The horse was tossing its head, eyes reflecting firelight, the rider crouched on its neck, the steel blade reaching for Sharpe. And Sharpe slammed himself to one side, hitting the gatepost, saw the spear go past, and the horse smelt in his nostrils. Another rifle spat, and the beast screamed. The Pole's arms went up and man and horse fell sideways, and Sharpe was running forward, into the courtyard.
Everything was too slow! Horses were tethered and he hacked at the ropes. 'Hup! Hup! Hup! A man swung a sabre at him, missed, and Sharpe rammed his sword into the Hussar's chest. It stuck. Riflemen ran past, screaming incoherently, long bayonets driving scattered Frenchmen into dark doorways, and Sharpe put his foot on the body and twisted his sword free. He saw Harper stamping forward, bayonet outstretched, driving back an officer who screamed for help against the giant Irishman. The man tripped, fell backwards, the screams becoming panic as he fell into a fire and Harper turned, forgot him, and Sharpe yelled to him to get out of the way. 'Rifles!
He blew his whistle, shouted at them, brought them over to the building where he stood. Stray horses skittered in the yard, galloped at the entrance, reared as the Company, white belts gleaming, filled the entrance, and Lieutenant Robert Knowles began the terrible commands that would chill any Frenchman who knew the firepower of British infantry. 'Present! Front rank only! Fire!
It was the last thing the Hussars and lancers could have expected. Instead of brigands and silent knives they were fighting a clockwork machine that could spit out four volleys a minute. The muskets flamed, smoke gouted into the courtyard, the three-quarter-inch musket balls hammered between the walls. 'Rear rank! Look to the roof! The front rank were already taking the next cartridge from their ammunition pouch, biting the bullet from the paper-wrapped cylinder, pouring the powder into the gun, but saving a pinch for the pan. The left hand held the top of the barrel; the right poured the powder; the left gripped the paper and tore off most of it while the right kept the priming between finger and thumb. The paper was pushed loosely into the muzzle, the other three fingers of the right hand had the ramrod up in the air, a bullet spat into the gun, and down with the steel rod. Once was enough, and the ramrod was taken out, the gun swung up, and all the time they had to ignore the shouts of the enemy, the carbine bullets, the screaming horses, the fires, and put the pinch of powder into the pan after the flint was dragged back, and the rear rank had fired, flash and explosion in their ears, and Lieutenant Knowles, his voice calm, was ordering the slaughter. 'Present! Fire! It was a mechanical job and no infantry in the world did it better, because no infantry in the world, except the British, ever practised with real ammunition. The clockwork killing. Fire, reload, present, fire, until their faces were blackened, their eyes smarting with the grains of powder thrown up by the priming just inches from their cheeks, their shoulders bruised by the kick of the gun, and the courtyard littered with a bodies of their enemies, sifted with smoke, and all the time Knowles had taken them forward, two steps at a time, and the maddened horses had escaped behind them and Sharpe had watched as Hagman's group of four Riflemen had shut the gates. Hardly a minute had passed.
'Inside! Sharpe kicked at a door, Harper hit it, and the Rifles were inside the house. Someone fired at them, a pistol, but the bullet went wide and Sharpe was hacking with the sword. 'Bayonets! The Riflemen formed line, snarled forward, and Sharpe saw they were in a hall which was officer country, the table littered with used bottles, stairs leading to bedrooms where men were waking to the sounds of battle.
Outside, in the courtyard, Lieutenant Knowles counted to himself, keeping the rhythm of the volleys, and at the same time looking desperately round to see where danger might threaten. He could see Hagman, kneeling to one side, the other Riflemen in his party loading for the small Cheshireman, and knew that any officer who showed his face on balcony or rooftop would be cut down by a rifle bullet. His own men, sweating in the firelight, advanced step by step, scouring the walls and windows, and it occurred to the Lieutenant that this was only his third real fight. He was pushing down the panic, the impulse to run for shelter, but his voice was calm and in the noise he hardly heard the carbine bullets that struck near him. He saw Redcoats falling, struck by enemy fire, saw Sergeant Read tending to them and then, with a ghastly realization, suddenly identified the bubbling and screaming noise that had been nagging at his eardrums for the last minute. He had stepped to one side, to avoid a fire, and saw, kicking in the flames, a French officer. The man seemed to be reaching for the Lieutenant, blackened hands curled like claws, and from his throat came the terrible noise. Knowles suddenly remembered the sword in his hand, the blade bought by his father, and with a grimace he stepped close to the man and shut his eyes as he pushed the tip at the dying man's throat. He had stopped his orders, but the men neither noticed nor missed them. They fired their volleys into the shadows, and Knowles opened his eyes to see he had killed his first man with a sword, and then the voice of Sergeant Harper was dominating the courtyard. 'In here, sir!
Sharpe guessed a minute and a half had gone by since the Riflemen had first cleared the gate. He had counted, unconsciously, the volleys from the courtyard, reckoning that in this light the men would fire a shot every fifteen seconds. Now, in the main hallway of Moreno's house, there was trouble. Officers at the top of the stairs had seen what was happening, found mattresses and the furniture they'd kept for their own use and thrown up a barricade. Sharpe needed firepower, quick and overpowering, to clear the stair's top.
'Sergeant!
It would be suicide on the stairs. The huge Irishman took a pace towards the steps, but Sharpe stopped him. 'Give me the gun!
Harper looked at the seven-barrelled gun, grinned, and shook his head. Before Sharpe could stop him the Sergeant had leapt to the bottom step, pointed the fearful weapon upwards, and pulled the trigger. It was as if a small cannon had gone off in the room. It belched smoke and flame, stunned the eardrums, and to Sharpe's horror the Sergeant fell backwards, thrown back, and he ran to him, fearing the worst.
Harper grinned.
'Bloody kick!
Sharpe took the stairs two at a time, the sword ahead, seeing where the blast had thrown back the barrier, smeared blood on a wall, and then an officer was aiming a pistol. There was nothing Sharpe could do. He saw the trigger pulled, the cock fall forward, and nothing happened. In his haste and panic the Frenchman had forgotten to prime the pan. It was a death sentence. The sword slammed down, cutting skull and brain, and Sharpe had seized the mattresses, thrown them aside, and the sword was beating at the slim sabres of the two men who had survived the seven-barrelled gun.
'Rifles! Harper had shouted, was pounding up the stairs. Sharpe lunged, wounded a man, stepped aside as the other swung wildly, and then Harper was beside him, sword-bayonet stabbing upwards, and the landing was clear.
‘KKkkkKearsey’ Sharpe yelled, forgetting niceties of rank. For God's sake, where was the bastard? 'Kearsey!
'Sharpe? The Major was standing in a doorway, buckling his trousers. 'Sharpe?
'Get out of here, Major!
'My parole!
'You're rescued! Damn his parole.
A door opened at the end of the passage, a rifle fired, the door shut. Kearsey suddenly seemed to wake up. 'That way! He pointed at closed doors across the passage. 'You drop outside the house.
Sharpe nodded. The landing seemed safe. An officer had opened a door at the end of the passage, but a rifle bullet had dissuaded him from further risk. The Green Jackets were reloading, waiting for orders, and Sharpe went to the stairhead. Downstairs was chaos. The room was filled with musket smoke that was lanced, second by second, with flames as the Redcoats fired at windows, doors and passageways. Knowles had long stopped controlling the volleys. Now each man fired as fast as he could and the burning paper wads, spat after the musket balls, were setting fire to rush mats and hanging curtains. Sharpe cupped his hands. 'Lieutenant! Up here!
Knowles nodded and turned back to his men. Sharpe found Kearsey at his side, hopping on one leg as he pulled on a boot. 'The rifles will cover them, Major! Take over!
Kearsey nodded, showed no surprise at Sharpe's peremptory commands, and the tall Rifleman turned to the closed doors. The first was not locked. The room was empty, the window invitingly open, and Harper went through to knock out the remaining glass and frame. Sharpe tried the other door, it resisted, and he hit it with his shoulder, the wood round the lock splintering easily, and he stopped.
On the bed, hands and feet tied to the four stubby posts, was a girl. Dark hair on a pillow, a white dress, a reminder of Josefina, and eyes that glared at him over a gag. She was jerking and writhing, struggling to free herself, and Sharpe was struck by the sudden beauty, the fierceness of the face. The shots still sounded downstairs, a sudden cry, the smell of flames catching wood, and he stepped to the bed and cut at the ropes with the unwieldy sword. She jerked her head sideways, towards the room's shadowed corner, and Sharpe saw the movement, flung himself down, heard the explosion and felt the wind of the pistol ball as a man reared up from beside the bed. A Colonel, no less, in Hussar uniform, whose pleasure had been interrupted before it could begin. There was fear on the man's face. Sharpe smiled, climbed on to the bed, watched as the Colonel tried to wriggle from the corner, and then, with cold determination, pinned him prisoner against the wall.
'Sergeant!
Harper came in, seven-barrelled gun in hand, and saw the girl. 'God save Ireland.
'Cut her free!
Sharpe heard Kearsey's voice on the landing. 'Steady now! He could hear Knowles downstairs, counting off the men, sending the wounded up first. The French Colonel was babbling at Sharpe, pointing at the girl, but the sword held him and Sharpe wished he had killed the man straightaway. This was no place to take prisoners and he was trapped, not knowing what was happening outside. The girl was free, rubbing her wrists, and Sharpe dropped the sword. 'Watch him, Sergeant!
He ran to the window, smashed panes with the sword, and saw the empty darkness outside. They could make it! The first Redcoats were at the head of the stairs, and then the French Colonel screamed, a terrible agony, and Sharpe whipped round to see that the slim, dark-haired girl had taken the Frenchman's own sabre and plunged it, point first, into his groin. She was smiling, and she was beautiful enough to catch the breath.
Harper was staring aghast. Sharpe ignored the Frenchman. 'Patrick!
'Sir?
'Get the men in here. Through the window! And next door!
The girl spat at the Colonel, who had collapsed in his own blood, swore at him, and then looked at Sharpe with a glance that seemed to convey pure disdain because he had not killed the Frenchman himself. Sharpe was reeling from her, thrown off balance by her hawk-like beauty, hardly hearing the commands from the landing, the banging muskets. He snapped his attention back, despising himself, but the girl was faster. She had the Colonel's sabre, her freedom, and she ran out the door, ignoring the fight, and turned right. Sharpe followed, caution gone, just the instinct left that some things, just one thing perhaps, could turn a man's life inside out.
CHAPTER 7
Knowles had done well. The hall was on fire but empty of the enemy, and the Redcoats backed up the stairs, still loading and firing their muskets, ignoring the fresh blood that made the steps slippery, and then the Riflemen took over, the Bakers spitting into the hallway below, and Major Kearsey, sabre in hand, was pushing the men into a bedroom, towards a window, and shouting, 'Jump!
'Aim low! Aim low! Harper's voice bellowed at the Riflemen. Hussars were coming into the hall, choking on the smoke. Redcoats were pouring from the first-floor windows, forming up in the field beneath, and only Sharpe was absent.
Knowles looked round. 'Captain!
'He's missing! Major Kearsey grabbed Knowles. 'Get outside! There may be cavalry!
The girl had run through a door and Sharpe followed, noticing, irrelevantly, a small statue of the Virgin Mary with a host of candles flickering at its base. He remembered the Catholics in the Company deciding that today — no, yesterday — was the fifteenth of August, the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and he was grateful because the stairs beyond the door were pitch dark and he grabbed a candle and followed the fading footsteps. He hurried, heels sliding over steps, banging down the stairs. He cursed himself. His place was with his men, not chasing some girl because she had Josefina's long black hair, a slim body, and a beauty that had overcome him.