raised their muskets and fired a last volley.
’74th!” Swinton shouted.
“Forward! I want to hear some pipes! Let me hear pipes!”
“Go on, Swinton, go on!” Wallace shouted. There was no need to
encourage the battalion forward, for it was going willingly, but the
Colonel was excited. He drew his claymore and pushed his horse into
the rear rank of number seven company.
“Onto them, lads! Onto them!”
The redcoats marched forward, trampling through the scatter of little
fires started by their musket wadding.
The Arabs seemed astonished that the redcoats were advancing.
Some drew their own bayonets, while others pulled long curved swords
from scabbards.
“They won’t stand!” Wellesley shouted.
“They won’t stand.”
“They bloody well will,” a man grunted.
“Go on!” Swinton shouted.
“Go on!” And the 74th, released to the kill, ran the last few yards
and jumped up onto the heaps of dead before slashing home with their
bayonets. Off to the right the y8th were also charging home. The
British cannon gave a last violent blast of canister, then fell silent
as the Scots blocked the gunners’ aim.
Some of the Arabs wanted to fight, others wanted to retreat, but the
charge had taken them by surprise and the rearward ranks were still not
aware of the danger and so pressed forward, forcing the reluctant men
at the front onto the Scottish bayonets. The Highlanders screamed as
they killed. Sharpe still held the unloaded musket as he closed up on
the rear rank. He had no bayonet and was wondering whether he should
draw his sabre when a tall Arab suddenly hacked down a front rank man
with a scimitar, then pushed forward to slash with the reddened blade
at the second man in the file. Sharpe reversed the musket, swung it by
the barrel and hammered the heavy stock down onto the swordsman’s head
The Arab sank down and a bayonet struck into his spine so that he
twisted like a speared eel. Sharpe hit him on the head again, kicked
him for good measure, then shoved on. Men were shouting, screaming,
stabbing, spitting, and, right in the face of number six company, a
knot of robed men were slashing with scimitars as though they could
defeat the 74th by themselves. Urquhart pushed his horse up against
the rear rank and fired his pistol. One of the Arabs was plucked back
and the others stepped away at last, all except one short man who
screamed in fury and slashed with his long curved blade. The front
rank parted to let the scimitar cut the air between two files, then the
second rank also split apart to allow the short man to come screaming
through on his own, with only Sharpe in front.
“He’s only a lad!” a Scottish voice shouted in warning as the ranks
closed again.
It was not a short man at all, but a boy. Maybe only twelve or
thirteen years old, Sharpe guessed as he fended off the scimitar with
the musket barrel. The boy thought he could win the battle
single-handed and leaped at Sharpe, who parried the sword and stepped
back to show he did not want to fight.
“Put it down, lad,” he said.
The boy spat, leaped and cut again. Sharpe parried a third time, then
reversed the musket and slammed its stock into the side of the boy’s
head. For a second the lad stared at Sharpe with an astonished look,
then he crumpled to the turf.
“They’re breaking!” Wellesley shouted from somewhere close by.
“They’re breaking!”
Colonel Wallace was in the front rank now, slicing down with his
claymore. He hacked like a farmer, blow after blow. He had lost his
cocked hat and his bald pate gleamed in the late sunlight. There was
blood on his horse’s flank, and more blood spattered on the white turn
backs of his coat tails. Then the pressure of the enemy collapsed and
the horse twisted into the gap and Wallace spurred it on.
“Come on, boys! Come on!” A man stooped to rescue Wallace’s cocked
hat.
Its plumes were blood-soaked.
The Arabs were fleeing.
“Go!” Swinton shouted.
“Go! Keep ’em running! Go!”
A man paused to search a corpse’s robes and Sergeant Colquhoun dragged