Sharpe's Gold by Bernard Cornwell Page A

ranks.
    'Sergeant!'
    Harper turned, relief visible on his face in the light from the burning house. Sharpe

    dropped back into the cellar, heaved the wounded man on to the ground, leaped up himself,

    and reached down for the girl. She ignored him, pulled herself up, rolled into the grass,

    and Sharpe had a glimpse of long legs. There were cheers from the men and Sharpe realized

    they were for him. Harper was there, thumping his back, saying something

    unintelligible about thinking Sharpe was lost, and then the Sergeant had the wounded man

    and they were running towards the Company and Sharpe, for the first time, saw horsemen in

    the darkness. Harper gave the wounded man into the ranks. Knowles was grinning at Sharpe,

    Kearsey gesturing to the girl.
    'Are they loaded?' Sharpe gestured at the muskets, screamed at Knowles over the sound of

    the burning house.
    'Most, sir.'
    'Keep going!'
    Sharpe pushed Knowles on, driving the Company towards the barley field and the

    comforting darkness, and turned to face the house and see what the cavalry were doing.

    Harper was already there, running backwards, the seven-barrelled gun threatening any

    horsemen. Sharpe wondered how long it had been since they had burst through the gate. No more

    than seven or eight minutes, he decided. Enough time for his men to have fired seven or

    eight hundred shots into the astonished French, set fire to the house, rescued Kearsey,

    the girl and the prisoner, and he grinned in the darkness.
    'Watch right!' Harper called. A dozen lancers, in line, with the wicked points held low so

    that they glittered by the ground were coming at a trot, to take the Company in the flank.

    But there was still time. 'Right wheel!'
    The Company turned, three ranks swivelling. 'Halt!' A ragged line, but it would do.

    'Rear rank about turn. Hold your fire!' That looked after the rear. 'Present! Aim at their

    stomachs; give them a bellyache! Fire!'
    It was inevitable. The enemy became a turmoil of falling horses and tumbling lancers.

    'Right turn! Forward! Double!' He had the small company in a column now. Running for the

    barley, for the unharvested crop that would give them a little cover. There were more

    hoof-beats behind, but not enough loaded muskets to fight off another charge. Time only

    to run. 'Run!'
    The Company ran, sprinting despite their burdens, and Sharpe heard a wounded man

    groan. Time later to count the wounded. Now he turned, saw lancers coming in desperate

    chase, one aiming at Harper, but the Irishman dashed the lance aside with the squat gun and

    reached up a huge hand that plucked the Pole clean out of the saddle. The Sergeant was

    screaming insults in his native Gaelic. He held the lancer effortlessly, his huge

    strength making the man seem to be weightless, and then threw him at the feet of an other

    horse. A rifle cracked behind Sharpe, another horse down, and Hagman's voice came through

    the din. 'Got him.'
    'Back!' Harper was shouting, the other horses still yards away, and suddenly the

    barley was under Sharpe's feet, and he ran into the field, and for a moment the trumpets

    meant nothing to him. He was just running, remembering the Indian with the razor point,

    the desperate and futile attempt to run from the lance, and then he heard Harper's

    triumphant voice.
    'The recall! Bastards have had enough!' Harper was grinning, laughing. 'You did it,

    sir!'
    Sharpe slowed down, let the breath heave in his chest. It was strangely quiet in the

    field, the hooves muted, the gunfire stopped, and he guessed that the French refused to

    believe that just fifty men had attacked the village. The sight of red jackets and

    crossbelts would have convinced them that more British troops would be out in the darkness

    and it would be madness to throw the lancers into the massed volley of a hidden regiment.

    He listened to the men panting, some moaning as they were carried, the excited

    mutterings of victorious troops. He wondered