“Lieutenant!”
Sharpe turned to see Louisa ride up to the rear of his men. “Go!” He pointed eastwards to where there might be safety. Her horse would give her a speed that was denied to the refugees on foot. “Ride!”
“Where’s Don Bias?”
“I don’t know! Now go!”
“I’m staying!”
“Sir!” Harper shouted the warning.
Sharpe turned back. Colonel de l’Eclin’s sabre was raised to start the French advance. There was sodden ground to the right of the Dragoons, and a steep slope to their left, so the charge would be constricted into a channel of firm ground that was about a hundred paces across. A few muskets flickered flame beyond the stream, but the range was too long and the flank Dragoons ignored it.
Colonel de l’Eclin’s sabre dropped, and the trumpeter sounded the advance. The leading squadron walked forward. When they had gone fifty yards, Sharpe knew, the second French line would start their slow advance. The third line would stay another fifty yards behind. This was the classic cavalry attack, leaving enough space between the lines so that a fallen horse in the front rank did not trip and bring down the horses behind. It was slow at first, but very menacing.
“Front rank, kneel!” Sharpe said calmly.
The Dragoons walked their horses, for they wanted to keep their dressing tight. They would accelerate soon, but Sharpe knew they would not spur into a gallop until just seconds before the charge crashed home. Musket shots and screams sounded from the city, evidence that Spaniard still fought Frenchmen in the darkening streets, but that battle was no longer Sharpe’s concern.
Colonel de l’Eclin raised the sabre in his left hand and the first squadron went into the trot. The trumpet confirmed the order. Sharpe could hear the cavalry now. He could hear the jingle of curb chains, the slap of saddle flaps, and the thump of hooves. A guidon reared above the front rank.
“Steady, lads, steady.” There was nothing else Sharpe could say. He commanded a ragged line of men who would resist for an instant, then be ridden over by the big horses. “Are you still there, Miss Louisa?”
“Yes!” Louisa’s nervous voice came from behind the ranks of Riflemen.
“Then, if you’ll forgive me, bugger ofF!”
His men laughed. Sharpe could see the Dragoon’s pigtails bouncing beneath the darkening helmets. “Are you still there, Miss Louisa?”
“Yes!” This time there was defiance in her voice.
“It isn’t gentle, Miss Louisa! They’ll hack about like bloody butchers! They may not even notice you’re a girl till they’ve sliced half your face away. Now bugger off! You’re too pretty to be killed by these bastards!”
“I’m staying!”
Colonel de l’Eclin raised his sabre again. Sharpe could hear the creak of saddles now. “Hagman? That cheating bastard is yours.”
“Sir!”
Sharpe forgot Louisa. He crammed himself between two of his front-rank men and held his sword high. “Wait for my word! I’m not going to fire till the bastards are breathing down our necks! But when they come we’re going to make these sons of whores wish they hadn’t been bloody born!” The approaching horses tossed their heads nervously. They knew what was coming, and Sharpe allowed himself a moment’s pity for the butchery that he must inflict. “Aim at the horses!” he reminded his men. “Forget the riders, kill the horses!”
“For what we are about to receive,” Harper said.
Riflemen licked powder-gritted lips. They nervously checked that the rifle pans were primed and the flints well seated in the leather-lined dogheads. Their mouths were dry and their stomachs tender. The vibration of the trotting horses was palpable in the soil, like the passing of great guns on a nearby road. Or, Sharpe thought, like the tremor of thunder on a sultry day that presaged the stab of lightning.
Colondel de l’Eclin lowered his curved blade in the signal for his men to go into the canter. In a few seconds, Sharpe knew, the trumpet would call for the gallop and the big horses would surge forward. He took a breath, knowing he must judge the moment for this one volley to exquisite perfection.
Then the lightning struck.