‘Back! Back!’ Someone shouted it, all accepted it, and the two columns went back from the smoke, the musket noise, and then Price screamed at Sharpe. ‘Sir!’
Men were filing down between the thorn bushes to attack the stricken Battalion on its flank.
‘Form on the column!’ Sharpe bellowed. Cross’s bugler blew the three notes that meant ‘form’ and Sharpe pushed men towards the red-coated ranks.
A Fusilier Captain, wild-eyed and confused, was shouting at his men to go back. Sharpe yelled at him to stand fast. Six companies at least were unaffected by the mine, and there was still a chance of hurling them into the courtyard, but the Fusiliers obeyed the voices of their own officers. ‘Back!’
The men from the thorn, bushes were making a rough skirmish line to attack the retreating Battalion and there was some satisfaction, not much, in seeing the Riflemen hurl them back with well-aimed shots, and then Sharpe heard the clash of steel from beyond the smoke, the sound of more shots, and he knew that there were Fusiliers trapped in the courtyard of the Castle. Those men must not die, or worse, become new hostages to Hakeswill’s cruel vices. Sharpe threw his unfired Rifle at Hagman, drew his sword, and turned to where the dark smoke still clung to the blood-streaked stones. He would get those men out, and then they would take this Castle in the proper way, the professional way, and he turned as he heard footsteps beside him on the grass. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Coming with you.’ Harper’s voice brooked no argument. It was Christmas Day, and they were going to war.
CHAPTER 12
Going through the acrid curtain of smoke, between the licking flames that consumed the scraps of powder barrel, was like passing into a different world. Gone was the clean air and cold grass of the valley, instead it was a world of broken stone, slick with blood, littered by scraps of unrecognizable burned flesh; a courtyard where the survivors of the mine were being hunted across a cobbled yard.
Sharpe saw Harper go down and he checked in fear for the Sergeant, then saw the huge Irishman tugging the shaft of a halberd clear from a body. The blade swung up into the smoke, a great axe of silver light, and Harper screamed his war shout in his native Gaelic. Sharpe had seen this moment before, the instant when the normally placid Sergeant seethed with the anger of Irish heroes, careless of his safety, caring only to fight in a manner that might be enshrined in the plaintive Irish songs that kept alive the heroism of a nation.
Within the courtyard was a new, low wall, easily jumped, that was Pot-au-Feu’s defence line inside the Castle. Men were running to the wall, laughter on their faces, muskets ready to fire at the Fusiliers who were dazed in the smoke. Some of Pot-au-Feu’s men had leaped the wall and hunted survivors with bayonets. A few of the Fusiliers had bunched together, a Sergeant commanding them, and they held their bayonets out and died as the musket balls flamed across the puny wall.
Then Harper came out of the smoke.
To the defenders in the courtyard it must have seemed as if a creature from myth had come out of the explosion’s darkness, a huge man, drunk with battle, an axe head swinging from his hands, and he ran at the wall, jumped, and the steel blade clove the smoke and bit wet into the defenders.
‘Fusiliers! Fusiliers!’ Sharpe shouted. He slipped, his right heel greased by a smear of blood, and the fall saved him from a Frenchman’s bayonet that came from his left. Sharpe rolled on the ground, swung the huge sword and saw a sliver of wood slice from the musket above him. He lashed out with his left foot, caught the man on his kneecap, and then the man was staggering and Sharpe was on his feet, and the sword finished the Frenchman off. ‘Fusiliers! To me!’
He tugged at the sword blade, kicked the body, and the weapon came reluctantly free. ‘Fusiliers!’
God, this was a bad place! It was only the presence of some of the enemy around the survivors that stopped Pot-au-Feu’s muskets sweeping the courtyard clean. Four men lay at Harper’s feet, others had gone back from the fury in the huge man, from the great blade that swung from his powerful arms, and Sharpe saw a man take careful aim with his musket. ‘Patrick!’