Sharpe loaded his own rifle. When he bit the bullet from the cartridge the saltpetre tasted bitter and foul. After a couple more shots he knew that the thirst would be raging in him because of the powder’s salty taste. He spat the bullet into the rifle’s muzzle and rammed it down on the wadding. He pushed the ramrod home and primed the pan.
“Sir! Sir!” It was Dodd, one of the men covering the street which led west. He fired. “Sir!”
“Steady! Steady!” Sharpe ran to the corner and saw a single French officer on horseback. Dodd’s bullet had missed the man who was seventy paces away. “Steady now!” Sharpe called. “Hold your fire!”
The French officer, a cuirassier, pushed back the edges of his cloak in a gesture that was as disdainful as it was brave. His steel breastplate shone pale in the misty light. The man drew his long sword. Sharpe cocked his rifle. “Harvey! Jenkins!”
“Sir?” Both Riflemen answered at once.
“Take that bastard when he comes.”
Sharpe twisted, wondering where the hell Vivar’s Cazadores were. The sound of hooves turned him back, and he saw that the officer had begun to trot down the street. Other cuirassiers joined him from the side alleys. Sharpe counted ten horsemen, then ten more. It was all the enemy could muster. The other cavalrymen in the city must still be saddling their horses or waiting for orders.
The Frenchman, who was as brave a man as any Sharpe had seen, barked a command. ‘Casques en tete!“ The plumed helmets were pulled on. The street was only wide enough for three horsemen to ride abreast. The cuirassiers’ swords were drawn. ”Stupid bastard,“ Harper said in savage condemnation of the French officer who, in his bid for fame, led men to destruction.
“Take aim!” Sharpe almost hated the moment. There were half a dozen rifles for each of the leading Frenchmen who, when they died, would block the street for those behind. “Steady, lads! We’re going to take all these bastards! Aim low!”
The rifles were levelled. Swan-necked cocks were pulled back. Hagman knelt on his right knee, then rocked back to squat on his ankle so that his left hand, supported by his left knee, could better take the weight of the rifle and bayonet. Some of the Riflemen were similarly posed, while others propped their guns against door lintels. Remnants of the scattered watch-fire smoked in the street, hazing their view of the horsemen who now spurred into a canter.
The French officer raised his sword. ‘Vive rEmpereurT He lowered the sword to the lunge.
“Fire!”
The rifles spat. Sharpe heard the strike of bullets on the breastplates. It sounded like pebbles thrown hard against a sheet of tin. A horse screamed, reared, and its rider fell in the path of a tumbling horse. Sword clanged on cobbles. The officer was on the ground, jerking in spasms, and retching blood. A riderless horse clattered into an alleyway. A cuirassier turned and fled. Another, unseated, limped towards an open door. The cavalrymen at the rear did not try to force their way through, but slewed round and fled.
“Reload!”
Smoke spurted from windows down the street. A bullet smacked with horrid force into the stone beside Sharpe, while another snicked up from the cobbles to thump into a Rifleman’s leg. The man hissed with the pain, fell, and clutched at the blood which spread thick on his black trousers. It was hard to spot the Frenchmen behind the windows with their black grilles, and harder still to pick such men off. More of them appeared as shadows at the street’s far end, and from those shadows musket flames stabbed towards the Riflemen. It was light enough now for Sharpe to see a French tricolour flying from the cathedral’s high dome, and he saw that it was going to be a clear and cold day, a day for killing, and unless Vivar threw in his main force soon, it would be the Riflemen who did the dying. Then the trumpet sounded behind.
The Cazadores did not just fight for pride, nor just for their country, though either cause would have driven them through the gates of hell itself, they fought for the patron saint of Spain. This was Santiago de Compostela, where the angels had sent a cloud of stars to light a forgotten tomb, and the Spanish cavalry charged for God and Santiago, for Spain and Santiago, for Bias Vivar and Santiago.