“Sweet God, I’ve had enough of this!” Clayton looked round to see what officers still lived. “Bloody hell! Major Vine’s a dead `un! Good riddance to the bastard.”
“Look to your front, Private Clayton!” Sergeant Huckfield touched the New Testament in his top pocket, and prayed that the damned French skirmishers would soon run out of ammunition.
Colonel Joseph Ford almost vomited as he tried to wipe away the globules of Major Vine’s brains that smeared his breeches. Ford was feeling horribly alone; one major was dead, the other was wounded and gone to the surgeons, and ail around him his precious battalion was being chewed to pieces by the guns and the skirmishers. He took off his spectacles and rubbed frantically at the lens, only to discover that his sash was thickly smeared with scraps of Major Vine’s brains. Ford gasped for horrified breath and knew he was going to vomit helplessly. -“:
“It’s nothing to do with me!” a harsh voice suddenly spoke from beside Ford’s horse, “but I’d suggest a fifty-pace advance, give the bastards one good volley, then retire.”
Ford, his impulse to vomit checked by the voice, frantically pulled on the smudged eyeglasses and found himself staring into the sardonic face of Lieutenant-Colonel Sharpe. Ford tried to say something in reply, but no sound came.
“With your permission, sir?” Sharpe asked punctiliously.
Ford, too frightened to open his mouth, just nodded.
“South Essex!” Sharpe’s thunderous voice startled the nearest men. It did not matter that he had inadvertently used the battalion’s old name, they knew who they were and who, at last, was giving them direction in the middle of horror. “Front rank! Fix bayonets!”
“Thank Christ for bloody Sharpie,” Clayton said fervently, then half crouched to hold his musket between his knees as he pulled out his bayonet and slotted it onto his musket.
Sharpe thrust between the files of Number Five Company, placing himself in the very centre of the battalion’s front rank. “Talion will advance fifty paces! At the double! By the right! March!” As the men started forward, Sharpe drew his long sword. “Come on, you buggers! Cheer! Let the bastards know you’re coming to kill them! Cheer!”
The battalion ran forward, bayonets outstretched. And they cheered. They knew Sharpe, they had followed him into battle before, and they liked to hear that voice shouting commands. They trusted him. He gave them confidence and victory. They cheered even louder as the mass of startled skirmishers on the ridge’s crest upped and fled from their sudden advance. Sharpe had run ahead of them to stand with his drawn sword on the very lip of the crest.
“Halt!” Sharpe’s voice, trained as a sergeant, instantly silenced and stopped the shrunken battalion. Ahead of them the French Voltiguers were dropping into new firing positions.
Sharpe turned to face the battalion. “Front rank kneel! Aim at the buggers! Don’t throw away this volley! Find your man and kill the bastard! Aim for their bellies!” He pushed his way between two men of the kneeling front rank then turned to look at the French. He saw a Voltigeur’s musket pointing directly at him and he knew that the Frenchman was taking careful aim. He also knew he could not duck or dodge, but just had to trust in the French musket’s inaccuracy. “Aim!” he shouted. The Frenchman fired and Sharpe felt the wind of the ball on his check like a sudden hot blow. “Fire!”
The massive volley crashed down the slope. Perhaps twenty Frenchmen died, and twice as many were wounded. “Light company! Stay where you are and reload! Front rank, stand! No one told you to run!” Sharpe remained on the crest. Behind him a man was lying dead, struck in the head by the bullet intended for Sharpe. “Light company! Chain formation, quick now!”
The battalion’s skirmishers spread along the crest. Their new Captain, Jefferson, jiggled impatiently, wanting to be away from this exposed ridge where the roundshot slashed and thudded, but Sharpe was determined that the Company’s volley would have an effect. The men finished reloading their muskets, then knelt. The surviving French skirmishers were creeping forward again, filling the gaps torn by the battalion volley. “Wait for the order!” Sharpe called to his old Company. “Find your targets! Clayton!”