Sharpes Eagle   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

The whole horizon was hidden by the clouds of dust thrown up by the thousands of French infantry, their drumming and cheering rivalled the sound of the guns and exploding shells, and in the background was the sinister noise of the jangling chains which were part of the artillery harness. Sharpe had never seen an attack on this scale; the columns covered half a mile in the width of their attack, and behind them, hardly seen in the dust and smoke, was a second line, equally strong, that the French would throw in if the British checked the first Battalions. Sharpe looked behind. Simmerson had swung the Battalion and it was marching away from the great gap he had created in the line; Sharpe could see a horseman riding recklessly towards the single colour and he guessed that Hill or even Wellesley was dealing furiously with Simmerson, but for the moment the gap existed and the white-coated Dutchmen were marching straight for it.

He joined Harper. There were only seconds before the column would force them back, and he stared at its slow advance and at the Eagle which flashed tantalisingly from its centre. Beside it rode a horseman with a fringed and cockaded hat, and Sharpe tapped Hagman on the shoulder.

“Sir?” The Cheshire man gave a toothless grin. Sharpe shouted over the drumbeats and the crackle of musketry. “See the man with the fancy hat?”

Hagman looked. “Two hundred yards?” He took his own rifle and aimed carefully, ignoring the buzzing of the enemy bullets around them, let his breath out halfway and squeezed the trigger. The rifle slammed back into his shoulder, there was a billow of smoke, but Sharpe leapt to one side and saw the enemy Colonel fall into the mass of the column. He slapped Hagman on the back. “Well done!” He walked to the other Riflemen. “Aim at the artillery! The guns!” He was frightened of the horse artillery that the French were bringing with the columns; if the gunners were allowed to get close enough and load with canister or grape shot, they would blast great holes in the British line and give to the French columns the fire power that was normally denied to them by their packed formation. He watched his Riflemen as they aimed at the horses and at the gunners riding on the French four-pounders; if anything could stop the artillery it would be the long-range accuracy of the Baker rifle, but there was so little time before the column would force them back and the skirmish would become an affair of running and firing, running and firing, and all the time getting closer and closer to the huge space that Simmerson had created in the British defence.

He ran back to Harper, at the centre of the line, and retrieved his rifle.