The fall saved his life. The seven-barrelled gun, held against the far wall, fizzed as the spark lit the pan and then blasted a channel clear across the street. The sound, magnified by the close walls, rang in Sharpe’s head, but he saw three men staggering, one down, and Roach pulled him to his feet and he went forward, into the confusion of the blast, and chopped down on one man, kicked a second, and suddenly the four British were together, across the street, and the Spanish were caught between them and the three men of the King’s German Legion.
The Germans had done well. The sabre was their weapon and they fought the swordsmen with their own skills. Sharpe knew he had to learn the art of the sword but this was no time to try. He hacked forward, his left arm hurting but the right chopping diagonally down, left and right, pushing opponents to either side, where Roach and Hagman bayoneted them, and the Partisans, their surprise gone, began to run, to slip past the Germans and escape into the night.
Helmut growled. With these odds there was no point in trying to kill, and he had small chance of beating the long rapiers with their delicate finesse. He used his curved sabre in short, economic strokes, going for the eyes, always the eyes, because a man will run before he loses his sight, and Helmut sent his attackers reeling, one after the other, hands clasped to their faces and blood showing between the fingers. The Spanish had had enough; they ran, but the short Sergeant dropped his sabre, grabbed one by the arm, hugged him like a bear, and then, quickly releasing him, swung him against a wall with all his force. It sounded like a sack of turnips falling from the top of a barn on to a stone floor.
Harper grinned at him, wiped blood from his sword-bayonet. ‘Very nice, Helmet.’
There was a shout from down the street, the flare of torches, and the six men whirled round, weapons raised, but Sharpe ordered them to wait. A Portuguese patrol, muskets ready, pounded towards them, and Sharpe saw the officer leading with a drawn sword. The officer stopped, suspicion on his face, and then grinned, spread his arms, and laughed.
‘Richard Sharpe! Of all the devils! What are you doing?’
Sharpe laughed, wiped the blood off his blade, and pushed it into the scabbard. He turned to Harper. ‘Sergeant, meet Tom Garrard. Once a Sergeant in the Thirty-third, now a Lieutenant in the Portuguese army.’ He took Garrard’s hand, shook it. ‘You bastard. How are you?’
Garrard beamed at him, turned to Harper. ‘We were Sergeants together. Christ, Dick, it must be bloody years. I remember you blowing the face off that bloody little heathen! It’s good to see you. A bloody Captain! What’s the world coming to?’ He gave Sharpe a salute and laughed.
‘It’s years since anyone called me Dick. You well?’
‘Chipper. Couldn’t be better.’ He jerked a thumb at his men. ‘Good lads, these. Fight like us. Well, well, well. You remember that girl in Sering? Nancy?’
Sharpe’s men looked at Garrard curiously. It was a year since the Portuguese government had asked the British to reorganize their army and one of the changes, started by the Englishman, Marshal Beresford, who now commanded the Portuguese troops, was to offer commissions to experienced British Sergeants so that the raw, untrained Portuguese troops were given officers who knew how to fight. It was good, Garrard said, and working well, and he looked at Harper.
‘You should join up, Sergeant.’
Harper grinned, shook his head. ‘I’ll stay with him.’
‘You could do worse.’ Garrard looked at Sharpe. Trouble?’
‘It’s over.’
Garrard sheathed his sword. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘Open a gate for us. Tonight.’
Garrard looked at him shrewdly. ‘How many of you?’
‘Two hundred and fifty. Cavalry and us.’
‘Christ, mate. That’s impossible. I thought you meant just you seven only.’ He stopped, grinned. ‘You with this gold?’
‘That’s us. You know about it?’
‘God Almighty! Bloody orders from everyone to stop the gold leaving. We didn’t even know there was any gold here.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Dick. Can’t help.’