Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2. Bernard Cornwell

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      Not one man had followed Dulong, not one. He came alone and Sharpe recognized the Frenchman’s bravery and, to show it, he stepped forward and raised his sword in a formal salute.

      Dulong saw the salute, checked and turned and saw he was alone. He looked back to Sharpe, raised his own sabre, then sheathed it with a violent thrust that betrayed the disgust he felt at his men’s reluctance to die for the Emperor. He nodded at Sharpe, then walked away, and twenty minutes later the rest of the French were gone from the hill. Vicente’s men had been formed in two ranks on the tower’s open terrace, ready to fire a volley that had not been needed, and two of them had been killed by a howitzer shell, and another shell had slammed a piece of its casing into Gataker’s leg, gouging a bloody path down his right thigh, but leaving the bone unbroken. Sharpe had not even registered that the howitzer had been firing during the attack, but it had stopped now, the sun was fully risen and the valleys were flooded by light and Sergeant Harper, his rifle barrel fouled by powder deposits and hot from firing, had made the day’s first pot of tea.