Then a musket shot sounded directly ahead. The Danes were among the trees still, but there was open ground a hundred paces in front of them. Sharpe saw a drift of musket smoke at the edge of that sunlit space, then more muskets sounded. Lavisser dug in his spurs and the unwieldy mass began to run.
Sharpe ran wide to the left. He could see the redcoats now, but only a handful. He guessed there was a British skirmish line at the edge of the wood, and that meant a full battalion was not far away. The Danes were shouting excitedly, then Sharpe saw a redcoat clearly and saw the man’s wing epaulettes. A light company then, so the other nine companies were close at hand, formed and ready to fire. The Danes, knowing nothing of what waited for them, only saw the British skirmishers retreating and mistook that for victory. Lavisser must have thought the same, for he was yelping as though he was on a hunting field and holding his saber ready to strike down a fugitive.
The redcoat light company fired and retreated. One man knelt, aimed and fired while his companion reloaded, then the man who had fired ran back a few paces to let his comrade cover him while reloading. A Dane was sprawling on the ground, twitching, another was leaning against a tree and staring at the blood pouring from a wound in his thigh. Others of the Danes fired their muskets as they ran, the balls going wild and high in the trees. A whistle sounded ahead, calling the skirmishers back to the British battalion’s other nine companies. Lavisser must have seen those companies, for he turned his horse so hard that its eyes went white and its hooves scrabbled in the leaf mold. He frantically shouted for his men to halt at the wood’s edge and level their muskets.
Then the British volley came.
The battalion had waited till the Danes were at the edge of the trees and then nine companies let fly. The balls splintered bark, ripped through leaves, thumped men down and hammered on musket stocks. Lavisser himself was miraculously untouched. “Fire!” he shouted in English, forgetting himself. “Fire!”
Most of the Danes ignored him. They still thought they were winning and so they ran farther into the open ground only to find there was a red line of men behind a ditch some fifty yards ahead. That line was reloading. Ramrods turned in the air and came scraping down. There were flickers of tiny flames in the grass where the British musket wadding had set fires. A red-jacketed officer, cocked hat low over his eyes, was riding straight-backed behind the line. Sharpe watched the muskets come up into the redcoats’ shoulders. The militia was at last realizing its predicament and those who still had loaded muskets aimed at the British. Others kept running, then saw they were isolated and so hesitated. Lavisser’s charge was already in chaos and the British had yet to loose their second volley.
“Platoon, fire!” Sharpe heard the British order clearly and he grabbed Jens by the shoulder and dragged him down to the ground.
“What!” Jens protested.
“Head down!” Sharpe snarled, then the first platoon fired and the next followed immediately. The noise was deafening as the dirty gray smoke rolled down the battalion’s front and the balls whacked into the disorganized militia. Sharpe pressed his face into the grass and listened to the volleys, one after the other, each spitting about fifty bullets at the bewildered Danes. It was the first time Sharpe had been on the receiving end of British musketry and he flinched under it. Jens fired his musket, but his eyes were closed as he fired and the ball went wild and high.
Jens knelt to reload, but just then another regiment of British appeared from some trees on the right and they let loose a battalion volley that sounded like the splintering of hell’s gates. One of the balls snatched the musket from Jens’s hands, shattering the stock, then the new battalion settled into the machine-like platoon fire and the Danes could only cower under the twin flails. Sharpe scrambled backward, staying low, getting out of the tangling fire of the two battalions. He looked for Barker, but the man had vanished, though Lavisser was visible enough. The renegade was galloping his horse up and down behind the ragged militia, shouting at them to close ranks and fire back at the British. He fired both his own pistols at the cloud of smoke shrouding the nearest redcoat battalion, then Sharpe saw Lavisser’s horse lurch and slew sideways as a bullet struck deep into its rump. The beast tried to stay on all fours, but more bullets flecked its glossy coat red and it sank onto its haunches as Lavisser kicked his feet free of the stirrups. Another bullet twitched the horse’s head sideways in a spray of blood. Lavisser managed to throw himself clear of the dying beast, then dropped to the grass as a flight of bullets hissed overhead. Sharpe still slithered back, found himself in a small dip and so ran for the trees. He would take cover, wait for the fight to end, then join the redcoats.