“I still say you punch harder than any man I’ve ever known.”

“I’d forgotten that.” Sharpe laughed. He saw that some of the dismounted Cazadores and volunteers had run to form crude extensions of his three ranks. He wished they had not come, for their clumsiness would only make his final stand more vulnerable, but he would not turn them away. He slashed his sword left and right as though practising for the last moments. The French Dragoons had checked their slow, menacing advance. Their front rank stood motionless a quarter-mile away. It looked a long distance, but Sharpe knew with what cruel speed cavalry could cover the ground when their trumpeter hurled them forward.

He turned his back on the enemy and looked at his men. “What we should have done, lads, is gone north.”

There was a moment’s silence, then the greenjackets remembered the argument that had driven Harper to try and kill Sharpe. They laughed.

“But tonight,” Sharpe said, “you have my permission to get drunk. And in case I don’t have another chance to tell you, you’re the best damned troops I’ve ever fought with.”

The men recognized the apology for what it was, and cheered. Sharpe thought what a long time it had taken him to earn that cheer, then turned away from the Riflemen so they would not see his pleasure and embarrassment.

He turned in time to see a knot of horsemen ride from the city. One of them was the Count of Mouromorto, distinctive in his long black coat and tall white boots. Another, in a red dolman jacket and with hair as gold as the Dragoons’ helmets, rode a big black horse. The waiting French Dragoons cheered as Colonel de l’Eclin took his pelisse and colback from the man who had worn them. The Count rode to the rear squadron, the French reserve, while the chasseur took his proper place at the very front of the charge. Sharpe watched as he adjusted the scarlet pelisse on his shoulder, as he crammed the big fur colback on his head, and as he drew the sabre with his left hand. Sharpe prayed that he would see de l’Eclin dead before he himself went down under the hooves and blades of the enemy.

“Lieutenant!”

Sharpe turned to see Louisa ride up to the rear of his men. “Go!” He pointed eastwards to where there might be safety. Her horse would give her a speed that was denied to the refugees on foot. “Ride!”

“Where’s Don Bias?”

“I don’t know! Now go!”

“I’m staying!”

“Sir!” Harper shouted the warning.

Sharpe turned back. Colonel de l’Eclin’s sabre was raised to start the French advance. There was sodden ground to the right of the Dragoons, and a steep slope to their left, so the charge would be constricted into a channel of firm ground that was about a hundred paces across. A few muskets flickered flame beyond the stream, but the range was too long and the flank Dragoons ignored it.

Colonel de l’Eclin’s sabre dropped, and the trumpeter sounded the advance. The leading squadron walked forward. When they had gone fifty yards, Sharpe knew, the second French line would start their slow advance. The third line would stay another fifty yards behind. This was the classic cavalry attack, leaving enough space between the lines so that a fallen horse in the front rank did not trip and bring down the horses behind. It was slow at first, but very menacing.

“Front rank, kneel!” Sharpe said calmly.

The Dragoons walked their horses, for they wanted to keep their dressing tight. They would accelerate soon, but Sharpe knew they would not spur into a gallop until just seconds before the charge crashed home. Musket shots and screams sounded from the city, evidence that Spaniard still fought Frenchmen in the darkening streets, but that battle was no longer Sharpe’s concern.

Colonel de l’Eclin raised the sabre in his left hand and the first squadron went into the trot. The trumpet confirmed the order. Sharpe could hear the cavalry now. He could hear the jingle of curb chains, the slap of saddle flaps, and the thump of hooves. A guidon reared above the front rank.

“Steady, lads, steady.” There was nothing else Sharpe could say. He commanded a ragged line of men who would resist for an instant, then be ridden over by the big horses. “Are you still there, Miss Louisa?”

“Yes!” Louisa’s nervous voice came from behind the ranks of Riflemen.

“Then, if you’ll forgive me, bugger ofF!”

His men laughed. Sharpe could see the Dragoon’s pigtails bouncing beneath the darkening helmets. “Are you still there, Miss Louisa?”

“Yes!” This time there was defiance in her voice.

“It isn’t gentle, Miss Louisa! They’ll hack about like bloody butchers! They may not even notice you’re a girl till they’ve sliced half your face away. Now bugger off! You’re too pretty to be killed by these bastards!”

“I’m staying!”

Colonel de l’Eclin raised his sabre again. Sharpe could hear the creak of saddles now. “Hagman? That cheating bastard is yours.”

“Sir!”

Sharpe forgot Louisa. He crammed himself between two of his front-rank men and held his sword high. “Wait for my word! I’m not going to fire till the bastards are breathing down our necks! But when they come we’re going to make these sons of whores wish they hadn’t been bloody born!” The approaching horses tossed their heads nervously. They knew what was coming, and Sharpe allowed himself a moment’s pity for the butchery that he must inflict. “Aim at the horses!” he reminded his men. “Forget the riders, kill the horses!”

“For what we are about to receive,” Harper said.

Riflemen licked powder-gritted lips. They nervously checked that the rifle pans were primed and the flints well seated in the leather-lined dogheads. Their mouths were dry and their stomachs tender. The vibration of the trotting horses was palpable in the soil, like the passing of great guns on a nearby road. Or, Sharpe thought, like the tremor of thunder on a sultry day that presaged the stab of lightning.

Colondel de l’Eclin lowered his curved blade in the signal for his men to go into the canter. In a few seconds, Sharpe knew, the trumpet would call for the gallop and the big horses would surge forward. He took a breath, knowing he must judge the moment for this one volley to exquisite perfection.

Then the lightning struck.

There were only just over fifty men, but they were Vivar’s elite company, the crimson-coated Cazadores, who burst from the city to charge downhill. It was a tired squadron, wearied by a night and day of fighting, but above them, like a ripple of glory in the dark sky, flew the gonfalon of Santiago Matamoros. The scarlet cross was bright as blood.

“Santiago!” Vivar led them. Vivar spurred them on. Vivar screamed the war cry that could snatch a miracle from defeat. “Santiago!”

The slope gave the Cazadores’s charge speed, while the banner gave them the courage of martyrs. They struck the edge of the first French line like a thunderbolt and the swords carved bloody ruin into the Dragoons. De l’Eclin was shouting, turning, trying to realign his men, but the banner of the saint was driving deep into the French squadron. The gonfalon’s long tail was already flecked with an enemy’s blood.

“Charge!” Sharpe was running. “Charge!”

The second French squadron spurred forward, but Vivar had foreseen it and swerved right to take his men into their centre. Behind him was a chaos of milling horses. Cavalry hacked at cavalry.

“Halt!” Sharpe held both arms out to bar his men’s mad rush. “Steady, lads! One volley. Aim left! Aim at the horses! Fire!”

The Riflemen fired at the untouched horsemen on the right of the French charge. Horses fell screaming to the mud. Dragoons kicked boots from stirrups and rolled away from their dying beasts. “Now kill the bastards!” Sharpe screamed the incantation as he ran. “Kill! Kill!”

A rabble of men ran to the broken French line. There were Riflemen, Cazadores, and country men who had left — their homes to carry war against an invader. Dragoons hacked down with long swords, but the rabble surrounded them and slashed at horses and clawed men from their saddles. This was not how an army fought, but how an untutored people took terror to an enemy.