A ghost who swore at them, who threatened them with his sword, who bellowed at officers, and promised to cut down the next man who went backwards.
They stared at him in shock. The big black horse carried a dead man among them, an unshaven ghost they thought dead and buried. A ghost whose anger was livid, whose voice flayed them into ranks and made them lie down so that the French bullets went high. `Captain d’Alembord!’
`Sir?
`Skirmish line forward. Edge of the smoke! Lie down. Keep the bastards busy! Move!’ Sharpe saw the shock on d’Alembord’s face. `I said move!’ He turned back to the other companies.
He would form them into a column. He would attack in the French manner. God alone knew why they had not attacked in column in the first place. He shouted the orders, ignoring the bullets that flickered out of the smoke.
Patrick Harper had tears in his eyes. If anyone had dared ask him why he would have said that the musket smoke was irritating him. He had known, he had always known, but he had not truly believed that Sharpe was alive.
`Sergeant Major!’
MacLaird gaped at Sharpe, then managed to speak. `Sir?’
`Where’s the Colonel?’
`Dead, sir.’
Christ! Sharpe stared at the staring RSM, then the flutter of a bullet snapped him to his duty. `Take six men from Two Company. Stay at the back. You shoot any man who falls out. Talion! Move! Colours to me!’
To his right Sharpe could see that the other two Battalions were checked at the village’s edge. They formed a ragged line about the houses, a line held by the French volleys. But a line would not pierce defences like this. It would take a column, and the column must go like a battering ram at the village, must take its losses at its head and then carry the bayonets into the streets.
He formed them into a column of four ranks. Some men were laughing like madmen. Others simply stared at a man come back from the grave. Collip, the Quartermaster, was shaking with fear.
The bullets still plucked about them, but Sharpe had formed the column a hundred yards from the village, far enough to take the sting from the French marksmen.
He rode down the column, telling them what to do, and he suddenly had to shout because the fools were cheering him, and he had to turn his face away and pretend to stare at the other two Battalions. He knew he should stop them cheering, but he could not. He thought how stupid it was to cheer a man who would lead them back to death, and how splendid it was, and he laughed because the Battalion was suddenly cheering in unison and he knew the cheer would carry them to victory.
The Grenadier Company was at the front. Sharpe picked ten men whose job was to fire a volley at point blank range when they reached the barricade. He would lead them, following a track of beaten earth that disappeared in the smoke but which, he knew, must lead to one of the barricaded alleys.
`Raise the Colours!’
There was a cheer as the flags were hoisted by two Sergeants. Sharpe stood in his stirrups. He would dismount for the attack, but for this moment, as the French bullets hummed about his ears, he wanted the South Essex to see him.
He raised the sword, there was silence, and he could see that they were straining to get the attack done. He smiled villainously. `You’re going to fight the bastards! What are you going to do?’
`Fight!’
`What are you going to do?’
`Fight!’
He beckoned at a man and ordered to him to hold Carbine till the fight was done, then Sharpe dismounted, turned, and stared at. the village. It was time to go, time to fight, and he thought suddenly of the golden-haired woman who waited beyond the enemy lines, and he knew there was only one way that he would ever reach her. He hefted his sword and gave the command. `Forward!’
CHAPTER 24
It was odd, Sharpe thought, but at that moment, as he led the Battalion forward, he wished La Marquesa could see him.