kill, ran the last few yards and jumped up onto the
heaps of dead before slashing home with their bayonets. Off to the right the y8th were also
charging home. The British cannon gave a last violent blast of canister, then fell silent
as the Scots blocked the gunners' aim.
Some of the Arabs wanted to fight, others wanted to retreat, but the charge had taken
them by surprise and the rearward ranks were still not aware of the danger and so pressed
forward, forcing the reluctant men at the front onto the Scottish bayonets. The
Highlanders screamed as they killed. Sharpe still held the unloaded musket as he closed up
on the rear rank. He had no bayonet and was wondering whether he should draw his sabre when
a tall Arab suddenly hacked down a front rank man with a scimitar, then pushed forward to
slash with the reddened blade at the second man in the file. Sharpe reversed the musket,
swung it by the barrel and hammered the heavy stock down onto the swordsman's head The Arab
sank down and a bayonet struck into his spine so that he twisted like a speared eel. Sharpe
hit him on the head again, kicked him for good measure, then shoved on. Men were shouting,
screaming, stabbing, spitting, and, right in the face of number six company, a knot of
robed men were slashing with scimitars as though they could defeat the 74th by themselves.
Urquhart pushed his horse up against the rear rank and fired his pistol. One of the Arabs was
plucked back and the others stepped away at last, all except one short man who screamed in
fury and slashed with his long curved blade. The front rank parted to let the scimitar cut
the air between two files, then the second rank also split apart to allow the short man to
come screaming through on his own, with only Sharpe in front.
“He's only a lad!” a Scottish voice shouted in warning as the ranks closed again.
It was not a short man at all, but a boy. Maybe only twelve or thirteen years old, Sharpe
guessed as he fended off the scimitar with the musket barrel. The boy thought he could win
the battle single-handed and leaped at Sharpe, who parried the sword and stepped back to
show he did not want to fight.
“Put it down, lad,” he said.
The boy spat, leaped and cut again. Sharpe parried a third time, then reversed the musket
and slammed its stock into the side of the boy's head. For a second the lad stared at Sharpe
with an astonished look, then he crumpled to the turf.
“They're breaking!” Wellesley shouted from somewhere close by.
“They're breaking!”
Colonel Wallace was in the front rank now, slicing down with his claymore. He hacked like
a farmer, blow after blow. He had lost his cocked hat and his bald pate gleamed in the late
sunlight. There was blood on his horse's flank, and more blood spattered on the white turn
backs of his coat tails. Then the pressure of the enemy collapsed and the horse twisted
into the gap and Wallace spurred it on.
“Come on, boys! Come on!” A man stooped to rescue Wallace's cocked hat.
Its plumes were blood-soaked.
The Arabs were fleeing.
“Go!” Swinton shouted.
“Go! Keep 'em running! Go!”
A man paused to search a corpse's robes and Sergeant Colquhoun dragged the man up and pushed
him on. The file-closers were making sure none of the enemy bodies left behind the
Scottish advance were dangerous. They kicked swords and muskets out of injured men's
hands, prodded apparently unwounded bodies with bayonets and killed any man who showed
a spark of fight. Two pipers were playing their ferocious music, driving the Scots up the
gentle slope where the big Arab drums had been abandoned. Man after man speared the drum
skins with bayonets as they passed.
“Forward on! Forward on!” Urquhart bellowed as though he were on a hunting field.
“To the guns!” Wellesley called.
“Keep going!” Sharpe bellowed at some laggards.
“Go on, you bastards, go on!”
The enemy gun line was at the
heaps of dead before slashing home with their bayonets. Off to the right the y8th were also
charging home. The British cannon gave a last violent blast of canister, then fell silent
as the Scots blocked the gunners' aim.
Some of the Arabs wanted to fight, others wanted to retreat, but the charge had taken
them by surprise and the rearward ranks were still not aware of the danger and so pressed
forward, forcing the reluctant men at the front onto the Scottish bayonets. The
Highlanders screamed as they killed. Sharpe still held the unloaded musket as he closed up
on the rear rank. He had no bayonet and was wondering whether he should draw his sabre when
a tall Arab suddenly hacked down a front rank man with a scimitar, then pushed forward to
slash with the reddened blade at the second man in the file. Sharpe reversed the musket,
swung it by the barrel and hammered the heavy stock down onto the swordsman's head The Arab
sank down and a bayonet struck into his spine so that he twisted like a speared eel. Sharpe
hit him on the head again, kicked him for good measure, then shoved on. Men were shouting,
screaming, stabbing, spitting, and, right in the face of number six company, a knot of
robed men were slashing with scimitars as though they could defeat the 74th by themselves.
Urquhart pushed his horse up against the rear rank and fired his pistol. One of the Arabs was
plucked back and the others stepped away at last, all except one short man who screamed in
fury and slashed with his long curved blade. The front rank parted to let the scimitar cut
the air between two files, then the second rank also split apart to allow the short man to
come screaming through on his own, with only Sharpe in front.
“He's only a lad!” a Scottish voice shouted in warning as the ranks closed again.
It was not a short man at all, but a boy. Maybe only twelve or thirteen years old, Sharpe
guessed as he fended off the scimitar with the musket barrel. The boy thought he could win
the battle single-handed and leaped at Sharpe, who parried the sword and stepped back to
show he did not want to fight.
“Put it down, lad,” he said.
The boy spat, leaped and cut again. Sharpe parried a third time, then reversed the musket
and slammed its stock into the side of the boy's head. For a second the lad stared at Sharpe
with an astonished look, then he crumpled to the turf.
“They're breaking!” Wellesley shouted from somewhere close by.
“They're breaking!”
Colonel Wallace was in the front rank now, slicing down with his claymore. He hacked like
a farmer, blow after blow. He had lost his cocked hat and his bald pate gleamed in the late
sunlight. There was blood on his horse's flank, and more blood spattered on the white turn
backs of his coat tails. Then the pressure of the enemy collapsed and the horse twisted
into the gap and Wallace spurred it on.
“Come on, boys! Come on!” A man stooped to rescue Wallace's cocked hat.
Its plumes were blood-soaked.
The Arabs were fleeing.
“Go!” Swinton shouted.
“Go! Keep 'em running! Go!”
A man paused to search a corpse's robes and Sergeant Colquhoun dragged the man up and pushed
him on. The file-closers were making sure none of the enemy bodies left behind the
Scottish advance were dangerous. They kicked swords and muskets out of injured men's
hands, prodded apparently unwounded bodies with bayonets and killed any man who showed
a spark of fight. Two pipers were playing their ferocious music, driving the Scots up the
gentle slope where the big Arab drums had been abandoned. Man after man speared the drum
skins with bayonets as they passed.
“Forward on! Forward on!” Urquhart bellowed as though he were on a hunting field.
“To the guns!” Wellesley called.
“Keep going!” Sharpe bellowed at some laggards.
“Go on, you bastards, go on!”
The enemy gun line was at the
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