Sharpe's Eagle by Bernard Cornwell

swerved away, checked

their line, and launched themselves against the Spaniards who had broken clear and were running

for their lives. The Spanish dropped their muskets, ran for safety, ran towards the South

Essex.
    The French were among them, riding along with the running men, hacking down expertly on the

heads and shoulders of the fugitives. Behind them more lines of cavalry were trotting knee to

knee into the attack. The French sabres came down right and left, more Spaniards broke from the

mass, the colours went down, they were sprinting towards the British square, desperate for its

safety. The South Essex could not see what was happening, only the Spanish coming towards them

and the odd horsemen in the swirling dust.
    "Fire!" Sharpe repeated the word. "Fire, you idiot."
    Simmerson had one hope for survival. He had to blast the Spanish out of his way; otherwise the

fugitives would break into his own square and let the horsemen through after them. He did

nothing. With a groan Sharpe watched the Spanish reach the red ranks and beat aside the bayonets

as they scrambled to safety. The South Essex gave ground; they split to let the desperate men

into the hollow centre; the first Frenchman reached the ranks, cut down with his sabre, and was

blasted from the saddle by musket fire. Sharpe watched the horse stagger from bullet wounds; it

crashed sideways into the face of the square, dragging down all four ranks. Another horseman came

to the gap; he hacked left and right, then he too was plucked from his horse by a volley. Then it

was over. The French came into the gap, the square broke, the men mixed with the Spanish and ran.

This time there was only one place to go. The bridge. Sharpe turned to Sterritt.
    "Get your company out of the way!"
    "What?"
    "Move! Come on, man, move!"
    If the company stayed at the bridge it would be swamped by fugitives. Sterritt sat on his

horse and gaped at Sharpe, stunned and overwhelmed by the tragedy before him. Sharpe turned to

the men.
    "This way! At the double!"
    Harper was there. Dependable Harper. Sharpe led, the men followed, Harper drove them. Off the

road and down the bank. Sharpe saw Hogan alongside.
    "Get back, sir!"
    "I'm coming with you!"
    "You're not. Who'll blow the bridge?"
    Hogan disappeared. Sharpe ignored the chaos to his right, he ran down the bank, counting his

steps. At seventy paces he judged they had gone far enough. Sterritt had disappeared. He whirled

on them.
    "Halt! Three ranks!"
    His Riflemen were there; they had needed no orders. Behind him he could hear screams, the

occasional cough of a musket, but above all the sound of hooves and of blades falling. He did not

look. The men of the South Essex stared past him.
    "Look at me!"
    They looked at him. Tall and calm.
    "You're in no danger. Just do as I say. Sergeant!"
    "Sir!"
    "Check the flints."
    Harper grinned at him. The men of Sterritt's company had to be calmed down, their hysteria

smoothed by the familiar, and the big Irishman went down the ranks, forcing the men to take their

eyes off the slaughter ahead and look at their muskets instead. One of the men, white with fear,

looked up at the huge Sergeant. "What's going to happen, Sarge?"
    "Happen? You're going to earn your money, lad. You're going to fight." He tugged at the man's

flint. "Loose as a good woman, lad, screw it up!" The Sergeant looked down the ranks and laughed.

Sharpe had saved eighty muskets and thirty rifles from the rout, and the French, God bless them,

were about to have a fight.

CHAPTER 7
    It was a shambles. Four minutes ago sixteen hundred infantry had been ranked on the field,

officered and organised; now most of them were running for the bridge; they threw away muskets,

packs, anything that might slow them down and bring the methodical sabres of the French closer to

their heels. The French Colonel was good. He concentrated some of his men on the fugitives,

driving them at a trot,