A Greenjacket went into the gap, was shot, then another man pulled him aside. Harper was wrenching at another part of the barricade, pulling out an earth-filled wicker basket that collapsed a whole section of the defences on to a wounded redcoat. Harper was screaming his own Gaelic challenge. Redcoats were mixed with the Greenjackets, the whole mass of men scrabbling and tearing at the mud bank and timber palisade. They trampled over the wounded and fought their way up to where French muskets hammered and bayonets stabbed down. One Frenchman stabbed too far, his arm was seized, and the man screamed as he was tugged down to the waiting blades. Sharpe was wedged in a gap of the palisade now, desperately trying to fend off a bayonet, when suddenly a whole section of the wall behind him collapsed inwards under the weight of attackers. There were shouts of victory, and the British were suddenly spilling on to the narrow firestep, then leaping down into the courtyard where General Calvet tried to line his men into a solid mass, but Nairn’s Highlanders had already pierced the southern wall, and the first of those Scots now carried their bayonets towards Calvet’s frightened men. The courtyard had been left like a slaughterhouse from the two previous attacks.
“Close on them! Close!” Sharpe shouted, then jumped down to the courtyard.
Now it was blood and stench and blades in a very small place. A French officer tried to duel with Sharpe, but the Rifleman had no time for such heroics and simply threw himself forward, past the man’s lunge, and punched the heavy sword’s guard into the man’s face. The Frenchman fell backwards and Sharpe kicked him in the ribs. Sharpe would have left the man there, but the French officer fumbled at his belt to draw a pistol and Sharpe forgot his superstition about killing, reversed his sword, and thrust the blade down once. A man came at Sharpe with a bayonet, but two Rifle sword-bayonets caught the Frenchman first. A Highland officer disembowelled a gunner with a sweep of the claymore, then hacked at the dead man’s head to make certain of his death.
Calvet was swearing at his men; tugging them into line, cursing them for chicken-livered bastards. A Scots officer came close enough to the General to threaten him with a claymore, but Calvet almost casually parried the blow then lunged his own sword into the Scotsman’s belly before turning back to shout at his men to stand fast and fight the God-damn bastards off.
Calvet’s men were mostly young conscripts who had fought like demons this day, but Nairn’s attack had drained their last courage. Despite their General, they edged back.
A few fought on. A French gunner swung a rammer like a great club. Sharpe ducked under the swing, then lunged. The Frenchman looked oddly surprised as the blade punctured his belly. A Highlander finished the job for Sharpe. A piper was on‘ the southern rampart, flaying the Scots on with his wild music.
Sharpe’s sword handle was slippery with blood. Calvet’s men were breaking and running. The first of them were already spilling over the northern wall. Sharpe looked for Calvet and saw him in the centre of a few moustached veterans and beneath the bright eagle standard. “Calvet!” Sharpe shouted the name as a challenge. “Calvet!”
The Frenchman saw Sharpe. Oddly, instead of bridling at the challenge, he raised his sword in a mock salute. Sharpe struggled to get close to the man, but a sudden rush of Highlanders came between him and the group of Frenchmen. The Colours of three British battalions were in the redoubt now, the mass of men was overwhelming, and Calvet’s last staunch defenders had to give way. They had fought well, but now they just wanted to be out of this courtyard of blood. They retreated calmly, firing their muskets to hold the Scots at bay, then broke to scramble across the northern parapet.
“Man the firestep!” Sharpe ran to the northern parapet.
“Spike those damned guns!” That was the Scots Colonel.
Frederickson’s men were on the northern parapet, firing at the retreating French. Sharpe joined them, unslung his rifle and looked for Calvet. He saw the General walking away, not bothering to run, but just slashing at weeds with his sword as though he took a walk in the country. Sharpe aimed his rifle dead at the small of Calvet’s back, but could not bear to pull the trigger. He twitched the barrel up and to one side before firing so that the bullet slapped past the French General’s right ear.
Calvet turned. He saw the Riflemen lining the parapet. None fired at him, for his calm demeanour spoke of a bravery they could admire. He was a beaten man, but a brave one. He stared at the Riflemen for a second, then bowed an ironic bow. As he straightened up he made an obscene gesture, then walked quietly on. He only began to run when British troops, flooding either side of the redoubt, threatened to cut him off. Ahead of Calvet the smoke blossomed as the Spaniards renewed their assault on the ridge’s northern end. That assault, and the fall of the large fort, broke what spirit was left in Marshal Soult’s army.
The French ran, They ran down the ridge’s eastern face and towards the bridges that crossed the canal and led to the city. Sharpe, standing on the captured firestep, could at last stare down at the spires and towers and pinnacles and roofs of Toulouse. He could see the semi-circle of smoke that marked the British positions to the city’s east and south. It was like looking at a woodcut of a siege, taken from some old book about Marlborough’s wars. He stared, oblivious of the sudden silence on the ridge, and all he could think of was that he was alive.
Sharpe turned away from the city and saw Sergeant Harper alive and well. The big Irishman was cutting a canteen off a Frenchman’s belt. A bugle called victory. A wounded Frenchman cursed his pain and tried to stand. A Highland Sergeant was admiring a French officer’s sword which he had taken as a trophy. Men were ladling water from gun-buckets and pouring it down their faces. A dog ran with a length of intestines in its mouth. A British Lieutenant was dying at the base of the empty French flagpole. The man was blinking desperately, as though he knew that if he let his eyelids stay closed he would slip into eternal night.
Frederickson came and stood beside Sharpe and the two Rifle officers turned to stare down into the enemy city. “Tomorrow,” Frederickson said, “I suppose we’ll have to assault the damned place?”
“It won’t be us, William.” Sharpe knew that bloody business would be given to other battalions. The men who had taken this ridge had earned their pay and the proof of it was in the horror all around. Dead men, wounded men, dying horses, broken gun carriages, smoke, litter; it was a field after battle, the last battle. Surely, Sharpe thought, it had to be the last battle.
Sharpe found a cannon’s cleaning rag and wiped his sword clean. He had wet the blade after all, but soon, he thought, he would hang this long sword on a country wall and let it gather dust. To his north British colours advanced along the ridge as fresh battalions hunted down the last nests of stubborn defenders. The smoke was thinning to a misty haze. There were Spanish colours visible at the ridge’s far crest; proof that this day’s battle was won, even if the city itself had yet to fall. Sharpe suddenly laughed. “I had a sudden urge to take Calvet’s eagle. Did you recognize him?”
“I did.” Frederickson offered his canteen to Sharpe. “Be glad you didn’t try to take his bird, You wouldn’t be alive if you had.”
A bagpipe suddenly sounded, and something plangent in its notes made Sharpe and Frederickson turn.
“Oh, God,” Frederickson said softly.
Four Highlanders carried a litter made of enemy jackets threaded on to enemy muskets. On the litter, his white hair hanging, was Nairn.
Sharpe jumped down to the blood-drenched earth of the courtyard. He crossed to the body just as the Highlanders lowered it to the ground. “He’s dead, sir.” One of the men saw Sharpe’s face and offered the bleak news.
“He said it was his leg.” Sharpe frowned at the old man who had been his friend.
“His lung as well, sir.”
“Oh, Christ!” Tears came to Sharpe’s eyes, then fell down his bloodied cheek. “I was to have had supper with him tonight.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
They buried Nairn in the centre of the redoubt that the Scotsman had captured. A bagpipe played a lament for him, and a chaplain said a Gaelic prayer for him, and his beloved Highlanders fired a volley towards the northern stars for him.
And in the morning, when Sharpe awoke with a parched mouth and a heart that lurched with sorrow when he recalled the Scotsman’s death, it was discovered that Marshal Soult had abandoned Toulouse. He had marched through the gap in the British ring, and he had left the city that now was flaunted with white flags to welcome its enemies. Toulouse had surrendered.
Captain William Frederickson, his false teeth and eyepatch restored to give his scarred face a semblance of
