'Back! Back! Back!
They checked, skidded, turned, and ran as they had been told to run. A panicked rush for the eastern wall, a scramble away from the threat of French cavalry coming from the village, and at the wall they stopped, turned, and lined on the rubble that would destroy any charging horse. Then they cheered. They had done it. They had taken on a French Battalion, destroyed it, and the bodies littered the valley to prove it.
Sharpe walked back. He could see that the German Lancers were far away, unformed, and no threat. He looked towards the Convent and saw the huge figure of Harper standing on the roof. Blue-coated bodies on the road to the Convent showed where the single French Company had been pushed back. He waved to Harper and saw a raised hand in reply. Sharpe laughed.
Sharpe climbed the rubble of the wall, a rubble still marked by the explosion that had happened just yesterday. He looked at the Fusiliers. 'Who said it couldn't be done?
Some laughed, some grinned. Behind them the artillerymen were gratefully sliding from saddles, leading their horses into the inner courtyard. They chattered noisily like men who had survived the valley of the shadow of death, and Sharpe saw Gilliland talking excitedly to the Fusilier Captain who had steered them safely to the Castle gate. Sharpe cupped his hands. 'Captain Gilliland!
'Sir?
'Make your men ready!
‘Sir!
Sharpe had propped the sword against his thigh and he retrieved it, sheathed it, and looked at the Fusiliers. 'Are we going to lose?
'No! They roared the message defiantly across the valley.
'Are we going to win?
'Yes! Yes! Yes!
Pierre, the aide-de-camp, appalled and alone on the watchtower hill, heard the triple shout and stared into the valley. The survivors of the Battalion were going back to the village, pressed on their way by the Rifles that still fired from Castle and Convent, leaving behind them the Gateway of God horrid with dead and wounded. He took out his watch, clicked the lid open, and jotted down the time. Three minutes past nine! Seven minutes of butchery planned by a professional, seven minutes in which a French Battalion had lost nearly two hundred dead and wounded. A second French Battalion was parading in front of the village, their ranks opening to let the survivors through, and the German Lancers were forming in squadrons at the foot of the hill. 'Hey! Hey!
It took a few seconds for the aide-de-camp to realize the hail was for him. The Colonel of the German Lancers tried again. 'Hey!
'Sir?
'What's up there?’Nothing, sir! Nothing!
Some men of the defeated Battalion went back for their wounded, but the Rifles' bullets drove them back. They protested, holding up their arms to show they carried no weapons, but the Rifles fired again. They went back. Dubreton crossed to the Lancers, heard the shout and shook his head. 'It's a trap. Of course it was a trap. Dubreton had watched Sharpe lead the half Battalion into the valley and he had hated Sharpe for his skill and admired him for the achievement, and no soldier who could gut an Emperor's Battalion in such short time would leave this hill unguarded.
The German Colonel waved at the aide-de-camp. 'He's there, isn't he?
'So are the British. Dubreton's eyes searched the tangles of thick thorn. 'Call him down.
The German shook his head. 'And lose the hill? Perhaps they don't have enough men to defend it?
'If he had half his number he'd defend it.
The German twisted in his saddle and spoke to a Lieutenant, then looked back to Dubreton and grinned. 'A dozen men, yes? They'll search it better than that artist.
'You'll lose them.
'Then I'll revenge them. Go!
The Lieutenant shouted at his men, led them into one of the winding paths, and the lances were held high so that the red and white pennons were bright against the blackness of the thorns. Dubreton watched them climb, saw how slow progress was in the thick bushes, and he feared for them. A Company of Voltigeurs came running from the village, French skirmishers sent to reinforce the climbing horsemen, and Dubreton wondered whether Sharpe had decided, after all, only to defend the two great buildings at the crest of the pass. Perhaps the German Colonel was right. Perhaps Sharpe did not have the men to hold all this ground, and the watchtower hill was horribly far from the Castle. Further, indeed, than the village was from the Castle gate.
The Voltigeurs, red epaulettes bright on blue uniforms, disappeared into the thorns, bayonets fixed on their muskets. Sixty men took a half dozen paths and Dubreton saw them climb. The Lieutenant was almost at the top. 'We should have put a Battalion in there.
The German Colonel spat, not at Dubreton's words, but at the Riflemen who stopped the French fetching their wounded. 'Bastards.
'They'll make us carry a white flag. He's buying time. Dubreton shook his head. Sharpe was a hard enemy.
The Lancer Lieutenant broke clear of the last thorns and grinned at the aide-de-camp. 'You've taken the hill, sir! His French was broken.
Pierre shrugged. 'They've gone!
'Let's make certain, sir.
The Lancers spread out, blades dropped, but this was no place for a heart-stopping cavalry charge, hooves thundering on turf and blades searing at an enemy. This was a cramped, pocked hilltop surrounded by dark thorn and the horses walked slowly forward so the cavalry could peer into the deep wet spines.
Frederickson watched them. A pity, this. He had hoped for a Company, at least, not such few men, but a man must take what fate gives him. 'Fire!
Only the Rifles fired, Rifles that outnumbered the Lancers nearly seven to one, and the big horses fell, screaming, and the lance blades toppled, and Frederickson tore himself clear of the thorns. 'Forward!
One Lancer was alive, miraculously alive, and he stood with his lance extended and shook his head as Frederickson shouted at him in German. Then more German voices called to him, Riflemen, and the Lancer still obstinately refused to surrender but challenged them with his long weapon. He lunged at Frederickson, but the sabre easily turned the lance aside, and Sergeant Rossner hooked the Lancer's feet from underneath him, sat on the man's chest, and bellowed at him in angry German.
'Come on! Frederickson rushed the hilltop, waving his men left and right, listening to the curses and shouts and they pulled themselves from the thorns. 'Skirmishers in front! A musket bullet flattened itself on the tower. 'Kill those bastards!
Frederickson was not worried by a Company of French Skirmishers. He spent his life fighting Voltigeurs, as his men did, and he left his Lieutenants to push them back while he walked to the gun facing north and pulled the nail out of the touch-hole. A sketch-book had fallen under the trail of the gun and he stooped, wiped the mud from the open page, and saw the drawing of the tower doorway.
'Captain? A grinning Fusilier came round the tower, bayonet in the back of the aide-de-camp. The Frenchman looked terrified. He had run at the first bullets, dived into the gunpit, and then the hilltop was swarming with British troops. Now he faced the most villainous man he had ever seen, a man with one eye, the other socket raw and shadowed, a man whose top front teeth were missing, and a man who smiled wolfishly at him.
'Yours? Frederickson asked, holding the sketch pad out.
The vile looking Rifleman looked at the sketch, looked back to the Frenchman, and this time Frederickson spoke in French. 'Have you been to Leca do Balio?
'No, monsieur.
'A very similar doorway. You'd like it. And some fine lancet windows in the clerestory. And below it, too. A Templar's church, which might explain the foreign influence. But Frederickson could have saved his breath. The aide-de-camp had fainted clean away, and the Fusilier grinned at Frederickson. 'Shall I kill him, sir?
'Good God, no! Frederickson sounded pained. 'I want to talk to him!
Rifles cracked from the top of the tower, Rifles that drove confusion in the ranks of the Lancers. The
