Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold by Bernard Cornwell

Author:Bernard Cornwell [Cornwell, Bernard]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Action & Adventure, Fiction / Historical / General, Fiction, Historical, War & Military, Fiction / Action & Adventure
ISBN: 9780007454686
Google: bIMf0aOMzJkC
Publisher: HarperCollins UK
Published: 2014-04-28T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 9

The time for regrets would come later, the time to be saddened by the carnage, to reflect on being alive and unwounded, most of all to regret that he could not have spent more time with the dying Lennox. Sharpe drew the great sword, hefted his rifle in his left hand, turned to the one hundred and seventy men who paraded in three ranks across the road.

‘Forward!’

As they marched Sharpe let his thoughts dwell briefly on the conversation with Lennox. Had he convinced the dying man? He thought so. Lennox was a soldier, he understood that Sharpe had so little time, and the Rifleman was convinced he had seen relief in the Scotsman’s face. Keeping the promise was another matter: first there was this day’s business to complete. Forrest marched beside him, the two of them a few paces in front of the solitary colour that once again waved over the small formation; the Major was distinctly nervous.

‘Will it work, Sharpe?’

The tall Rifleman grinned. ‘So far it has, Major. They think we’re mad.’

Forrest had insisted on coming along rather than stay with the wounded by the bridge. He was still a little dazed, shaken by the blow on his head, and he had refused Sharpe’s offer to command the survivors in the face of the new French onslaught. ‘I’ve never been in battle before today, Sharpe,’ Forrest had said. ‘Except that I once suppressed a food riot in Chelmsford, and I don’t think that counts.’

Sharpe could understand the Major’s nervousness, was grateful that Forrest had given his blessing to what seemed to be an act of utter folly, yet Sharpe’s instincts told him the plan would work. To the watching and waiting Chasseurs it looked as if the small British force was intent on committing suicide by a death-or-glory charge that stood no hope of success but would at least save them from the attrition of dying piecemeal from the blows of the French gunners. Forrest had asked, almost plaintively, why the enemy were continuing the fight, had they not already won a big enough victory? Sharpe was now offering them the chance to capture a second British colour that could be paraded in the French camp to persuade the soldiers of the fragility of the new enemy.

‘Is it time, Sharpe?’ Forrest was anxious.

‘No, sir, no. A minute yet.’

They marched straight up the track towards the gun three hundred yards away. Sharpe’s plan had depended on two things, and the enemy had obliged by doing both. First they had brought the small four-pounder as close to the British as safety allowed. They would not want to use solid round shot against the infantry; instead Sharpe knew they would load the gun with canister, the deadly metal container of musket balls and scrap iron that shattered as soon as it left the barrel and sprayed its lethal mixture like bent nails fired from a coachman’s blunderbuss. No doubt the French expected the British to lie down in the broken ground

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