‘Raise the Colours!’
There was a cheer as the flags were hoisted by two Sergeants. Sharpe stood in his stirrups. He would dismount for the attack, but for this moment, as the French bullets hummed about his ears, he wanted the South Essex to see him.
He raised the sword, there was silence, and he could see that they were straining to get the attack done. He smiled villainously. ‘You’re going to fight the bastards! What are you going to do?’
‘Fight!’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Fight!’
He beckoned at a man and ordered to him to hold Carbine till the fight was done, then Sharpe dismounted, turned, and stared at. the village. It was time to go, time to fight, and he thought suddenly of the golden-haired woman who waited beyond the enemy lines, and he knew there was only one way that he would ever reach her. He hefted his sword and gave the command. ‘Forward!’
CHAPTER 24
It was odd, Sharpe thought, but at that moment, as he led the Battalion forward, he wished La Marquesa could see him.
He was not in love with her. He might be jealous of her, he might seek her company, but he did not love her. He had said so, on that morning when he thought he went to death at El Matarife’s hand, but he knew it was not true. He wanted her. He flickered about her as a moth flew about a bright flame, but to love someone was to know them, and he did not know her. He wondered if anyone knew her.
She had said she loved him, but he knew she did not. She had wanted him to break his honour for her, and she had thought the word love would make him do it. He knew she would use him and discard him, but nevertheless he now walked, sword in hand, towards the waiting muskets and he did it for her.
The sword felt heavy in his hand. He wondered why every new battle was harder than the last. Luck had to stop somewhere, he supposed, and why not here where the French had already broken one attack and waited for the next? He thought, as he shouted the column forward, that he lived on borrowed time. He wondered, if he died, whether Helene would hear that he had lived a few more days for her, and that he had died in the stupid, vain, selfish hope of seeing her again.
His boots swished in the meadow grass. Bees were busy at the clover. He saw a snail with a black and white shell that had been crushed by an infantryman’s boot. The grass was littered with cartridges, spent musket balls, discarded ramrods, and fallen shakos.
He looked up at the village. The Light Company was provoking the musket fire, keeping the acrid smoke thick. Behind him the column marched in good, tight order. He took a deep breath. ‘Talion! Double!’
The bullets plucked the air about him. He heard a scream behind him, a curse, and he was running fast now, the village close, and, through the smoke, he could at last see the alley’s mouth. It was blocked with a cart, with furniture, and flames stabbed from the barricade and he shouted for the firing party to break to one side.
He heard their volley. He saw a Frenchman go backwards from the barricade’s top and then there were only a few yards to go, more bullets flamed from the village, but instead of a thin line attacking it was a column thick enough to soak up the French fire. Sharpe gathered himself for the jump. He would not wait to pull the barricade down. ‘Jump!’
The air was filled with the hammering of muskets. Sharpe jumped onto the cart, swept down with his sword at a stabbing bayonet, while about him the British were clawing up the barricade, dragging the furniture down, trying to scramble over the heaped timber and screaming at the enemy. A musket fired beside his ear, deafening him, a bayonet tore at his sleeve as more men pushed behind, forcing him over, and he fell, flailing with the sword, rolling down the French side of the barricade as the enemy bayonets reached for him.
He twisted sideways and suddenly men of the South Essex were jumping over him, driving the French back, and he scrambled up, went on, and shouted at the men to watch the rooftops. No one heard him. They were mad with the battle-lust of fear, wanting to kill before they were killed, and it was that spirit that had driven them over the barricade and which drove them now into the tight, small streets of Gamarra Mayor.
A door opened in a house, a man stabbed with a bayonet and Sharpe lunged, twisted, and he could feel the warm blood on his hand as his sword found the enemy’s neck. He dragged the blade clear of the falling body. ‘Kill the bastards!’ The alley was thick with men, pushing, shouting, swearing, stabbing, screaming. Men were trampled when they were wounded. The front rank clawed at the enemy. The close alley walls seemed to magnify every shout and shot.
There was a volley of muskets from the alley’s far end and a French counter-attack, readied against just such a breakthrough, came towards them.
‘Fire!’
The few men still loaded fired. Two Frenchmen fell, the rest came on, and Sharpe took his sword forward and swept it like a scythe at the leading bayonets. He was shouting the war shout, letting the anger frighten the enemy, and he felt a blade sear his thigh, but the sword flicked up into the man’s face; there was a scream, and it was British bayonets that went forward; twisted, stabbed, tore the enemy counter-attack into shreds.
Sharpe was treading on bodies now. He did not notice. He watched the rooftops, the windows, and always shouted at his men to follow him, to keep moving forward.
The bayonets went forward, the British were shouting like madmen, like men who know that the best way to get rid of terror is to get the damned job done. They were clawing at their enemy, trampling them, screaming and lunging, cutting, slashing, driving them back.
‘Into the houses! Into the houses!’
There was no point in piercing the village’s centre, there to be surrounded by the enemy. This first alley had to be cleared, the houses emptied of the French and Sharpe kicked a door open and ducked under the lintel.
He was in an empty room. Men crammed in behind him, bayonets red. Opposite them was a closed door.
Sharpe looked round. ‘Who’s loaded?’
Three men nodded at him. Their eyes were bright in the darkness, their faces, stained by powder burns, were drawn back in permanent scowls. Sharpe dared not let these men catch their breath or feel safe here. He had to keep them moving.
‘Fire through that door. On my order!’
They lined up, they levelled their muskets.
‘Fire! Go! Go! Go!’
He was still shouting as he kicked the door and led the way through the musket smoke. He had to stop himself from flinching as he went through the door, so strong was his certainty that a volley waited for him on the far side.
He found a French soldier sprawled, twitching and bleeding, in a small yard that was strewn with straw. Other Frenchmen were backing into the yard, defending an alley at the far side that must have been penetrated by other men of the South Essex. Sharpe bellowed a triumphant shout, the sword struck again while, either side of him, his men went forward with bayonets and the Frenchmen were shouting for quarter, dropping their muskets and Sharpe was yelling at his men to hold their fire and to take prisoners.
A thatched roof had caught fire across the alley. Beneath it men were running, driving the French back, and Sharpe joined them, all control of the Battalion gone. They were hunting the defenders out of the houses, blasting closed doors with musket fire, kicking the shattered doors open and searching the small rooms. They did it savagely and quickly, avenging the dead American who had wanted this victory.
A trumpet sounded and Sharpe, turning, saw through the smoke in the village street the flag of another Battalion. The rest of the Division was coming through and he shouted at his own men to take cover, to clear the alleys. Let other men carry on.