Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil by Bernard Cornwell Page B

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    Another French counter-attack was sweeping forward, this one outflanking and assaulting the redoubt, and again the Scots were being forced backwards by a superior number of men. Blue-coated infantry swarmed at the redoubt’s walls, muskets crashed, and for the second time the French retook the fort. Screams sounded as Highlanders were hunted down inside the courtyard. ‘The bloody French are fighting well today.’ Nairn sounded puzzled.
    The enemy scrambled along the palisade, bayoneting wounded Scotsmen. These Frenchmen were, indeed, fighting with a verve that the earlier attack, in column, had not displayed. An eagle standard shone among the smoke and, beneath its brightness, Sharpe saw a French General. The man was standing with legs straddled wide on the fort’s southern parapet. It was an arrogant pose, suggesting that the Frenchman was lord of this battlefield and more than equal to anything the British could throw against him. Frederickson’s Riflemen must have seen the enemy General, for a dozen of them fired, but the Frenchman had a charmed life this day.
    ‘That’s Calvet!’ Sharpe had trained his glass on the Frenchman and recognized the short, squat figure of the man he had fought at the Teste de Buch. ‘It’s bloody Calvet!’
    ‘Let’s teach the bastard a lesson.’ Nairn drew his sword. It was evident that with the last repulse of the Scots there were no fresh troops to launch against the recaptured redoubt. If Calvet was given more than a few minutes he would reorganize his defences and the fort would be doubly hard to take. Now was the moment to counter-attack, and Nairn’s was the closest brigade. ‘Quick, Sharpe! Let’s get it over!’
    Calvet turned imperiously away. On either flank of the redoubt his men were marching forward. The fort’s ditch was heaped with dead and dying men.
    ‘On your feet!’ Nairn had ridden to the space between his two battalions. ‘Fix bayonets!’ He waited till the blades were fixed, then waved his cocked hat. ‘Forward! Let me hear the pipes!’
    The two battalions went forward. So far they were unnoticed. The French were clearing their embrasures and firestep, while one of Calvet’s battalions was being formed in three ranks in front of the shattered palisade and blood-drenched ditch. It was an officer of that battalion who first saw Nairn’s threat and shouted a warning up to the fort’s parapet.
    No one had thought to spike the guns, and now the French artillerymen charged them with canister and crashed death out at Nairn’s attack. Sharpe, hurrying to keep up with the mounted Scotsman, saw Nairn fall, but it was only Nairn’s horse that had been wounded. The old Scotsman, his hat gone and his white hair disarrayed, picked himself up and brandished his sword. ‘Forward!’
    The fort had been captured twice, and twice recaptured. The crude earthen square, with its battered palisades, seemed to be sucking men into its horror, almost as if by mutual consent the two armies had agreed that whoever won the fort would gain the day. Sharpe could see open ground to his right, ground that would outflank the smoking redoubt, but cool sense, which might have suggested occupying the ground, had been replaced by a savage pride that would not permit General Calvet the satisfaction of holding the redoubt. Nairn, so long denied the chance to show his skills, would now prove himself the master of this battle’s heart. He had more than the redoubt’s guns to contend with, for the battalion of French infantry were loading their muskets in readiness for Nairn’s assault.
    ‘Steady, lads, steady!’ Nairn had launched his attack on an impulse, now he had to slow it down so that his men did not become ragged with fear or eagerness. ‘Watch your dressing! Steady, lads!’ He smiled as Sharpe joined him. ‘One last effort, Sharpe, just one last effort!’
    One of the Highlander’s Colours fell, was retrieved, and hoisted again. A Sergeant’s leg was sliced