‘Left!’ Lossow ordered, and the Germans turned, chewing up the French line, the sabres wicked in their work, and Lossow was satisfied
‘Lieutenant?’
The man saluted, oblivious of the fight. ‘Sir?’
‘Stirrup the infantry.”
‘Sir.’
And his duty was done. He had a minute left and Thor needed exercise so Lossow touched with his heels and the horse went forward, and the sabre turned a galloping lance so neatly that Lossow thought he would remember that moment till the day he died, preferably in Germany, and the Klingenthal steel of the curved blade opened the Frenchman’s throat as far as his spine, and he wished that every moment was this good, with a fine horse, a good turf, a blade made by the dwarves themselves, and an enemy for breakfast.
He watched his men work, proud of them. They were disciplined, protecting one another, their sword drill immaculate and thorough, and Lossow knew why the lord Wellington preferred German cavalry. Not as flashy as the English, not as good for a parade, but for killing Frenchmen – they were as good as British infantry at that. Lossow, a happy man, thought in the valley’s bottom – as part of his mind watched the enemy infantry, another checked on the fleeing lancers – that this army, Wellington’s army, could be as perfect an instrument of war as any in history. With men like these horsemen and with that infantry? It was beautiful!
‘Recall.’
The trumpet sounded, the men pulled back in perfect order, and Lossow waved the sabre. The lancers were done for, utterly beaten, but he had expected no less. Poor devils. They were not to know that Lossow’s men had tracked this valley for three days, waiting for a sight of Sharpe, and Lossow was glad it was he and not that pig Schwalbach further south who had found the British infantry. He looked up the valley. The rescued infantry were moving fast, each man holding on to a cavalryman’s stirrup, and Lossow brought the other hundred and fifty sabres back slowly, screening the retreat, enjoying the warm sun, and saluting the French infantry who were forming up, too late, their show spoiled.
‘Compliments of Hanover!’ he shouted, but the garlic-eating slime did not understand German.
An hour later Sharpe opened his eyes, saw Harper leaning over him, pinning him to the ground, and Teresa was holding one hand, and then a German soldier came to him with a piece of iron, glowing hot, and Sharpe knew the dream of the last few minutes, of his shoulder being pinned by an Indian with a lance, was just that: a dream. The Indian, turbaned and smiling, had played with him, and every time Sharpe had tried to jerk free the lance would come back, hoisting him a little higher.
‘Still, Captain.’ Harper spoke gently, gripped hard.
The cauterizing iron hit him like the devils of hell. His shout was cut off as he fainted, as the flash burned and stank, and it took all Harper’s strength to hold him down, but it was done and Lossow’s horse-doctor nodded his satisfaction. They splashed water on his face, trickled brandy into his throat, and Sharpe opened his eyes, grimaced as the pain shot through him, and struggled upwards. He looked at Harper.
‘You said it would mend.’
‘Didn’t want to worry you, sir. Almost bled to death.’ He propped Sharpe against a rock. ‘Food! Bring that food!”
Sharpe looked up to see a German officer with crinkled eyes and a good smile looking down on him. He had met the man before. Where? He remembered. In the village where Batten had been caught by the provosts. He stuck out his good hand.
‘Captain -‘
‘Lossow, sir. At your service!’
Sharpe smiled, a bit wanly. ‘You have our thanks, sir.’
The German waved away the formality. ‘On the contrary. You have ours. A lovely fight!’
‘Did you lose anyone?’
‘Lose anyone? They were lancers, Captain! An angry toad would be more dangerous! Now, if they put lances in the front rank, and sabres behind, they might be dangerous. But just lancers? No problem to us!’
Sharpe nodded, grateful. ‘But thank you.’
Lossow took the mug of stew from Harper and put it on Sharpe’s lap.