“Santiago!” Vivar shouted in triumph, and the shout was carried across the small valley as the Cazadores rallied to the banner of the dead saint and raised their swords against the third French squadron.
The Riflemen were hunting among the remnants of the first two squadrons. Dragoons were turning their horses to flee, knowing they had been beaten by the savagery of the attack. A Cazador’s sword opened the throat of the French standard bearer, and the Spaniard seized the enemy guidon and raised it high in celebration of victory. Colonel de l’Eclin saw the capture of the small flag and knew that he was beaten; beaten by the great white gonfalon of Matamoros.
“Back!” The chasseur knew when a fight was hopeless, and knew when it was better to save a handful of men who could fight again.
“No!” Sharpe saw the Colonel order the retreat, and he ran towards the Frenchman. “No!” His ankle still hurt from his jump from the cathedral platform, the pain made his run ungainly and the soggy ground half tripped him, but he forced himself on. He outstripped his Riflemen and still shouted in frustrated anger. “You bastard! No!”
De l’Eclin heard the insult. He turned, saw Sharpe was isolated from the greenjacketed men and, as any cavalry officer would, he accepted the challenge. He rode at Sharpe, remembering when he had fought the Rifleman before that he had used the simple ruse of switching his sabre from right to left hand. That stratagem could not be repeated, instead the Colonel would rowel his horse at the last moment so that the black stallion surged into a killing speed that would put all its momentum behind his sabre stroke. Sharpe waited with his sword ready to swing at the horse’s mouth. Someone shouted at him to jump aside, but the Rifleman held his ground as the big black horse bore down on him. De l’Eclin was holding his sabre so that its point would spear into Sharpe’s ribs, but in the very last second, just as the spurred horse surged for the kill, the Frenchman changed his stroke. He did it with the quickness of a snake striking, raising and turning the blade so that it would slash down onto Sharpe’s bare head. De l’Eclin shouted in triumph as his sabre came down and as the Rifleman, whose sword had missed his horse, crumpled beneath that stroke.
But Sharpe had not cut at de l’Eclin’s horse. Instead, with a speed to match the chasseur’s own, he had raised the strong blade above his head and held it there like a quarterstaff to take the sabre’s impact. That impact drove Sharpe down, almost to his knees, but not before his right hand released the sword’s hilt and snatched for the chasseur’s sword arm. Sharpe’s sword thumped on his own shoulder, driven by the deflected sabre-blade, but his fingers had seized de l’Eclin’s wrist strap. He released the sword blade from his left hand and hooked his fingers about the Frenchman’s wrist.
It took de l’Eclin a second to realize what had happened. Sharpe was clinging on like a hound that had sunk its teeth into a boar’s neck. He was being dragged along the boggy ground. The horse twisted and tried to bite the Rifleman. The chasseur hammered at him with his free hand, but Sharpe hung on, tugged, and tried to find a purchase on the soggy ground. His naked right leg was smeared with mud and blood. The horse tried to shake him loose, just as Sharpe tried to drag the Frenchman out of the saddle. The sabre’s wrist strap was cutting like wire into his fingers.
De I’Eclin tried to unholster a pistol with his right hand. Harper and a group of greenjackets ran to help. “Leave him! Don’t touch him!” Sharpe shouted.
“Bugger him!” Harper slammed his rifle butt at the black horse’s mouth and it reared so that de I’Eclin lost his balance and, with Sharpe’s weight pulling him backwards, fell from the saddle.
Sword-bayonets rose to slash down at the Frenchman. “No!” Sharpe screamed desperately. “No! No!” He had fallen with de I’Eclin and, thumping onto the ground, had lost his grip on his wrist. The Frenchman twisted away from Sharpe, staggered to his feet, and slashed his sabre at the Riflemen who surrounded him. Sharpe’s sword was lost. De I’Eclin glanced to find his horse, then lunged to kill Sharpe.