The fire in front of the gate crackled and roared and its noise covered the scuffling and grunts in the alley. The Redcoats of the South Essex were struggling from their greatcoats, rolling them up and strapping the bundles to their packs. He grinned at them. The Riflemen, without white crossbelts to startle the enemy, crouched near him, some fidgeting with excitement, all wanting to start the action, to dispel the nervous thoughts of anticipation.
Knowles pushed through the men. ‘Ready, sir.’
Sharpe turned to the Riflemen. ‘Remember. Go for officers.’
The Baker rifle was a deadly weapon, slow to load but more accurate than any gun on the battlefield. The muskets, under Lieutenant Knowles, could spread death in a wide arc, but the rifles were instruments of precision. Once in the building, the Green Jackets should seek for enemy officers, kill them, and leave the cavalry leaderless. Sharpe turned again towards the house. He could hear the mutter of voices, the trampling of hooves in the yard, a man coughing, and then he touched Harper’s shoulder and the Riflemen slithered into the street, crawling on their bellies, hiding in the shadows till they had formed a line behind the rubble. The Rifles would go first, to draw the enemy fire, to start the chaos, and the rest was up to Knowles, to lead the Company into the cavalry’s nightmare. Sharpe waited. He inched his sword out of its scabbard, laid it in front of him, and waited as his men put the long bayonets on their rifles. It had been so long since he had faced the enemy.
‘Come on!’ He had ordered them to scream, to shout, to sound like the fiends of hell, and they scrambled over the rubble, the long rifles silent, and the guards at the gate whirled, jerked up carbines and fired too soon. Sharpe heard a bullet strike stone, saw Harper run forward to the fire and grab, with both hands, the unburned end of a baulk of timber. The Sergeant whirled it around, and hurled the flaming wood at the waiting horsemen. It struck the ground, exploded in sparks, and the horses reared up, and Sharpe’s sword was reaching for the first guard who was trying to drop an empty carbine and snatch up his sabre. The sword took the Hussar in the throat; the man grabbed at the blade, seemed to shake his head, and slumped. Sharpe turned to the Riflemen. ‘Come on!’
The gate was empty, the cavalry frightened by Harper’s missile, and the Riflemen knelt at its edges and aimed at the fire-lit space. Voices shouted in strange languages, bullets chipped at the cobbled entrance, and Sharpe, desperately searching the courtyard for signs of its organized defence, heard the first distinctive cracks of the Baker rifles. Where the hell was Knowles? He turned round and saw the Redcoats running round the fire, being formed, their muskets deliberately untipped by bayonets, so as not to slow the loading of fresh rounds, and then Harper’s voice bellowed at him.
He heard a couple of rifle shots, turned, and saw a lancer riding for him. The horse was tossing its head, eyes reflecting firelight, the rider crouched on its neck, the steel blade reaching for Sharpe. And Sharpe slammed himself to one side, hitting the gatepost, saw the spear go past, and the horse smelt in his nostrils. Another rifle spat, and the beast screamed. The Pole’s arms went up and man and horse fell sideways, and Sharpe was running forward, into the courtyard.
Everything was too slow! Horses were tethered and he hacked at the ropes. ‘Hup! Hup! Hup!’ A man swung a sabre at him, missed, and Sharpe rammed his sword into the Hussar’s chest. It stuck. Riflemen ran past, screaming incoherently, long bayonets driving scattered Frenchmen into dark doorways, and Sharpe put his foot on the body and twisted his sword free. He saw Harper stamping forward, bayonet outstretched, driving back an officer who screamed for help against the giant Irishman. The man tripped, fell backwards, the screams becoming panic as he fell into a fire and Harper turned, forgot him, and Sharpe yelled to him to get out of the way. ‘Rifles!’