"Jesus!" Harper was heaving himself upright. Delmas had already turned and was limping onto the bridge, hurrying towards the northern bank beneath the three fortresses.
The two Riflemen ran forward. They were safe for a moment, hidden from the gunners by the houses, but Sharpe knew that as soon as they emerged onto the bridge the canisters would begin to rattle the ancient stones. He led Harper left, into what little protection the crenellated, low parapet might give, but the very instant that they stepped onto the bridge was the moment they both instinctively dropped to the roadway, heads covered, appalled by the sudden storm of canister that tangled the air above the bridge.
"God save Ireland." Harper muttered.
"God kill that bastard. Come on!"
They crawled, keeping below the parapet, and their pace was pitifully slow so that Sharpe could see Delmas opening the gap between them. In his path the Frenchman seemed to leave a maelstrom of striking shot, screaming stone shards chipped from the road, the noise of metal on stone, yet the Frenchman was untouched, kept safe by the gunner’s accuracy, and Sharpe could sense that Delmas was escaping.
"Down, sir!" Harper unceremoniously pushed Sharpe with a huge hand, and Sharpe knew that the horrid seven-barrelled gun was being aimed over his head. He clapped his hands to his ears, abandoning the sword for a second, and waited for the explosion above his head.
It was a horrid weapon, a gift from Sharpe to his Sergeant, and a gun that only a huge man could handle. It had been made for the Royal Navy, intended as a weapon to be fired from the topworks down onto the packed decks of enemy ships, but the vicious recoil of the seven half-inch barrels had thrown the sailors clear out of the rigging, sending them falling with fractured shoulders onto their own decks. Patrick Harper, the huge Irishman, was one of the few men who had the brute strength to use one, and now he aimed the stubby, bunched barrels at the pantalooned figure that was limping beneath the arch of the small fortress.
He pulled the trigger and the gun belched smoke, bullets, and burning wadding that fell onto Sharpe’s neck. It was a deadly gun at close range, but at fifty yards, the distance of Delmas’s lead, it would be a lucky bullet that hit. A single word over Sharpe’s head told him the Irishman had missed.
"Come on!"
A half dozen Riflemen had crawled onto the bridge after Sharpe and Harper, the rest stayed in the lee of the buildings and frantically loaded their weapons in hope of a clear shot. Sharpe pushed on, cursing the canister that screamed above the roadway. One ball, freakishly ricocheting from the far parapet, struck his boot heel, and Sharpe swore. "We’ll have to bloody run, Patrick."
"Sweet Jesus!" The Donegal accent could not hide his feelings about running through the storm of shot. Harper touched the crucifix he wore about his neck. Since he had met Isabella, the Spanish girl he had saved from the rape at Badajoz, he had become more religious. The two might live in mortal sin, but Isabella made sure her huge man paid some respect to their church. "Say the word, sir."
Sharpe waited for another grinding barrelful of canister to crash onto the roadway. "Now!"
They sprinted, Sharpe’s sword heavy in his pumping arm, and the air seemed filled with the sound of death and the fear rose in him, fear at this ghastly way of dying, hit by canister and unable to strike back. He skidded into the safety of the small archway beneath the fortress and fell against the wall. "God!"
They had survived, God only knew how, but he would not try it again. The air had seemed thick with shot. "We’ll have to bloody crawl, Patrick."
"Anything you say, sir."
Daniel Hagman, the oldest man in Sharpe’s Company, and the best sharpshooter in the Battalion, methodically loaded his rifle. He had been a poacher in his native Cheshire, caught one dark night, and he had left wife and family to join the army rather than face the awful justice meted out by the Assizes. He did not use a cartridge with its rough powder, instead he measured his charge from the fine powder kept in his Rifleman’s horn, and then he selected a bullet and rammed it down the barrel. He had wrapped the bullet in a greased leather patch, a patch that would grip the rifling when the gun was fired and give a spin to the bullet which made the weapon so much more accurate than the smooth-bore musket. He primed the gun, aimed, and in his mind was the memory of Rifleman Plunkett who, four years before, had sent a bullet a full and astonishing eight hundred yards to kill a French General. Plunkett was a legend in his regiment, the 95th, because the Baker Rifle was not reckoned to be truly accurate much over two hundred yards, and now Hagman had a clear sight of his target just a hundred yards away.
He smiled. At this range he could pick his spot, and he chose the lower spine, letting the foresight settle a little above it, letting half his breath out, holding it, and then he squeezed the trigger.
He could not miss at that range. The rifle slammed into his shoulder, smoke jetting from pan and muzzle, the burning powder stinging his cheek.
The canister screamed onto the bridge, four cannon-loads fired at once, and Hagman never knew what happened to his bullet. It never reached Delmas. Somewhere in the metal over the bridge the bullet was lost, a freak chance, but Delmas still lived, still limped on towards the safety of the far bank.
Yet there was still a chance. The fortresses were built on top of the hill above the river and once the bridge was close to the northern bank the guns could not see the roadway. In a few more yards, Sharpe knew, he would be able to stand up and run in safety, and Delmas knew it too. The Frenchman forced himself on, ignoring the pain, refusing to be beaten, and he managed to force his hurting body into a slow run that took him even further ahead.
Then it seemed that everything would be lost. There were shouts ahead and Sharpe looked up to see blue uniforms running down the hill towards the bridge. Voltigeurs! French Light infantry, their red epaulettes distinctive in the sunlight, and Sharpe swore for he knew that these troops had been sent out of the fortresses to see Delmas to safety. A dozen Frenchmen were coming down the hill, while others waited at its crest,
Sharpe crawled, pushing himself on, Harper’s breathing hoarse behind him. It truly did seem hopeless now. The Voltigeurs would reach Delmas long before Sharpe or Harper could, but he would not give up. A shard of stone, chipped by a canister strike, clanged on the metal scabbard of his sword while another skinned across his knuckles and drew bright blood.
The Voltigeurs were at the bridge’s end, lining it, fumbling their muskets into the firing position, and Delmas was just feet away. A rifle bullet cracked past Sharpe, he saw a French Voltigeur duck away from the passing of the bullet, and then another Frenchman pitched forward. Forward! Sharpe looked up. There was musket smoke from the houses of the city which bordered the wasteland the French had cleared about the fortresses. "Look!" He pointed up. "The Sixth must have got here!"
It was not the Sixth Division. The muskets were being fired by the citizens of Salamanca, venting their anger on the French who had occupied the city for so long. The Voltigeurs were caught between the two fires; the Riflemen firing across the long bridge and the Spaniards aiming from behind.
"Come on!" They had reached the safe part of the bridge, that part which could not be reached by the guns, but at the same moment Delmas had stumbled into the arms of his rescuers who were already retreating, taking the fugitive up towards the forts.
Sharpe and Harper ran, not caring about the odds, and the French Voltigeur officer calmly turned six of his men around, lined them, and brought their muskets up into the aim.
Sharpe and Harper split automatically, Harper going to the right of the bridge, Sharpe to the left, so that the enemy would have to choose between two smaller targets. Sharpe was shouting now, an incoherent shout of rage that would frighten the enemy, and he could hear Harper bellowing to his right.
Another rifle bullet cracked past them, hitting a Frenchman in the knee and his shout of sudden pain made the others nervous. Two of their number were wounded, both men crawling back towards the hill. Behind them Spanish mu
skets fired, before them the Riflemen were firing down the long length of the bridge between the two huge men who were screaming defiance at them. The four remaining Voltigeurs pulled their triggers, wanting only to retreat to the safety of the fortresses.
Sharpe sensed the wind of the musket balls, knew he was not hit, and he had the huge sword ready for its first strike. The enemy skirmishers were going backwards, retreating after Delmas, but the officer tried to hold them. He shouted at them, pulled at one of them, and when he saw it was hopeless he turned himself with his long, slim sword waiting for Sharpe.
It was the French officer’s bravery that made the four men turn. Their muskets were not loaded, but they still had bayonets which they twisted onto their muskets, but they were too late to save their Lieutenant.
Sharpe could see the fear in the man’s eyes; wished that he would turn and run, but the man insisted on staying. He moved to block Sharpe, bringing his sword up to lunge, but the huge cavalry sword beat it aside in a numbing, ringing blow, and then Sharpe, not wanting to kill the man, shoulder charged and sent the officer flying backwards onto the roadway of the bridge’s entrance.
The four Voltigeurs were coming back, bayonets outstretched. Sharpe turned towards them, teeth bared, sword ready, but suddenly he could not move. The French Lieutenant had grabbed his ankle, was holding on for dear life, and the Voltigeurs, seeing it, suddenly hurried to take advantage of Sharpe’s loss of balance.
It was a fatal mistake. Patrick Harper, the Irishman, counted himself a friend of Sharpe, despite the disparity in rank. Harper was hugely strong, but, as with so many strong men, he had a touching gentleness and even placidity. Harper was mostly content to let the world go by, watching it with wry humour, but never so in battle. He had been raised on the songs and stories of the great Irish warriors. To Patrick Harper, Cuchulain was not an imaginary hero from a remote past, but a real man, an Irishman, a warrior to emulate. Cuchulain died at twenty-seven, Harper’s present age, and he had fought as Harper fought, with a wild battle song intoxicating him. Harper knew that mad joy too, he had it now as he charged the four men and shouted at them in his own, old language.
He was swinging the heavy seven-barrelled gun like a club. The first stroke beat down a musket and bayonet, beat down onto a Frenchman’s head, and the second stroke threw two men down. Harper was kicking now, stamping them down, using the gun as a mace into which he put all his giant strength. The fourth man lunged with his bayonet and Harper, taking one hand from his club, contemptuously pulled the musket towards him and brought his knee up into the stumbling enemy’s face. All four were down.
The French officer, lying on the ground, watched aghast. His hand nervelessly let go of Sharpe’s ankle, saving himself from the downward stab of the huge sword. More Riflemen were coming now, safe on that part of the bridge that could not be reached by the enemy gunners.
Harper wanted more. He was climbing the hillslope, negotiating the rubble of the houses which the French had blown up to give their forts a wide barrier of waste ground. He went past the two wounded men who, like their comrades below, would be prisoners, and Sharpe followed the Sergeant. "Go right! Patrick! Go right!"
Sharpe could not understand it. Delmas, safe with the other Voltigeurs, was not going towards the fortresses. Instead he was limping right towards the city, towards the balconied houses from which the Spaniards fired. A Voltigeur officer was arguing with him, but Sharpe saw the big Dragoon officer order the man silent. Two other Voltigeurs were detailed to help Leroux, to almost carry the limping man up the slope and Sharpe did not understand why Delmas would go towards the scattered musket fire of the civilians. It was insane! Delmas was within yards of the safety of the forts, but instead he was aiming to plunge into a hostile city into which, at any moment, the Sixth Division of Wellington’s army would march. Delmas was even risking the Spanish musket fire, the closer to which he limped the more dangerous it became.
Then it was no danger. Sharpe, climbing up behind the Dragoon, saw a tall, grey-haired priest appear on one of the balconies of the houses and, though Sharpe could not make out the words, he could hear the priest bellowing in a huge voice. The man’s arms flapped up and down, unmistakeably telling the civilians to stop firing. Damn the priest! He was letting Delmas get into the tangle of alleys, and the civilians were obeying the grey-haired man. Sharpe swore and redoubled his efforts to catch the group of Frenchmen. Damn the bloody priest!
Then Sharpe had to forget Delmas and the priest. The other Voltigeurs, seeing the speed with which Sharpe and Harper were climbing the hillside, had been sent down to deal with them. The first bullets struck dust from the rubble and Sharpe had to roll into cover because the musket fire was too heavy. He heard Harper swear, looked for him, and saw the Irishman rubbing his thigh where he had bruised it in his own swift fall behind a block of stone. The Sergeant grinned. "Didn’t someone say this would be an easy afternoon?"
Sharpe looked behind him. He guessed he was halfway up the slope, a hundred feet above the river, and he could see three of his Riflemen shepherding the prisoners into a huddle. Four more climbed towards them and one of them, Parry Jenkins, was shouting incoherently and pointing beyond Sharpe. At the same instant Harper yelled. "In front, sir!"
The Voltigeurs, annoyed perhaps at the impudence of the Riflemen’s charge, were determined to take the two men isolated on the slope. They had fired their volley and now a dozen of them came down with bayonets to either take prisoners or finish Sharpe and Harper off.
Frustration filled Sharpe with anger. He blamed himself for letting Delmas escape. He should have insisted to Colonel Windham that the man could not be trusted, and now Windham was dead. Sharpe had to presume that poor young McDonald was dead too, killed at sixteen by a bastard who had broken his parole and who was now escaping up the hill. Sharpe came up out of his hiding place with a huge anger, with the great, heavy, ill-balanced sword in his hand, and as he went to meet the Frenchmen it seemed to him, as it so often did in battle, that time slowed down. He could clearly see the face of the first man, could see the gapped, yellowed teeth beneath the straggly moustache, and he could see the man’s throat and he knew where his blade would go and he swung, the steel hissing, and the sharpened tip slashed the enemy’s throat and Sharpe was already bringing it back in an upswing that crashed a second man’s musket aside, bit into the man’s forearm so that he dropped the weapon and was helpless as the downswing slammed through shako and skull.
Harper watched for an instant, grinning, because he was used to the fearsome spectacle of Richard Sharpe going fierce into battle and then he joined in. He left the seven-barrelled gun behind and used a length of fire-blackened timber with which he flailed the red-epauletted enemy until, their courage broken, they were scrambling back up the hill. Harper looked at his Captain whose reddened blade had defeated four men in less than half a minute. He bent down to retrieve the big gun. "Have you ever thought about joining the army, Mr. Sharpe?"
Sharpe was not listening. He was staring at the houses where the priest had stopped the civilians from firing, and now Sharpe was smiling because the priest might be able to order civilians, but he could not order British soldiers about. The Sixth Division had arrived! He could see the red uniforms at the hilltop, he could hear the crackle of muskets, and Sharpe drove himself up the slope so he could find out where Delmas was. Harper followed.
They dropped at the crest. To their right the houses were dotted with red uniforms, to their left were the three forts to which the Voltigeurs were retreating and Delmas was with them! He had been headed off by the Sixth Division and had been forced towards the fortresses. That was a victory of a kind, Sharpe supposed, because now the treacherous Frenchman was trapped in the forts. He looked behind and saw the river bank thick with British troops who marched west along the road beside the Tormes to finish off the cbrdon about the three strongholds. Delmas was trapped!
The French cannons fired again, canister blasting over the wasteland to rattle
on the houses, smashing windows and flimsy shutters, aimed at driving the newly arrived British troops into cover.
Sharpe watched Delmas. He watched as the man was helped into the ditch in front of the nearest, smallest fort. Watched as the brass helmet appeared again and the Frenchman was pulled into one of the cannon embrasures. Sharpe watched his enemy go into the fort. The bastard was trapped! The sword was in Salamanca and it might yet belong to Sharpe.
Sharpe looked at Harper. That’s it. Bastard got away."
"Not next time, sir." Harper twisted around and stared over the river. A knot of officers were in the shelter of the houses on the far bank, another group of men, unmolested by the French gunners, were carrying Windham’s body up the hill. Harper could see the foxhounds following the sad cortege. As he watched, so the gunners fired again at the bridge. They would let the British take away their dead, but they would still not yield passage of the river. Harper nodded at the bridge. "Don’t think we can go back, sir."
"No."
"Not a bad wee city to be stuck in, sir."
"What?" Sharpe had only been half listening. He had been thinking of Delmas. The Frenchman had murdered Windham, and probably murdered McDonald too. A man who killed while still on parole was a murderer.
"I said it’s not a bad wee city…‘
"I heard you, Patrick." Sharpe looked at the Sergeant, remembering the fight. "Thank you."
"For what? Do you think we should join the lads?"
"Yes."
They scrambled down the hill to join the few Riflemen who, like themselves, were marooned on the northern bank of the river. One of them had retrieved Sharpe’s rifle and carried it all the way across the bridge. He gave it back to his Captain. "What do we do now, sir?"
"Now?" Sharpe listened. Faintly he could hear a rhythmic booming, a sound overlaid with a slight, tinny melody. "Hear that?"
They listened. Parry Jenkins grinned. "It’s a band!"