Sharpe's Havoc by Bernard Cornwell Page A

tripped on one of the metal pegs with which the dragoons

had picketed their horses, then he saw blood on the grass and saw Hagman let go of his rifle

and his right hand slowly clench and unclench. “Dan!” Sharpe knelt and saw a tiny wound high up

beside Hagman’s left shoulder blade, just an unlucky carbine bullet that had flicked

through the smoke and found its target.
    “Go on, sir.” Hagman’s voice was hoarse. “I’m done for.”
    “You’re bloody not,” Sharpe snarled and he turned Hagman over onto his back and saw no wound

in front, which meant the carbine ball was somewhere inside, then Hagman choked and spat up

frothy blood and Sharpe heard Harper yelling at him.
    “The bastards are coming, sir!”
    Just one minute before, Sharpe thought, he had been congratulating himself on how easy it

had been, and now it was all collapsing. He pulled Hagman’s rifle to him, slung it beside

his own and picked up the old poacher who gave a gasp and a whimper and shook his head. “Leave

me, sir.”
    “I’m not leaving you, Dan.”
    “Hurts, sir, it hurts,” Hagman whimpered again. His face was deathly pale and there was a

trickle of blood spilling from his mouth, and then Harper was at Sharpe’s side and took Hagman

out of his arms. “Leave me here,” Hagman said softly.
    “Take him, Pat!” Sharpe said, and then some rifles fired from the vineyard and muskets

banged behind him and the air was whistling with balls as Sharpe pushed Harper on. He

followed, walking backward, watching the blue French uniforms appear in the mist of smoke

left by their own ragged volley.
    “Come on, sir!” Harper shouted, letting Sharpe know he had Hagman in the scanty shelter

of the vines.
    “Carry him north,” Sharpe said when he reached the vineyard.
    “He’s hurting bad, sir.”
    “Carry him! Get him out of here.”
    Sharpe watched the French. Three companies of infantry had attacked the pasture, but they

made no effort to follow Sharpe north. They must have seen the column of Portuguese and

British troops winding through the vineyards accompanied by the dozen captured horses and

a crowd of frightened villagers, but they did not follow. It seemed they wanted Barca

d’Avintas more than they wanted Sharpe’s men dead. Even when Sharpe established himself on a

knoll a half-mile north of the village and stared at the French through his telescope, they did

not come near to threaten him. They could easily have chased him away with dragoons, but

instead they chopped up the skiff that Sharpe had rescued and then set the fragments alight.

“They’re closing off the river,” Sharpe said to Vicente.
    “Closing the river?” Vicente did not understand.
    “Making sure they’ve got the only boats. They don’t want British or Portuguese troops

crossing the river, attacking them in the rear. Which means it’s going to be bloody hard for

us to go the other way.” Sharpe turned as Harper came near, and saw that the big Irish

Sergeant’s hands were bloody. “How is he?”
    Harper shook his head. “He’s in a terrible bad way, sir,” he said gloomily. “I think the

bloody ball’s in his lung. Coughing red bubbles he is, when he can cough at all. Poor Dan.”
    “I’m not leaving him,” Sharpe said obstinately. He knew he had left Tarrant behind, and

there were men like Williamson who had been friends of Tarrant who would resent that Sharpe was

not doing the same with Hagman, but Tarrant had been a drunk and a troublemaker while Dan

Hagman was valuable. He was the oldest man among Sharpe’s riflemen and he had a wealth of

common sense that made him a steadying influence. Besides, Sharpe liked the old poacher.

“Make a stretcher, Pat,” he said, “and carry him.”
    They made a stretcher out of jackets that had their sleeves threaded onto two poles cut

from an ash tree and while it was being fashioned Sharpe and Vicente watched the French and

discussed