Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold. Bernard Cornwell
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of the odd atmosphere on the hill. His men were embarrassed because of Williamson. Many of them probably feared that Sharpe, in his anger, would punish them all for one man’s sin, and others, very few, might have wanted to follow Williamson, but most probably felt that the desertion was a reproach to them all. They were a unit, they were friends, they were proud of each other, and one of them had deliberately thrown that comradeship away. Yet now Hagman was offering to restore some of that pride and Sharpe nodded. ‘Go on, Dan,’ he said, ‘but only you. Only Hagman!’ he called to the other riflemen. He knew that they would all love to blaze away at the gun crew, but the distance was prodigious, right at the very end of a rifle’s range, and only Hagman had the skill to even come close.
Sharpe looked again at the distant dust cloud, but the horses had turned onto the smaller track that led to Vila Real de Zedes and, head on, he could not see whether they escorted any vehicle so he trained the glass on the howitzer’s crew and saw they were ramming a new shell down the stubby barrel. ‘Get under cover!’
Hagman alone stayed in the open. He was loading his rifle, first pouring powder from his horn into the barrel. Most of the time he would have used a cartridge which had powder and ball conveniently wrapped in waxed paper, but for this kind of shot, at seven hundred yards, he would use the high-quality powder carried in the horn. He used slightly more than was provided in a cartridge and, when the barrel was charged, he laid the weapon aside and took out the handful of loose bullets that nestled among the tea leaves at the bottom of his cartridge pouch. The enemy shell went just wide of the watchtower and exploded harmlessly over the steep western slope and, though the noise buffeted the eardrums and the broken casing rattled angrily against the stones, Hagman did not even look up. He was using the middle finger of his right hand to roll the bullets one by one in the palm of his left hand, and when he was sure he had found the most perfectly shaped ball, he put the others away and picked up his rifle again. At the back of the stock there was a small cavity covered with a brass lid. The cavity had two compartments; the larger held the rifle’s cleaning tools while the smaller was filled with patches made of thin and flexible leather that had been smeared with lard. He took one of the patches, closed the brass lid and saw Vicente was watching him closely. He grinned. ‘Slow old business, sir, isn’t it?’
Now he wrapped the bullet in the patch so that, when the rifle fired, the expanding bullet would force the leather into the barrel’s lands. The leather also stopped any of the gasses escaping past the bullet and so concentrated the powder’s force. He pushed the leather-wrapped ball into the barrel, then used the rammer to force it down. It was hard work and he grimaced with the effort, then nodded his thanks as Sharpe took over. Sharpe put the butt end of the steel ramrod against a rock and eased the rifle slowly forward until he felt the bullet crunch against the powder. He took out the ramrod, slid it into the hoops under the barrel and gave the gun back to Hagman who used powder from his horn to prime the pan. He smoothed the priming with a blackened index finger, lowered the frizzen and grinned again at Vicente. ‘She’s like a woman, sir,’ Hagman said, patting the rifle, ‘take care of her and she’ll take care of you.’
‘You’ll notice he let Mister Sharpe do the ramming, sir,’ Harper said guilelessly.
Vicente laughed and Sharpe suddenly remembered the horsemen and he snatched up the small telescope and trained it on the road leading into the village, but all that was left of the newcomers was the dust thrown up by their horses’ hooves. They were hidden by the trees around the Quinta and so he could not tell whether the horsemen had brought a mortar. He swore. Well, he would learn soon enough.
Hagman lay on his back, his feet towards the enemy, then pillowed the back of his neck against a rock. His ankles were crossed and he was using the angle between his boots as a rest for the rifle’s muzzle and, because the weapon was just under four feet long, he had to curl his torso awkwardly to bring the stock into his shoulder. He settled at last, the rifle’s brass butt at his shoulder and its barrel running the length of his body and, though the pose looked clumsy, it was favoured by marksmen because it held the rifle so rigidly. ‘Wind, sir?’
‘Left to right, Dan,’ Sharpe said, ‘very light.’
‘Very light,’ Hagman repeated softly, then he pulled back the flint. The swan-neck cock made a slight creaking noise as it compressed the mainspring, then there was a click as the pawl took the strain and Hagman hinged the backsight up as high as it would go, then lined its notch with the blade-sight dovetailed at the muzzle. He had to lower his head awkwardly to see down the barrel. He took a breath, let it half out and held it. The other men on the hilltop also held their breath.
Hagman made some tiny adjustments, edging the barrel to the left and drawing the stock down to give the weapon more elevation. It was not only an impossibly long shot, but he was firing downhill which was notoriously difficult. No one moved. Sharpe was watching the howitzer crew through the telescope. The gunner was just bringing the portfire to the breech and Sharpe knew he should interrupt Hagman’s concentration and order his men to take cover, but just then Hagman pulled his trigger, the crack of the rifle startled birds up from the hillside, smoke wreathed about the rocks and Sharpe saw the gunner spin round and the portfire drop as the man clutched his right thigh. He staggered for a few seconds, then fell.
‘Right thigh, Dan,’ Sharpe said, knowing that Hagman could not see through the smoke of his rifle, ‘and you put him down. Under cover! All of you! Quick!’ Another gunner had snatched up the portfire.
They scrambled behind rocks and flinched as the shell exploded on the face of a big boulder. Sharpe slapped Hagman’s back. ‘Unbelievable, Dan!’
‘I was aiming for his chest, sir.’
‘You spoiled his day, Dan,’ Harper said. ‘You spoiled his bloody day.’ The other riflemen were congratulating Hagman. They were proud of him, delighted that the old man was back on his feet and as good as ever. And the shot had somehow compensated for Williamson’s treachery. They were an elite again, they were riflemen.
‘Do it again, sir?’ Hagman asked Sharpe.
‘Why not?’ Sharpe said. If a mortar did come then its crew would be frightened if they discovered they were within range of the deadly rifles.
Hagman began the laborious process all over again, but no sooner had he wrapped the next bullet in its leather patch than, to Sharpe’s astonishment, the howitzer’s trail was lifted onto the limber and the gun was dragged away into the trees. For a moment Sharpe was exultant, then he feared that the French were simply taking away the howitzer so that the mortar could use the cleared patch of land. He waited with a heavy sense of dread, but no mortar appeared. No one appeared. Even the infantry who had been posted close to the howitzer had gone back into the trees and, for the first time since Sharpe had retreated to the watchtower, the northern slope was deserted. Dragoons still patrolled to the east and west, but after a half-hour they too rode north towards the village.
‘What’s happening?’ Vicente asked.
‘God knows.’
Then, suddenly, Sharpe saw the whole French force, the gun, the cavalry and the infantry, and they were all marching away down the road from Vila Real de Zedes. They must be going back to Oporto and he gazed, dumbfounded, not daring to believe what he saw. ‘It’s a trick,’ Sharpe said, ‘has to be.’ He gave the telescope to Vicente.
‘Maybe it is peace?’ Vicente suggested after he had stared at the retreating French. ‘Maybe the fighting really is over. Why else would they go?’
‘They’re going, sir,’ Harper said, ‘that’s all that matters.’ He had taken the glass from Vicente and could see a farm wagon loaded with the French wounded. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he exulted, ‘but they’re going!’
But why? Was it peace? Had the horsemen, whom Sharpe had feared were escorting a mortar, brought a message instead? An order to retreat? Or was it a trick? Were the French hoping he would go down to the village and so give the dragoons a chance to attack his men on level ground? He was as confused as ever.
‘I’m going down,’ he said. ‘Me, Cooper, Harris, Perkins, Cresacre and Sims.’ He deliberately