Sharpe’s men were forgotten. They were a small band in the bottom of a shallow valley on the edge of a great fight. Battalions had been broken on both sides, there were hundreds of dead, the brook was running with blood and now, in the smoke and noise, thousands of Frenchmen marched at the splintered British line. At any moment the attack would strike stunningly home and the British reserves would crumble or hold, and Sharpe stood, sword in hand, uncertain what to do. Harper tapped his arm and pointed to a horseman who was coming slowly towards them from the Medellin. “Lieutenant Gibbons, sir!”
Sharpe turned back to the fight. Presumably Gibbons was coming with orders from Simmerson, but Sharpe had no confidence in the Colonel and was not particularly interested in whatever message Gibbons was bringing. The South Essex was still some moments away from opening fire on the white-coated Battalion in front, and when they did Sharpe knew the Dutchmen would turn on their attackers and he had no trust in Simmerson’s ability to fight the Battalion. It was best to ignore the South Essex.
The Dutchmen were covered in smoke. As the fighting grew to a new intensity the powder smoke thickened into a dirty-white cloud that hid everything, and the far sounds of cavalry trumpets took on a sinister threat. Sharpe relaxed. There were no decisions to make, the battle was being decided by thousands of men beyond the Dutch musket smoke, and the South Essex Light Company had done its duty. He turned to Harper and smiled.
“Can you see what I see?”
Harper grinned, his white teeth brilliant against his powder-blackened face. “It’s very tempting, sir. I was thinking of it myself.”
Two hundred yards away, in the centre of the Dutch line, was an Eagle. It flashed gold in the light, its out-stretched wings shadowing the pole on which it was mounted. Harper stared at the backs of the Dutch infan-try, who fired at an unseen target in the smoke beyond. “It would make a great story, so it would.”
Sharpe plucked a blade of grass and chewed it, then spat it out. “I can’t order you to come.”
The Sergeant smiled again, a big, happy smile on a craggy face. “I’ve nothing better to do. It will take more than the two of us.”
Sharpe nodded and grinned. “Perhaps Lieutenant Gib-bons might lend a hand?”
Harper turned and stared at Gibbons, who now hovered fifty yards behind the company. “What does he want?”
“God knows. Forget him.” Sharpe walked in front of his men and looked at them. They squatted on the grass, their faces filthy, their eyes red and sunken from the powder smoke and the strain of battle. They had done more than well. They looked at him expectantly.
“You’ve done well. You were good and I’m proud of you.” They grinned, embarrassed at the praise, pleased by it. “I’m not asking a thing more of you. The Battalion’s on its way here, and in a minute Mr Denny will take you back and form you up on the left as usual.” They were puzzled, their grins gone. “Sergeant Harper and I are not coming. We think it’s bad that our Battalion only has one colour, so we’re going to fetch another one. That one.” He pointed at the Eagle and saw the men look past him. One or two grinned; most looked appalled. “We’re going now. Any-one who wants to come is a fool but they’ll be welcome. The rest of you, all of you if you like, will go back with Mr Denny, and the Sergeant and I will join you when we can.”
Denny protested. “I want to come, sir!”
Sharpe shook his head. “Whoever else comes, Mr Denny, you are not. I’d like you to have a seventeenth birthday.”
The men grinned, Denny blushed, and Sharpe turned away from them. He heard Harper unsheath his bayonet and then came the sound of other blades clicking into place. He began to walk towards the enemy, sword held low, and heard the steps behind him. Harper was beside him, and they walked on towards the unsuspecting Battal-ion.
“They’ve all come, sir. All.”