There was terror and madness in the air. The Germans had turned into this charge in a sudden explosion of anger. Their long heavy swords were raised for the first stroke, the hooves slung up great clods of turf, and the French square nearest to the charge fired again. Eighty yards to go.
Screams came from ahead of Sharpe. He had a glimpse of a horse sliding on its belly, head up and yellow teeth bared to the sky. A man rolled over and over, blood whipping from his neck, his sword stuck straight up and quivering in the ground. The trumpet again, incoherent challenges, and everywhere the hammering of hooves that filled the valley.
A horse drummed the earth with its legs, dying on its side, blood frothing as it lashed its neck and screamed in pain. The second rank gathered itself, jumped, and the French had saved one rank’s muskets for the moment. Smoke pumped from the square, bullets lashed at the charge, and a man was hit at full jump. He came backwards from his horse, a halo of blood about his face, and the horse went on alone. A standard bearer was down, his horse dead, and he ran with the standard, holding it aloft, and another German leaned left from the saddle, took the staff at the full gallop, and again the banner was high and taking them on in the impossible charge.
The earth quivered with the heavy horses, with the hammer of their hooves. The ranks had loosened in this madness so the valley seemed filled with big men on big horses, the sunlight catching their swords, the brass-plated straps of the bicornes, and the gleaming hooves that drove them on. The hooves threw up earth that stung Sharpe’s face. The horses seemed to strain towards the enemy, their eyes wild, their teeth bared, and Sharpe let the madness flow up in him to conquer the terror. He rode past a dead horse, its rider crouching for safety behind the corpse, and Sharpe had never done this. He had never ridden with the cavalry in a charge and there was a splendour to it that he could not have dreamt. This was the moment when a man became a god, when the air was noise, when speed lent its strength to the sword, a glorious feeling in those minutes before a bullet turned the god into dead meat.
A cavalryman, wounded, was being dragged by his stirrup. He screamed.
At fifty yards another rank of the square brought up their muskets, looked into the storm of anger, and fired. A horse and rider tumbled, hooves high in the sunlight, falling, and the blood streaked impossibly far on the grass, then the next rank was past, manes flying, and still the French had one more loaded rank.
The square blossomed smoke. A bullet hammered past Sharpe, but he did not hear it. He could only hear the hooves. An officer ahead of Sharpe was hit. He saw the man shaking with the pain, imagined the scream that he could not hear in this valley of noise, and saw the long sword dangle useless by its wrist strap. The man’s horse was hit too, jerking its head in sudden pain, yet it charged on. A dying man on a dying horse leading the charge.
The trumpet hurled them at the enemy. One trumpeter was down, his legs broken, yet he played on, played the charge again and again, the notes that could drive a man into wild glory. These screams in the valley, horses and men, screams of pain drowned by the trumpets. The guidons were lowered like lances, it was the final moment, and crossfire took them from another square and one guidon went down, point first into the earth and the man who had held it seemed to fall so slowly, then suddenly he was rolling and screaming, streaking the grass with his blood, and still the charge was led by a dying man on a dying horse. The man died first. He fell forward onto the neck of his horse, yet the horse still obeyed its last command. It charged. It used up its blood, its great heart pumping to the dying limbs, and the horse fell to its knees. Still it tried to charge as it slid on the grass, slick with blood that pumped from its chest, and it slid with its dead burden and died itself. And as it died, and could not turn, it slid like a great missile of dead meat into the front face of the square. Man and horse, in death, smashing the ranks back, opening the gap, and the next rank of Germans saw it.
They saw daylight. They twitched the reins, they screamed, and the French tried desperately to remake the line. Too late. A horse was there, the first sword came sobbing down, and then the horse was hit by a musket ball, it fell, made more space, and two more horses were in the gap, the swords hissed, and the horses leaped the pile of dead and were within the square. The French were dead men.
Some ran, some surrendered, others fought. The Germans came at them with their long swords and the horses fought as they were trained to fight. The horses killed with their hooves, hammering at skulls, they bit so that a man could lose his face in one horrid second of bowel-loosening fear, and the dust rose with the screams as the last German squadrons tugged right and went for another square.
Survivors of the first clawed at the second square, they tore into its ranks and the horsemen came too. Harper was there, the sabre fast in his hand, and Spears’ horse was trained for this. It moved constantly so no infantryman could hamstring it, it lined up the targets for the sabre, and the Irishman was chanting his Gaelic war cries, the slaughter-madness on him, and the valley was filled with the horsemen, the swords, and the hopeless infantry.
The second square collapsed, broke apart, and the Germans grunted as they brought the heavy blades down in the killing blows. The trumpeter, his legs broken, still lashed them into a fury, though now the notes were of pure triumph. Sharpe’s horse, not trained for war, swerved from the chaos and he swore at it, tugged at the reins, and then a mounted French infantry officer came for him, sword held like a lance, and Sharpe lashed with his great sword, missed, and he cursed this horse that would not take him to the target. Leroux?
Where in God’s name was Leroux?
He could see Harper. The Irishman was in among the fugitives from the second square. One man came at the Sergeant with a bayonet and Harper kicked up with his foot, caught the bayonet, and then sliced down with the sabre. The man fell, and his shako was ludicrously stuck on Harper’s sabre. It stayed there through two more strokes, then shook itself offas the huge Sergeant killed a French officer.
Sharpe could see Hogan. The Major, his sword not even drawn, was circling among the infantry shouting at them to surrender. The muskets were being thrown down, the hands going up, but still Sharpe could not see Leroux.
The third square was retreating up the hillslope. Back there somewhere, Sharpe knew, were two more French Battalions. A new trumpet call rang out, reforming two squadrons, and then Sharpe saw Leroux. He was in the third square. He had been on foot, but now swung himself into his saddle, and Sharpe kicked with his heels and rode towards the unbroken square. Its men were nervous, panicked by the smell of blood and fear, and as Sharpe rode so did the trumpet throw the reformed squadrons against the square.
The first two squares were ended. Most had surrendered, many were dead, and the Germans, who had done a fine thing, wanted to do more. Individual riders spurred towards the unbroken square.
The square fired, not at the cavalry, but at survivors of the first squares who wanted to break into its ranks. The infantry were frantic with fear, stumbling as the square inched backwards, and the first Germans came, were blasted from the saddles, while one man rode down the face of the square, his face a mask of blood, and his long sword beat uselessly at the bayonets, rattled against muskets, and then a shot threw him onto the ground.
More Germans charged home, the swords fell, and there was no reason for the square to break, yet its men were terrified of the fate of their comrades. Some threw down their muskets, raised their hands, and Sharpe could see the mounted officers in the square’s interior tearing at their standard. This Battalion did not carry the Regiment’s Eagle, they carried a flag which they tore into strips to hide in their uniforms. The square was dying and Sharpe saw the surrender and still he charged, wanting to break through the ranks to get his enemy, Leroux.