep breath, nodded to himself, and stood slowly. Hagman was sitting up, dusting off his rifle carefully, smiling at it. Sharpe looked at him.

"Tea, Dan?" he offered. Hagman grinned.

"Be rude not to, sir," he agreed warmly.