The French knew what was coming. Some called out, pleading for quarter, and some hunched down like men anticipating a storm of wind and rain, and then the great sword fell. ‘Fire!’
The splitting crash and hammer of the volley, the dirty-throated cough of the half-Battalion’s muskets, and the balls converged and struck home into the huddled mass and again, ‘Charge!’
The bugle sounded from the keep. ‘The enemy is cavalry’.
‘Back! Back! Back!’
They checked, skidded, turned, and ran as they had been told to run. A panicked rush for the eastern wall, a scramble away from the threat of French cavalry coming from the village, and at the wall they stopped, turned, and lined on the rubble that would destroy any charging horse. Then they cheered. They had done it. They had taken on a French Battalion, destroyed it, and the bodies littered the valley to prove it.
Sharpe walked back. He could see that the German Lancers were far away, unformed, and no threat. He looked towards the Convent and saw the huge figure of Harper standing on the roof. Blue-coated bodies on the road to the Convent showed where the single French Company had been pushed back. He waved to Harper and saw a raised hand in reply. Sharpe laughed.
Sharpe climbed the rubble of the wall, a rubble still marked by the explosion that had happened just yesterday. He looked at the Fusiliers. ‘Who said it couldn’t be done?’
Some laughed, some grinned. Behind them the artillerymen were gratefully sliding from saddles, leading their horses into the inner courtyard. They chattered noisily like men who had survived the valley of the shadow of death, and Sharpe saw Gilliland talking excitedly to the Fusilier Captain who had steered them safely to the Castle gate. Sharpe cupped his hands. ‘Captain Gilliland!’
‘Sir?’
‘Make your men ready!’
`Sir!’
Sharpe had propped the sword against his thigh and he retrieved it, sheathed it, and looked at the Fusiliers. ‘Are we going to lose?’
‘No!’ They roared the message defiantly across the valley.
‘Are we going to win?’
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Pierre, the aide-de-camp, appalled and alone on the watchtower hill, heard the triple shout and stared into the valley. The survivors of the Battalion were going back to the village, pressed on their way by the Rifles that still fired from Castle and Convent, leaving behind them the Gateway of God horrid with dead and wounded. He took out his watch, clicked the lid open, and jotted down the time. Three minutes past nine! Seven minutes of butchery planned by a professional, seven minutes in which a French Battalion had lost nearly two hundred dead and wounded. A second French Battalion was parading in front of the village, their ranks opening to let the survivors through, and the German Lancers were forming in squadrons at the foot of the hill. ‘Hey! Hey!’
It took a few seconds for the aide-de-camp to realize the hail was for him. The Colonel of the German Lancers tried again. ‘Hey!’
‘Sir?’
‘What’s up there?’Nothing, sir! Nothing!’
Some men of the defeated Battalion went back for their wounded, but the Rifles’ bullets drove them back. They protested, holding up their arms to show they carried no weapons, but the Rifles fired again. They went back. Dubreton crossed to the Lancers, heard the shout and shook his head. ‘It’s a trap.’ Of course it was a trap. Dubreton had watched Sharpe lead the half Battalion into the valley and he had hated Sharpe for his skill and admired him for the achievement, and no soldier who could gut an Emperor’s Battalion in such short time would leave this hill unguarded.
The German Colonel waved at the aide-de-camp. ‘He’s there, isn’t he?’
‘So are the British.’ Dubreton’s eyes searched the tangles of thick thorn. ‘Call him down.’
The German shook his head. ‘And lose the hill? Perhaps they don’t have enough men to defend it?’
‘If he had half his number he’d defend it.’
The German twisted in his saddle and spoke to a Lieutenant, then looked back to Dubreton and grinned. ‘A dozen men, yes? They’ll search it better than that artist.’
‘You’ll lose them.’
‘Then I’ll revenge them. Go!’