hissing back their answers, but still they were undetected; the British sat at their fires and waited for a dawn that might never happen. Sharpe had to provoke that volley.
He laid the sword flat on the grass and pulled the Baker off his shoulder. He slid it forward, opened the pan and felt that the powder was still in place, then eased the flint back until he felt it click into place. The French were quiet again; their attacker had disappeared as quickly as he had come.
“Talion! Talion will fire by companies! Present!“
He shouted meaningless orders at the French. He could see the shape of the column just fifty yards away. The skirmishers had pulled back to join in the final march when this mass of men would crash into the unsuspecting British.
“Talion!” He drew the word out. “Fire!”
The Baker spat its bullet towards the French and he heard a sharp cry. They would have seen the muzzle flash but Sharpe rolled to his right and snatched up the sword.
„Tirez!“ He shouted the order at the column. A dozen nervous soldiers pulled their triggers and he heard the bullets whirring over the grass. At last! The British must have woken up and he turned round to see men standing by the fires, signs of movement, even panic.
„Tirez! Tirez! Tirez!“ He screamed at the column and more muskets banged in the night. Officers shouted at their men to stop firing, but the damage was done. The British had heard the firing, seen the musket flashes, and Sharpe could see men grabbing weapons, fixing bayonets, waiting for whatever crouched in the dark. It was time to be going. The French were moving again, and Sharpe sprinted towards the British lines. His running body was silhouetted against the fires arid he heard a crackle of musketry and felt the bullets go past him. He shouted as he ran.
“The French! Form line! The French!”
He saw Harper and the Riflemen running down the line, away from the centre where the French would strike home, and out to the dimly lit edge of the plateau. That was sensible. Rifles were not for close work, and the Sergeant was hiding his men in the shadows where they could snipe at the enemy. Sharpe’s breath echoed in his ears, he was panting, the run had become a struggle against tiredness and the weight of his pack. He watched the South Essex form small nervous groups that kept splitting up and reforming. No-one knew what was happening. To their right another Battalion was in equal disarray, and behind Sharpe could hear the steady sound of the French advancing at a trot.
“The French!” He had no more breath. Harper had disappeared. Sharpe hurdled a fire and ran full tilt into a Sergeant who held on to him and supported him as he gasped for breath.
“What’s happening, sir?”
“French column. Coming this way.”
The Sergeant was bewildered. “Why didn’t the first line stop them?”
Sharpe looked at him, astonished. “You are the first line!”
“No-one told us!”
Sharpe looked round him. Men ran to and fro looking for their Sergeants or officers, a mounted officer rode forward through the fires. Sharpe could not see who it was, and disappeared towards the column. Sharpe heard a shout, the scream of the horse as muskets fired, and the thump of the beast falling. The musket flashes showed where the French were, and Sharpe, with a pang of satisfaction, heard the crisp sound of the Bakers at the hill’s edge.
Then the column was visible, their white trousers showing in the firelight, angling across their front and aiming at the centre of the British line. Sharpe screamed the orders. “Present. Fire!” A few muskets banged, the white smoke swallowed immediately in the darkness, and Sharpe was alone. The men had fled at the sight of the massive column. Sharpe ran after them, beating at men with his sword. “You’re safe here! Stand still!” But it was no good. The South Essex, like the Battalion next to them, had broken and panicked and were streaming back towards the fires in their rear, where Sharpe could see men forming in companies, the ranks tipped with bayonets.
It was chaos. Sharpe cut across the fugitives, making for the edge of the hill and the darkness where his Riflemen lay hidden. He found Knowles, with a group of the company, and pushed them ahead to join Harper, but most of the Battalion was running back. The French fired their first volley, a massive rolling thunder of shots that cracked the night with smoke and flame, and cut a swathe in the troops ahead of them. The Battalion ran blindly back towards the safety of the next line of fires, Sharpe crashed into fugitives, shook them off, struggled towards the comparative peace of the edge of the hill. A voice shouted, “What’s happening?” Sharpe turned. Berry was there, his jacket undone, his sword drawn, his black hair falling over his fleshy face. Sharpe stopped, crouched, and growled. He remembered the girl, her terror, her pain, and he rose to his feet, walked the few paces, and grabbed Berry’s collar. Frightened eyes turned on him.
“What’s happening?”
He pulled the Lieutenant with him, over the crest, down into the darkness of the slope. He could hear Berry babbling, asking what was happening, but he pulled him down until they were both well below the crest and hidden from the fires. Sharpe heard the last fugitives pound past on the summit, the crackle of musketry, the shouts diminishing as the men ran back. He let go of Berry’s collar. He saw the white face turn to him in the darkness, there was a gasp.
“My God. Captain Sharpe? Is that you?”
“Weren’t you expecting me?” Sharpe’s voice was as cold as a blade in winter. “I was looking for you.”
CHAPTER 19
A spent musket ball whirred over Sharpe’s head; the sounds of the battle were fainter now that he was below the crest and the only light came from the eerie reflections of the deserted fires on the undersides of the battle-smoke that drifted from the plateau of the Medellin.
“Sharpe!” Berry was still babbling. He lay on his back and tried to wriggle his way uphill away from the tall, dark shape of the Rifleman. “Shouldn’t we go, Sharpe, the French? They’re on the hill!”
“I know. I’ve killed at least two of them.” Sharpe held his blade at Berry’s breast and stopped the wriggling. “I’m going back to kill a few more soon.”
The talk of killing silenced Berry. Sharpe could see the face staring up at him but it was too dark to read the expression. Sharpe had to imagine the wet lips, the fleshy face, the look of fear.
“What did you do to the girl, Berry?”
The Lieutenant remained silent. Sharpe could see the slim sword lying forgotten on the grass; there was no fight in the man, no will to resist, just a pathetic hope that Sharpe could be placated.
“What did you do, Berry?” Sharpe stepped closer and the blade flickered at Berry’s throat. Sharpe saw the face twist to and fro, heard the breath gulping in the Lieutenant’s throat.
“Nothing, Sharpe, I swear it. Nothing.”
Sharpe flicked his wrist so that the blade nicked Berry’s chin. It was razor sharp and he heard the gasp.
“Let me go. Please! Let me go.”
“What did you do?” Sharpe heard the distinctive sound of the rifles firing to his right. The rolling crackle of musketry was to the left, and he guessed that the French column had thrown its skirmishers out to the flanks to clear away the scattered groups that still offered resistance. He had not much time; he wanted to be with his men and to see what was happening on the hilltop, but first he wanted Berry to suffer as the girl had suffered, to fear as she had feared.
“Did Josefina plead with you?” The voice was like a night wind off the North Sea. “Did she ask you to let her go?”
Berry stayed silent. Sharpe twitched the blade again. “Did she?”
“Yes.” It was a mere whisper.
“Was she frightened?” He moved the point onto the flesh of Berry’s neck.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
