remind the grey-clad infantry that this was still not a battle won and Loup, striding eagerly ahead of his men, noted that the fighting was still very close to the plateau's lip, and then a great cheer from the ridge announced that the battle could yet be lost.
For the cheer marked the moment when a phalanx of red-coated infantry drove in the French attack and thrust it back across the crest. Now, beneath their bright flags, the British counterattack was storming down the slope towards the village. French voltigeurs were abandoning the high rocks and fleeing down the slope to find safety behind the village's stone walls. A sudden panic had gripped the leading French grenadiers who were giving ground to the vengeful redcoats, but Loup felt nothing but elation. God, it seemed, was working to a different plan than Marshal Andrй Massйna. The street clearance could wait, for suddenly Loup's opportunity had come.
Providence had placed his brigade on the left flank of the Irish counterattack. The redcoats were screaming down the hill, bayoneting and clubbing their enemies, oblivious of the two waiting battalions of fresh infantry. Behind the Irish came a disorganized mass of allied infantry, all sucked pell-mell into this new battle for mastery of Fuentes de Onoro's blood-glutted streets.
'Fix bayonets!' Loup called and drew his own straight-bladed dragoon sword. So Massйna had thought to keep his brigade from glory? Loup turned to see that his pagan banner of wolf tails hanging from an eagle's cross-bar was held high, and then, as the counterattacking British troops poured into the village streets, he ordered the advance.
Like a whirlpool that sucked every scrap of flotsam into its destructive vortex, the village had again become a place of close-quarter killing. 'Vive l'Empereur
Sharpe eased the green jacket off the dead rifleman. The man had been one of the sharpshooters on the rocky knoll, but he had been shot by a voltigeur at the high point of the French attack and now Sharpe pulled the bloody jacket off the stiff, awkward arms. 'Perkins! Here!' He threw the green jacket to the rifleman. 'Get your girl to shorten the sleeves.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Or do it yourself, Perkins,' Harper added.
'I'm no good with a needle, Sarge.'
'That's what Miranda says too,' Harper said, and the riflemen laughed.
Sharpe walked to the rocks above the village. He had brought his riflemen back unscathed from their errand to the Light Division, only to find that Major Tarrant had no new orders for him. The battle had become a vicious fight over mastery of the village, its graveyard and the church above, and men were not using ammunition so much as sword, bayonet and musket stock. Captain Donaju had wanted permission to join the men firing at the French from the crest's ridge, but Tarrant had been so worried by the proximity of the attackers that he had ordered the
'Pon my soul, Sharpe, but it's hot work.' Colonel Runciman had been hovering around the ammunition wagons, fidgeting and worrying, but now he came forward to catch a glimpse of the turmoil in the village beneath. He gave his horse's reins to one of the riflemen and peered nervously over the crest at the fighting beneath. It was hot work indeed. The village, left reeking and smoking from the earlier battles fought through its streets, was once again a maelstrom of musket smoke, screams and blood. The 74th and 88th had driven deep into the labyrinth of houses, but now their progress was slowing as the French defences thickened. The French howitzers on the other stream bank had begun lobbing shells into the graveyard and upper houses, adding to the smoke and noise. Runciman shuddered at the horrid sight, then stepped back two paces only to stumble on a dead voltigeur whose body marked the deepest point of penetration reached by the French. Runciman frowned at the body. 'Why do they call them vaulters?' he asked.
'Vaulters?' Sharpe asked, not understanding the question.
'Voltigeur, Sharpe,' Runciman explained. 'French for vaulter.'
Sharpe shook his head. 'God knows, sir.'
'Because they jump like fleas, sir, when you shoot at them,' Harper offered. 'But don't worry yourself about that one, sir.' Harper had seen the look of worry on Runciman's face. 'He's a good voltigeur, that one. He's dead.'
Wellington was not far away from Sharpe and Runciman. The General was sitting on his horse on the bloody dip of land where the road crossed the ridge between the church and the rocks, and behind him was nothing except the army's baggage and ammunition park. To the north and west his divisions guarded the plateau against the French threat, but here, in the centre, where the enemy had so nearly broken through, there was nothing left. There were no more reserves and he would not thin the ridge's other defenders and so open a back door to French victory. The battle would have to be won by his Highlanders and Irishmen, and so far they were rewarding his faith by retaking the village house by bloody house and cattle shed by burning cattle shed.
Then the grey infantry struck from the flank.
Sharpe saw the wolf-tail banner in the smoke. For a second he froze. He wanted to pretend he had not seen it. He wanted an excuse, any excuse, not to go down that awful slope to a village so reeking with death that the air alone was enough to make a man vomit. He had fought once already inside Fuentes de Onoro, and once was surely enough, but his hesitation was only for a heartbeat. He knew there was no excuse. His enemy had come to Fuentes de Onoro to claim victory and Sharpe must stop him. He turned. 'Sergeant Harper! My compliments to Captain Donaju and ask him to form column. Go on! Hurry!' Sharpe looked at his men, his handful of good men from the bloody, fighting 95th. 'Load up, lads. Time to go to work.'
'What are you doing, Sharpe?' Runciman asked.
'You want to beat our court of inquiry, General?' Sharpe asked.
Runciman gaped at Sharpe, not understanding why the question had been asked. 'Why, yes, of course,' he managed to say.
'Then go over to Wellington, General,' Sharpe said, 'and ask his Lordship's permission to lead the
Runciman blanched. 'You mean…?' he began, but could not articulate the horror. He glanced down at the village that had been turned into a slaughterhouse. 'You mean…?' he began again and then his mouth fell slackly open at the very thought of going down into that smoking hell.
'I'll ask if you don't,' Sharpe said. 'For Christ's sake, sir! Gallantry forgives everything! Gallantry means you're a hero. Gallantry gets you a wife. Now for Christ's sake! Do it!' he shouted at Runciman as though the Colonel was a raw recruit.
Runciman looked startled. 'You'll come with me, Sharpe?' He was as frightened of approaching Wellington as he was of going towards the enemy.
'Come on!' Sharpe snapped, and led a flustered Runciman towards the sombre knot of staff officers who surrounded Wellington. Hogan was there, watching anxiously as the tide of struggle in the village turned against the allies once again. The French were inching uphill, forcing the redcoats and the Portuguese and the German infantry back out of the village, only this time there were no ranks of muskets waiting at the crest of the ridge to blast the enemy as they climbed the road and overran the churned-up graveyard.
Runciman hung back as the two men reached the staff officers, but Sharpe pushed his way through the horses and dragged the reluctant Colonel with him. 'Ask him,' Sharpe said.
Wellington heard the words and frowned at the two men. Colonel Runciman hesitated, snatched off his hat, tried to speak and only managed an incoherent stutter.
'General Runciman wants permission, my Lord— Sharpe began coldly.
'— To take the Irish into battle.' Runciman managed to complete the sentence in a barely coherent rush. 'Please, my Lord!'
Some of the staff officers smiled at the thought of the Wagon Master General leading troops, but Wellington twisted in his saddle to see that the red-jacketed
