into a dirty-white cloud that hid everything, and the far sounds of cavalry trumpets took on a sinister threat. Sharpe relaxed. There were no decisions to make, the battle was being decided by thousands of men beyond the Dutch musket smoke, and the South Essex Light Company had done its duty. He turned to Harper and smiled.
“Can you see what I see?”
Harper grinned, his white teeth brilliant against his powder-blackened face. “It’s very tempting, sir. I was thinking of it myself.”
Two hundred yards away, in the centre of the Dutch line, was an Eagle. It flashed gold in the light, its outstretched wings shadowing the pole on which it was mounted. Harper stared at the backs of the Dutch infantry, who fired at an unseen target in the smoke beyond. “It would make a great story, so it would.”
Sharpe plucked a blade of grass and chewed it, then spat it out. “I can’t order you to come.”
The Sergeant smiled again, a big, happy smile on a craggy face. “I’ve nothing better to do. It will take more than the two of us.”
Sharpe nodded and grinned. “Perhaps Lieutenant Gibbons might lend a hand?”
Harper turned and stared at Gibbons, who now hovered fifty yards behind the company. “What does he want?”
“God knows. Forget him.” Sharpe walked in front of his men and looked at them. They squatted on the grass, their faces filthy, their eyes red and sunken from the powder smoke and the strain of battle. They had done more than well. They looked at him expectantly.
“You’ve done well. You were good and I’m proud of you.” They grinned, embarrassed at the praise, pleased by it. “I’m not asking a thing more of you. The Battalion’s on its way here, and in a minute Mr Denny will take you back and form you up on the left as usual.” They were puzzled, their grins gone. “Sergeant Harper and I are not coming. We think it’s bad that our Battalion only has one colour, so we’re going to fetch another one. That one.” He pointed at the Eagle and saw the men look past him. One or two grinned; most looked appalled. “We’re going now. Anyone who wants to come is a fool but they’ll be welcome. The rest of you, all of you if you like, will go back with Mr Denny, and the Sergeant and I will join you when we can.”
Denny protested. “I want to come, sir!”
Sharpe shook his head. “Whoever else comes, Mr Denny, you are not. I’d like you to have a seventeenth birthday.”
The men grinned, Denny blushed, and Sharpe turned away from them. He heard Harper unsheath his bayonet and then came the sound of other blades clicking into place. He began to walk towards the enemy, sword held low, and heard the steps behind him. Harper was beside him, and they walked on towards the unsuspecting Battalion.
“They’ve all come, sir. All.”
Sharpe looked at him. “All?” He turned. “Mr Denny? Go back to the Battalion! That is an order!”
“But, sir… „
“No, Mr Denny. Back!”
He watched as the boy turned and took a few steps. Gibbons was still sitting on his horse and watching them, and Sharpe wondered again what the Lieutenant was doing, but it was immaterial; the Eagle was all. He turned back and went on, praying that the enemy would not notice them, praying to whatever was beyond the blue sky skeined in smoke that they would be successful. He had set his heart on an Eagle.
The enemy still faced away from them, still fired into the smoke, and the noise of battle became louder. At last Sharpe could hear the regular platoon volleys and knew that the second French attack had met the new British line and the dreadful monotony of the British volleys once again wrestled with the hypnotic drumming. The six- pound roundshot of the British thundered overhead and cut vicious paths in the unseen French columns, but the drumming increased, the shouts of ‘Vive L’Empereur’ were unabated, and suddenly they were within a hundred yards of the Eagle and Sharpe twisted the sword in his hand and hurried the pace. Surely the enemy would see them!
A drummer boy, rattling his sticks at the rear of the enemy line, turned to be sick and saw the small group coming silently through the smoke. He shouted a warning, but no-one heard; he shouted again and Sharpe saw an officer turn. There was movement in the ranks, men were swivelling to face them, but they had ramrods half down their barrels and were still loading. Sharpe raised his sword. “On! On!”
He began to run, oblivious of everything except the Eagle and the frightened faces of the enemy who were desperately hurrying to load their muskets. Around the standard-bearer Sharpe could see Grenadiers wearing the tall bearskins, some of them armed with axes, the protectors of French honour. A musket banged and a ramrod cart-wheeled.over his head; Harper was beside him, the sword bayonet in his hand, and the two men screamed their challenge as the drummer boys fled to either side and the two huge Riflemen ploughed into the centre of the enemy line. Muskets exploded with a terrible crash, Sharpe had an impression of men in green uniforms being thrown backwards, and then he could see nothing except a tall Grenadier who was lunging in short and professional jabs with a bayonet. Sharpe twisted to one side, let the blade slide past him, grabbed the muzzle of the musket with his left hand and pulled the Grenadier onto his levelled sword blade. Someone cut at him from the left, a swinging down-stroke with a clubbed musket, and he turned so that it thudded viciously into his pack to throw him forward onto the body of the Grenadier whose hands were clutching the blade embedded in his stomach. A gun deafened him, one of his own rifles, and suddenly he was clear and dragging the blade from the heavy corpse and screaming murder at the men who guarded the Eagle. Harper had cut his way, like Sharpe, through the first rank, but his sword-bayonet was too short and the Irishman was being driven back by two men with bayonets, and Sharpe crushed them to one side with his sword, slicing a vast splinter from the nearest musket, and Harper leapt into the gap, cutting left and right, as Sharpe struggled alongside.
More muskets, more screams; the white-jackets were clawing at them, surrounding them, reloading to blast the tiny band with musket fire that would crush them unmercifully. The Eagle was retreating, away from them, but there was nowhere for the standard-bearer to go except towards the musket fire of an unseen British Battalion that was somewhere in the smoke that poured from the crash of column onto line. An axeman came at Sharpe; he was a huge man, as big as Harper, and he smiled as he hefted the huge blade and then swung it powerfully down in a blow that would have severed the head of an ox. Sharpe wrenched himself out of the way, felt the wind of the blade, and saw the axe thud into the blood-wet ground. He stabbed the sword down into the man’s neck, knew he had killed him, and watched as Harper plucked the axe from the earth and threw away his bayonet. The Irishman was screaming in the language of his ancestors, his wild blood surging, the axe searing in a circle so wildly that even Sharpe had to duck out of the way as Patrick Harper went on; lips wrenched back in the blackened face, his shako gone, his long hair matted with powder, the great silver blade singing in his hands and the old language carving a path through the enemy.
The standard-bearer jumped out of the ranks to carry the precious Eagle down the Battalion to safety, but there was a crack, the man fell, and Sharpe heard Hagman’s customary ‘got him’. Then there was a new sound, more volleys, and the Dutch Battalion shook like a wounded animal as the South Essex arrived on their flank and began to pour in their volleys. Sharpe was faced by a crazed officer who swung at him with a sword, missed, and screamed in panic as Sharpe lunged with the point. A man in white ran out of the ranks to pick up the fallen Eagle but Sharpe was through the line as well and he kicked the man in the ribs, bent, and plucked the staff from the ground. There was a formless scream from the enemy, men lunged at him with bayonets and he felt a blow on the thigh, but Harper was there with the axe and so was Denny with his ridiculously slim sword.
Denny! Sharpe pushed the boy down, swung the sword to protect him, but a bayonet was in the Ensign’s chest and even as Sharpe smashed the sword down on the man’s head he felt Denny shudder and collapse. Sharpe screamed, swung the gilded copper Eagle at the enemy, watched the gold scar the air and force them back, screamed again, and jumped the bodies with his bloodied sword reaching for more. The Dutchmen fell back, appalled; the Eagle was coming at them and they retreated in the face of the two huge Riflemen who snarled at them, swung at them, who bled from a dozen cuts yet still came on. They were unkillable! And now there were volleys coming from the right, from the front, and the Dutchmen, who had fought so well for their French masters, had had enough. They ran, as the other French Battalions were running, and in the smoke of the Portina valley the scratch Battalions like the 48th, and the men of the Legion and the Guards who had reformed and come forward to fight again, marched forward on ground made slippery with blood and thrust with their bayonets and forced the massive French columns backwards. The enemy went, away from the dripping steel, backwards, in a scene that was like the most lurid imaginings of hell. Sharpe had never seen so many bodies, so much blood spilt on a field;
