“Charge!” Kellerman bellowed, the trumpeters echoed his call, and the French torrent surged on.
“Oh, God. Dear God!” Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Ford gazed into the battlefield and saw nightmare. The rye was filled with horsemen and the evening light was glinting off hundreds of swords and breastplates and lance heads. Ford could hear the drumming sound of the earth being beaten by thousands of hooves, and all he could do was stare and wonder what in God’s name he was supposed to do about it. A small part of his brain knew he was supposed to make a decision, but he was paralysed.
“Cavalry!” d’Alembord shouted unnecessarily. His skirmishers were racing back to the battalion. D’Alembord, like any good skirmish officer, had abandoned his horse to fight with his men on foot, and now he was running like a flushed hare from the threat of hunters. He could scarcely believe the speed with which the enemy horsemen had erupted from the dead ground beyond the highway.
“We should form square?” Major Micklewhite, his horse next to Ford’s, suggested to the Colonel.
“Are they French?” Ford had nervously plucked offhis spectacles and was frenetically polishing their lens on his sash.
For a second Micklewhite could only gape at the Colonel. He wondered why on earth Ford should suppose that British cavalry might be charging the battalion. “Yes, sir. They’re French.” Major Micklewhite’s voice was edged with panic now. “Do we form square?”
Sharpe had ridden forward, taking position just behind d’Alem-bord’s men who were hastily ranking themselves on the left of the battalion’s line. At the right flank of the line, where the Grenadier Company was nearest to the French, an avalanche of cavalry was storming at the battalion’s open flank. More cavalryman were slanting in to the battalion’s front. To Sharpe’s left, beyond the 33rd, the 30th were already forming square, though the 33rd, like the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, seemed frozen in line.
“We should form square!” Major Vine, the battalion’s senior Major, shouted at Ford from the right of the line.
“Get out of here, Dally!” Sharpe called to d’Alembord, then raised his voice so all the men of the battalion could hear him. “Run! Back to the trees! Run!”
It was too late to form square. There was only one chance of living, and that was to gain the shelter of the wood.
The men, recognizing Sharpe’s voice, broke and fled. A few sergeants hesitated. Colonel Ford tried desperately to hook his spectacles into place. “Form square!” he called.
“Square!” Major Vine yelped at the closest companies. “Form square!”
“Run!” That was Harper, once Regimental Sergeant-Major of this battalion, and still the possessor of a pair of lungs that could jar a regiment from eight fields away. “Run, you buggers!”
The buggers ran.
“Move! Move! Move!” Sharpe galloped along the front of the line, slashing with the flat of his sword to hasten the redcoats back towards the tree line. “Run! Run!” He was racing straight towards the enemy’s charge. “Run!”
The men ran. The colour party, encumbered by the heavy squares of silk, were the slowest. One of the Ensigns lost a boot and began limping. Sharpe slammed his horse between the Sergeants whose long axe-bladed spontoons protected the flags and he grabbed a handful of silk with his left hand and speared his sword into the King’s colour on his right. “Run!” He spurred the horse, dragging the two flags behind him. The first refugees were already in the trees where Harper was shouting at them to take firing positions.
A sergeant screamed behind Sharpe as a Cuirassier stabbed a sword down, but the Sergeant’s long spontoon tripped the Frenchman’s horse that sprawled down into the path of a Lancer who was forced to rein in behind the thrashing beast. An Hussar galloped in from the left, aiming at the colours, but Major Mickle-white slashed from horseback and the Hussar had to parry. He drove Micklewhite’s light sword aside, then thrust with his sabre’s point to slice Micklewhite’s throat back to bone. The Ensign who had lost his boot was ridden over by a Cuirassier whose heavy horse smashed the boy’s spine with its hooves. A lance, thrown like a javelin, ripped the yellow silk of the regimental colour, then hung there to be dragged along the ground. Two more Lancers spurred forward, but their attack came close to the trees where Patrick Harper lurked with his seven-barrelled gun. His one shot emptied both saddles and th’e very noise of the huge weapon seemed to drive the other Frenchmen away in search of easier pickings.