‘March!’
They went away from the rocks, from the voltigeurs, out into the unnatural calmness of the grass. The French infantry did not follow but stopped at the foot of the slope for all the world as if the Light Company were on a boat and they could not follow. Major Kearsey was jigging with the excitement, his sabre drawn, but his smile went as he saw Sharpe.
‘You’re hit!’
‘It’s nothing, sir. A ricochet.’
‘Nonsense, man.’
Kearsey touched Sharpe’s shoulder, and to the Rifleman’s surprise the hand came away red and glistening.
‘I’ve had worse, sir. It’ll mend.’ It was hurting, though, and he hated the thought of peeling away jacket and shirt to find the wound. Kearsey looked back at the motionless French infantry.
‘They’re not following, Sharpe!’
‘I know, sir.’ His tone was gloomy and Kearsey glanced sharply at him.
‘Cavalry?’
‘Bound to be, sir. Waiting for us to get into the centre of the valley.’
‘What do we do?’ Kearsey seemed to see nothing odd in asking Sharpe the question.
‘I don’t know, sir. You pray.’
Kearsey took offence, jerking his head back. ‘I have prayed, Sharpe! Precious little else for the last few days.’
It had been only a few days, Sharpe thought, and was it all to end like this, between a French battalion and cavalry? Sharpe grinned at the Major, spoke gently.
‘Keep praying, sir.’
It was thin pastureland, close-cropped and tough, and Sharpe looked at the grass and thought that in a year’s time the sheep would be back as if there had been no skirmish. The sun had reached the valley floor and insects were busy in the grass-stems, oblivious of the battle overhead, and Sharpe looked up and thought the valley was beautiful. It wound south and west, climbing between steep hills, and ahead of him, out of reach, was a streambed that in spring would make the place a small paradise. He looked behind, saw the voltigeurs sitting by the rocks, the other French companies coming slowly down the hill, and somewhere in the tortuous valley, he knew, the cavalry would be waiting. He was sure they would come from behind now; the way ahead seemed to offer no hiding place, and he knew the Company was trapped. He looked at the ground, level and firm, and imagined the horses walking the first hundred yards, trotting the next fifty, into the canter, the swords raised, and the final gallop of twenty yards that would be split by the fire of the small square, but forty infantry could not hold out long. Pipe smoke went up from the sitting French infantry, front seats for the slaughter.
Patrick Harper fell in beside him. ‘How bad?’ He was looking at the shoulder.
‘It’ll mend.’
The Sergeant grabbed his elbow and, ignoring Sharpe’s protest, pulled the arm up. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Jesus!’ He could feel a grating in the shoulder, but the huge Irishman’s hands were there, squeezing and hurting. ‘Harper let go.’
‘There’s no bone broken, sir. The ball’s trapped. Ricochet?’
Sharpe nodded. A full hit would have broken his shoulder and upper arm. It hurt. Harper looked at the girl and back to Sharpe. ‘It’ll impress the wee girl.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Harper was worried, trying not to show it.
Trumpets sounded and Sharpe stopped, turned, and as the Company marched on he saw the first horses appear to the north. His heart sank. Lancers again, always bloody lancers, and their green uniforms and pink facings mocked his meagre hopes. The lances were tipped with red and white pennants, held jauntily, and they trotted into formation in the valley and stared at the small group of British infantry. Harper came back to him. ‘Two hundred, sir?’
‘Yes.’
He had heard men say they would rather die of a lance than a sabre, that a sabre just gave horrific cuts that festered and bled a man dry over weeks of agony, whereas a lance was quick and deep. Sharpe spat into the grass; he cared for neither, and he looked left and right.
‘That way.’ He pointed to the eastern side of the valley, back the way they had come, away from the French infantry. ‘On the double!”