eyes.
“One platoon, fire!” Sergeant Colquhoun shouted. He was so
shortsighted that he could barely see the enemy, but it hardly
mattered.
No one could see much in the smoke, and all that was needed was a
steady nerve and Colquhoun was not a man to panic.
“Two platoon, fire!” Urquhart shouted.
“Christ Jesus!” a man called close to Sharpe. He reeled backwards,
his musket falling, then he twisted and dropped to his knees.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” he moaned, clutching at his throat. Sharpe
could see no wound there, but then he saw blood seeping down the man’s
grey trousers. The dying man looked up at Sharpe, tears showed at his
eyes, then he pitched forward.
Sharpe picked up the fallen musket, then turned the man over to unstrap
the cartridge box. The man was dead, or so near as to make no
difference.
“Flint,” a front rank man called.
“I need a flint!”
Sergeant Colquhoun elbowed through the ranks, holding out a spare
flint.
“And where’s your own spare flint, John Hammond?”
“Christ knows, Sergeant.”
“Then ask Him, for you’re on a charge.”
A man swore as a bullet tore up his left arm. He backed out of the
ranks, the arm hanging useless and dripping blood.
Sharpe pushed into the gap between the companies, put the musket to his
shoulder and fired. The kick slammed into his shoulder, but it felt
good. Something to do at last. He dropped the butt, fished a
cartridge from the pouch and bit off the top, tasting the salt in the
gunpowder. He rammed, fired again, loaded again. A bullet made an odd
fluttering noise as it went past his ear, then another whined overhead.
He waited for the rolling volley to come down the battalion’s face,
then fired with the other men of six company’s first platoon. Drop the
butt, new cartridge, bite, prime, pour, ram, ramrod back in the hoops,
gun up, butt into the bruised shoulder and haul back the dog-head,
Sharpe did it as efficiently as any other man, but he had been trained
to it. That was the difference, he thought grimly. He was trained,
but no one trained the officers. They had bugger all to do, so why
train them? Ensign Venables was right, the only duty of a junior
officer was to stay alive, but Sharpe could not resist a fight.
Besides, it felt better to stand in the ranks and fire into the enemy’s
smoke than stand behind the company and do nothing.
The Arabs were fighting well. Damned well. Sharpe could not remember
any other enemy who had stood and taken so much concentrated platoon
fire. Indeed, the robed men were trying to advance, but they were
checked by the ragged heap of bodies that had been their front ranks.
How many damned ranks had they? A dozen? He watched a green flag
fall, then the banner was picked up and waved in the air.
Their big drums still beat, making a menacing sound to match the
redcoats’ pipers. The Arab guns had unnaturally long barrels that
spewed dirty smoke and licking tongues of flame. Another bullet
whipped close enough to Sharpe to bat his face with a gust of warm
air.
He fired again, then a hand seized his coat collar and dragged him
violently backwards.
“Your place, Ensign Sharpe,” Captain Urquhart said vehemently, ‘is
here! Behind the line!” The Captain was mounted and his horse had
inadvertently stepped back as Urquhart seized Sharpe’s collar, and the
weight of the horse had made the Captain’s tug far more violent than he
had intended.
“You’re not a private any longer,” he said, steadying Sharpe who had
almost been pulled off his feet.
“Of course, sir,” Sharpe said, and he did not meet Urquhart’s gaze, but
stared bitterly ahead. He was blushing, knowing he had been
reprimanded in front of the men. Damn it to hell, he thought.
“Prepare to charge!” Major Swinton called.
“Prepare to charge!” Captain Urquhart echoed, spurring his horse away
from Sharpe.
The Scotsmen pulled out their bayonets and twisted them onto the lugs
of their musket barrels.
“Empty your guns!” Swinton called, and those men who were still loaded