A mounted French officer was riding on that open flank and he pointed with his sword at Sharpe, doubtless showing his men a target, and the sight of the French officer’s confident expression angered Sharpe who, to show his utter disdain, turned away from the enemy to face his own men. “We’re going to advance! Then we’re going to give those poxy bastards some volley fire!” He looked along the apprehensive ranks; powder stained, bloodied and ashamed, but they were steady now and had their muskets loaded. This might be a shrunken and half defeated battalion, but to Sharpe it was a weapon that he could fight with a lethal precision. He blinked as a musket bullet slapped close past his face, then grinned as he drew his long sword. He wanted the men to see his pleasure, because this was the moment when a soldier had to take a perverse delight in killing. Remorse and pity could come later, for they were the luxuries of victory, but now these scum must kill and the enemy must fear the joy of their killing. Sharpe held the sword high, then dropped its point towards the enemy. ”
“Talion will advance! Sergeant Harper! If you please!”
“Talion!” the Irishman’s voice was huge and confident, the voice of a man unworriedly doing his job,”
“Talion! Forward! March!”
They marched. It was only seconds since they had been retreating and their ranks had been shaking loose into chaos, but now, given leadership, they went towards the conquering Guard. Sharpe stood his horse still to let the battalion divide either side of him, and only then did he walk forward, a horseman advancing in the centre of the marching battalion. He saw that a Brunswick infantry battalion was raking the far flank of the French column, but the fire was not sufficent to stop the Guard, only to deflect it towards the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers. There were still no troops facing the column’s head, while the rear ranks of the great formation were clumsily spreading outwards to form a musket line that was designed to drown the ridge’s shaken defenders with volley fire. Behind the Guard a swarm of cavalry and lesser infantry was pressing up the lower slope, ready to turn a British defeat into rout and slaughter.
“Grenadier Company! Halt! “Talion will wheel to the right! Right wheel!” Sharpe was taking a risk that his men would understand and obey the difficult order in the noise and heat and fear. It would have been simpler just to halt the battalion and to fire obliquely at the French column, but such a compromise would have stranded the left half of the battalion a long way from the enemy. Yet if the battalion wheeled in good order they would sweep round like a swinging gate to face the enemy’s unfolding flank. The Grenadier company, on the right of the line, stayed still as the remaining companies hinged on them. “At the double!” Sergeant Huckfield hurried the light company who had the furthest to go.
The wheeling line was ragged, but that did not matter. They were carrying their muskets to face the French, and Sharpe felt the exultation of handling a battalion in battle. He could see apprehension on the face of the mounted French officer who understood exactly what horror was about to be unleashed on his men.
“Halt!” Sharpe stopped the swinging battalion fifty paces from the column’s flank. The whole battle was now reduced to a few dirty paces of smoke-fogged air. “Present!” The battalion’s heavy muskets came up. Sharpe waited a heartbeat. He saw the Guards’ mouths open to chant their litany of praise for the Emperor, but before they could make a sound, Sharpe at last gave the order. “Fire!”
He heard the old sound, the blessed sound, the splintering crash of a battalion’s muskets spitting bullets, and he saw the deploying wing of the column jerk as the bullets struck home. A few Frenchmen fired back, but they were still marching and their muskets were unbalanced by the fixed bayonets and so their fire went wild.
The mounted officer was down, his horse thrashing on the ground as he crawled away. Harper was shouting at the battalion to reload. Simon Doggett, still on horseback, was firing a pistol over the battalion’s head. Ramrods rattled in musket barrels as the. men desperately thrust bullets down onto powder.