Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil. Bernard Cornwell

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СКАЧАТЬ galloping across the ridge’s southern spur. Bands were forming into ranks and colours were being hoisted. The British gunners gave their cannon trails a last adjustment.

      ‘The General’s compliments, sir,’ a cavalry Captain reined in close to Nairn, ‘and if you are ready?’

      ‘My compliments to the General.’ Nairn drew his sword. No actual order to advance had been given, nor was it necessary, for as soon as the leading battalions saw the arrival of the Divisional aide, they were ordered to their feet. What waited for them on the ridge was a foretaste of hell, so it seemed best to get it done fast.

      ‘My compliments to Colonel Taplow,’ Nairn said to Sharpe, ‘and tell him not to let his men fall off to the right.’

      ‘Indeed, sir.’ Sharpe put his spurs to Sycorax’s flanks. Nairn’s concern about the right flank was justified for, as the attack met opposition, there would be a temptation for the right-hand men to seek safety down the ridge’s western slope.

      Taplow did not wait for Sharpe’s arrival, but had already ordered his men forward. They advanced in two lines behind their chain of skirmishers. The front line was composed of five companies, and the rear of four. The battalion’s bayonets were fixed, and their colours lofted between the two lines. Sharpe found Taplow on a grey horse just in front of the colour party. ‘The General’s compliments, sir.’

      ‘He’ll not find us wanting!’ Taplow interrupted Sharpe. ‘I told you it would be up to us!’ Taplow was in high spirits.

      ‘He’s eager, sir, that your men don’t deviate too far to the right.’ Sharpe phrased Nairn’s warning as tactfully as he could.

      ‘Damn your eyes! Does he think we’re amateurs?’ Taplow’s rage was instant and overwhelming. ‘Tell him we shall march to the guns. Direct to the guns! We’ll die like Englishmen, not like skulking Scotchmen. Damn your eyes, Major, and good day to you.’

      The other English battalion of Nairn’s brigade marched on Taplow’s left, while behind came the Highlanders who advanced to the eerie skirl of their pipers. They were a secretive, proud battalion who followed their clan chief to war. Many spoke no English, just the Gaelic. In battle they could be terrifying, while off the battlefield they had a grave courtesy. To the left of Nairn’s brigade, and straddling the spine of the ridge’s summit, another brigade advanced.

      Frederickson, with the skirmishers of the two English battalions, was far ahead of the leading battalions. The French gunners, waiting with smoking linstocks, ignored the skirmish line. They would wait till the plumper targets of the close-formed battalions were nearer.

      The wait was not long. Sharpe, back at Nairn’s side just a few paces ahead of the Highlanders, saw a French gunner give the elevating screw of his cannon one last turn, then jump clear as the linstock came down to hover near the portfire.

      ‘God help us,’ said the agnostic Nairn, then, much louder, ‘steady, lads, steady!’

      ‘Tirez!’ shouted the battery’s commander.

      The ridge erupted with gunfire. Flames lanced from barrels to pump smoke thick as fog over the hilltop. The roundshot slashed through the advancing battalions. Sharpe saw one ball carve a bloody hole in Taplow’s first line, kill another man in his second, then graze the turf and, on its upward rebound, strike down a file of Highlanders. The one ball had turned four men to meat and blood and splintered bone. The screams of the wounded began to rival the music of the bands and the crashing of the enemy guns. It was not just the closest battery that fired, but the gunners in the central redoubt, and other gunners too, further and higher up the ridge, who could launch their missiles over the heads of their own infantry to plunge and bounce and tear among the British troops.

      ‘Those poor lads.’ Nairn watched Taplow’s battalion that was dropping dead and wounded behind its ranks.

      ‘Close up! Close up!’ the Sergeants shouted. An Ensign, fifteen years old, and proud to be in his first battle, was disembowelled. A Sergeant, marching behind and to the dead boy’s flank, filched six guineas from the corpse’s tail pocket without even breaking step. ‘Close up, you bastards! Close up!’

      A howitzer shell landed just in front of Taplow’s rear line and, because its fuse still smoked, the closest men scattered. The shell exploded harmlessly as Taplow berated the men for cowards.

      Frederickson’s Riflemen had advanced far forward and were now trying to pick off the enemy gunners, but the cannon smoke made a perfect screen to hide the enemy. The smoke also served to obscure the aim of the French gunners, but so long as they fired level and ahead, they could scarcely miss. French skirmishers, armed with muskets, were threatening Frederickson’s men, though even the bravest enemy was loath to come too close to the deadly rifles. Harper was calling targets to his men. ‘See that officer, Marcos? Kill the bugger.’

      ‘Tell Taplow to double forward at the battery!’ Nairn shouted to Sharpe over the noise of the enemy guns. ‘I’ll put the Highlanders in behind him!’

      Sharpe spurred Sycorax forward again. The mare was nervous of the horrid noises. The guns made a deep percussive, ear-thumping bang, while the passage of the roundshot overhead sounded just like heavy barrels being rolled across a wooden floor. A cannonball that came too close sounded like the tearing of cloth, but much more sudden and overwhelming, making a man flinch in the wake of its air-splitting astonishment. Behind all the noises was the sound of the bands and the gut-wrenching music of the pipes. Men screamed, Sergeants shouted, then a new ingredient joined the cacophony: the crackling thunder of an infantry volley. It was a French volley. The enemy battalion was hidden by the cannon smoke, but Sharpe, as he rode towards Taplow, saw the smoke twitch as the bullets flicked through from the ridge’s centre.

      ‘Steady now! Steady!’ Taplow was riding immediately behind his front line. His horse sheered away from a wounded man who vomited blood, and Taplow slashed his crop down on to the animal’s rump to keep it steady and obedient. Behind him the battalion’s colours twitched from the strike of musket bullets.

      ‘Major-General Nairn’s compliments, sir …’ Sharpe began.

      ‘Damn Nairn!’

      ‘If you’d double, sir, towards the battery …’

      ‘In my own time, sir, in my own time. Damn you.’ Taplow twisted his horse away from Sharpe. ‘Well done!’ he exhorted his men. ‘Close up, my lads! Be steady now! Our turn will come! We’ll kill the bastards in a minute! Close up! Steady now, steady!’

      When the attacking line was a hundred paces from the French guns, the enemy changed from roundshot to canister. The tin- encased canisters split apart in the muzzle-flames to scatter a charge of lead-balls like birdshot. Now, instead of the surgical strike of a roundshot, each discharge tore a ragged and gaping red hole in the advancing ranks. Taplow’s line was shrinking fast and littering its wide path with a scatter of dead and injured. The carnage and the noise at last made the advancing battalion check, and that evidence of his men’s fear spurred Taplow to ram his horse through the ranks. ‘Charge, you buggers! Charge for England!’

      Released, the battalion charged. They screamed in fear, but they ran forward, and the smoke of the guns served to hide them from their enemies. A small dip in the ground helped to save them from the worst of the canister as they scrambled towards the smoke and the enemy’s gun line.

      ‘Come on, you bastards! Kill the buggers!’ Taplow was ahead of his men, charging like a cavalryman with his sword aloft, when two canisters exploded full СКАЧАТЬ