The attackers backed away, leaving Sharpe panting. Wellesley at last stood, steadying himself with one hand on the gun wheel
“Sergeant Sharpe?” Wellesley asked in puzzlement.
“Stay there, sir,” Sharpe said, without turning round. He had four men in front of him now, four men with bared teeth and bright weapons.
Their eyes nicked from Sharpe to Wellesley and back to Sharpe. The Mahrattas did not know they had the British General trapped, but they knew the man beside the gun must be a senior officer for his red coat was bright with braid and lace, and they came to capture him, but to reach him they first needed to pass Sharpe. Two men came from the gun’s far side, and Wellesley parried a pike blade with his sword, then stepped away from the gun to stand beside Sharpe and immediately a rush of enemy came to seize him.
“Get back!” Sharpe shouted at Wellesley, then stepped into the enemy’s charge.
He grabbed a pike that was reaching for the General’s belly, tugged it towards him, and met the oncoming gunner with the sabre’s tip. Straight into the man’s throat, and he twisted the blade free and swung it right and felt the steel jar on a man’s skull, but there was no time to assess the damage, just to step left and stab at a third man. His shoulder was bleeding, but there was no pain. He was keening a mad noise as he fought and it seemed to Sharpe at that instant as though he could do nothing wrong. It was as if the enemy had been magically slowed to half speed and he had been quickened. He was much taller than any of them, he was much stronger, and he was suddenly much faster. He was even enjoying the fight, had he known anything of what he felt, but he sensed only the madness of battle, the sublime madness that blots out fear, dulls pain and drives a man close to ecstasy. He was screaming obscenities at the enemy, begging them to come and be killed.
He moved to his right and slashed the blade in a huge downward cut that opened a man’s face. The enemy had retreated, and Wellesley again came to Sharpe’s side and so invited the attackers to close in again, and Sharpe again pushed the General back into the space between the tall gun wheel and the huge painted barrel of the eighteen-pounder.
“Stay there,” he snapped, ‘and watch under the barrel!” He turned away to face the attackers.
“Come on, you bastards! Come on! I want you!”
Two men came, and Sharpe stepped towards them and used both his hands to bring the heavy sabre down in a savage cut that bit through the hat and skull of the nearest enemy. Sharpe screamed a curse at the dying man, for his sabre was trapped in his skull, but he wrenched it free and sliced it right, a grey jelly sliding off its edge, to chase the second man back. That man held up his hands as he retreated, as if to suggest that he did not want to fight after all, and Sharpe cursed him as he slashed the blade’s tip through his gullet. He spat on the staggering man and spat dry-mouthed again at the enemies who were watching him.
“Come on! Come on!” he taunted them.
“Yellow bastards! Come on!”
There were at last horsemen riding back to help now, but more Mahrattas were closing in on the fight. Two men tried to reach Wellesley across the cannon barrel and the General stabbed one in the face, then slashed at the arm of the other as he reached beneath the gun barrel. Behind him Sharpe was screaming insults at the enemy and one man took up the challenge and ran at Sharpe with a bayonet. Sharpe shouted in what sounded like delight as he parried the lunge and then punched the sabre’s hilt into the man’s face. Another man was coming from the right and so Sharpe kicked his first assailant’s legs out from under him, then slashed at the newcomer. Christ knows how many of the bastards there were, but Sharpe did not care. He had come here to fight and God had given him one screaming hell of a battle. The man parried Sharpe’s cut, lunged, and Sharpe stepped past the lunge and hammered the sabre’s bar hilt into the man’s eye. The man screamed and clutched at Sharpe, who tried to throw him off by punching the hilt into his face again. The other attackers were vanishing now, fleeing from the horsemen who spurred back towards Wellesley.