fight since he had defected from British service he had made certain of
a route along which he could retreat, but from this high fortress on
its soaring bluff there was no way out. He must win, or else he must
die. He watched the smoke to the west. The firing was constant now,
suggesting that the enemy was inside the fort in force. His hand
twitched, but this time he did not notice as, for the first time in
weeks, the Lord of Gawilghur began to fear defeat.
The volley from the company of white-coated Cobras hammered towards
Sharpe’s men, but because they were spread more widely than usual many
of the balls wasted themselves in the gaps between the files. Some men
went down, and the rest instinctively checked, but Sharpe shouted at
them to keep marching. The enemy was hidden in smoke, but Sharpe knew
they would be reloading.
“Close the files, Sergeant,” he shouted.
“Close up! Close up!” the Scots Sergeant called. He glanced at
Sharpe, suspecting that he was taking the small company too close to
the enemy. The range was already down to sixty yards.
Sharpe could just see one of the Indians through the smoke. The man
was the left flanker of the front rank, a small man, and he had bitten
off his cartridge and was pouring the powder down the muzzle of his
musket. Sharpe watched the bullet go in and the ramrod come up ready
to plunge down into the barrel.
“Halt!” he called.
“Halt!” the Sergeant echoed.
“Present!”
The muskets came up into the men’s shoulders. Sharpe reckoned he had
about sixty men in the two ranks, fewer than the enemy’s three ranks,
but enough. More men were running up from the ladder all the time.
“Aim low,” he said.
“Fire!”
The volley slammed into the Cobras who were still loading. Sharpe’s
men began to reload themselves, working fast, nervous of the enemy’s
next volley.
Sharpe watched the enemy bring their muskets up. His men were half
hidden by their own musket smoke.
“Drop!” he shouted. He had not known he was going to give the order
until he heard himself shout it, but it suddenly seemed the sensible
thing to do.
“Flat on the ground!” he shouted.
“Quick!” He dropped himself, though only to one knee, and a heartbeat
later the enemy fired and their volley whistled over the prostrate
company. Sharpe had slowed his men’s loading process, but he had kept
them alive and now it was time to go for the kill.
“Load!” he shouted, and his men climbed to their feet. This time
Sharpe did not watch the enemy, for he did not want to be affected by
their timing. He hefted the claymore, comforted by the blade’s
heaviness.
“Prepare to charge!” he shouted. His men were pushing their ramrods
back into their musket hoops, and now they pulled out their bayonets
and twisted them onto blackened muzzles. Eli Lockhart’s cavalrymen,
some of whom only had pistols, drew their sabres.
“Present!” Sharpe called, and the muskets went up into the shoulders
again. Now he did look at the enemy and saw that most of them were
still ramming.
“Fire!” The muskets flamed and the scraps of wadding spat out after
the bullets to flicker their small flames in the grass.
“Charge!” Sharpe shouted, and he led the way from the right flank, the
claymore in his hand.
“Charge!” he shouted again and his small company, sensing that they
had only seconds before the enemy’s muskets were loaded, ran with
him.
Then a blast of musketry sounded to Sharpe’s right and he saw that the
Scottish Captain had formed a score of men on the flank and had poured
in a volley that struck the Cobras just before Sharpe’s charge closed
the gap.
“Kill them!” Sharpe raged. Fear was whipping inside him, the fear
that he had mistimed this charge and that the enemy would have a volley
ready just yards before the redcoats struck home, but he was committed
now, and he ran as hard as he could to break into the white-coated
ranks before the volley came.
The Havildar commanding the Cobra company had been appalled to see the