protection. An officer ran into the shallow water, probably shouting at the men to get to their feet and try again, and Sharpe aimed at the officer, pulled the trigger, and the rifle banged into his shoulder as an errant spark from the flint stung his right eye. When the smoke cleared he saw the panicked officer running back to the bank, holding his scabbarded sword clear of the water in one hand and clutching his hat in the other. Slattery fired a second time and a splinter smacked up from one of the pontoons. Then Harper’s next shot threw a man into the river and there was a swirl of blood in which the man thrashed as he drifted away. Harris fired and most of the French waded away from the pontoons to take shelter behind some boulders on the bank.
“Just keep them there,” Sharpe said. “As soon as they try to shift those barges, kill them.”
He climbed back up the hill. The brigadier was propped against a rock now. “What’s happening?” he asked.
“Frogs are trying to salvage the barges, sir. We’re stopping them.”
The boom of the French guns in Fort Josephine echoed down the river valley. “Why are they firing?” the brigadier asked irritably.
“My guess, sir,” Sharpe said, “is that some of our boys are trying to use a pontoon as a boat to look for us. And the frogs are shooting at them.”
“Bloody hell,” Moon said. He closed his eyes and grimaced. “You wouldn’t, I suppose, have any brandy?”
“No, sir, sorry, sir.” Sharpe would have bet a penny against the crown jewels that at least one of his men had brandy or rum in their canteen, but he would be damned before he took it away from them for the brigadier. “I’ve got water, sir,” he said, offering his canteen.
“Damn your water.”
Sharpe reckoned he could trust his riflemen to behave sensibly until they managed to recross the river, but the six fugitives from the 88th were another matter. The 88th were the Connaught Rangers and some men reckoned them the most fearsome regiment in the whole army, but they also had a reputation for wild indiscipline. The six rangers were led by a toothless sergeant and Sharpe, knowing that if the sergeant was on his side then the other men would probably cause no trouble, crossed to him. “What’s your name, Sergeant?” Sharpe asked him.
“Noolan, sir.”
“I want you to watch over there,” Sharpe said, pointing north to the crest of the hill above the bluff. “I’m expecting a battalion of bloody frogs to come over that hill, and when they do, sing out.”
“I’ll sing right enough, sir,” Noolan promised, “sing like a choir, I will.”
“If they do come,” Sharpe said, “we’ll have to go south. I know the 88th is good, but I don’t think there’s quite enough of you to fight off a whole French battalion.”
Sergeant Noolan looked at his five men, considered Sharpe’s statement, then nodded gravely. “Not quite enough of us, sir, you’re right. And what are you thinking of doing, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“What I’m hoping,” Sharpe said, “is that the frogs will get tired of us and bugger off. Then we can try to float one of those pontoons and get across the river. Tell your men that, Sergeant. I want to get them home, and the best way home is to be patient.”
A sudden rattle of rifle fire drew Sharpe back to Harper’s position. The French were making another attempt to free the pontoons, and this time they had made a rope by linking their musket slings together and three men were bravely fastening the line to one of the samsom posts. One man had been hit and was limping back to the shore. Sharpe began reloading his rifle, but before he had rammed the leather-wrapped ball down the barrel, the remaining Frenchmen sprinted back to their shelter, taking the line with them. Sharpe saw the rope come dripping from the river as men hauled on it. The line straightened and tightened and he guessed that nearly all the French were tugging on it, but he
“Just keep them there,” Sharpe said. “As soon as they try to shift those barges, kill them.”
He climbed back up the hill. The brigadier was propped against a rock now. “What’s happening?” he asked.
“Frogs are trying to salvage the barges, sir. We’re stopping them.”
The boom of the French guns in Fort Josephine echoed down the river valley. “Why are they firing?” the brigadier asked irritably.
“My guess, sir,” Sharpe said, “is that some of our boys are trying to use a pontoon as a boat to look for us. And the frogs are shooting at them.”
“Bloody hell,” Moon said. He closed his eyes and grimaced. “You wouldn’t, I suppose, have any brandy?”
“No, sir, sorry, sir.” Sharpe would have bet a penny against the crown jewels that at least one of his men had brandy or rum in their canteen, but he would be damned before he took it away from them for the brigadier. “I’ve got water, sir,” he said, offering his canteen.
“Damn your water.”
Sharpe reckoned he could trust his riflemen to behave sensibly until they managed to recross the river, but the six fugitives from the 88th were another matter. The 88th were the Connaught Rangers and some men reckoned them the most fearsome regiment in the whole army, but they also had a reputation for wild indiscipline. The six rangers were led by a toothless sergeant and Sharpe, knowing that if the sergeant was on his side then the other men would probably cause no trouble, crossed to him. “What’s your name, Sergeant?” Sharpe asked him.
“Noolan, sir.”
“I want you to watch over there,” Sharpe said, pointing north to the crest of the hill above the bluff. “I’m expecting a battalion of bloody frogs to come over that hill, and when they do, sing out.”
“I’ll sing right enough, sir,” Noolan promised, “sing like a choir, I will.”
“If they do come,” Sharpe said, “we’ll have to go south. I know the 88th is good, but I don’t think there’s quite enough of you to fight off a whole French battalion.”
Sergeant Noolan looked at his five men, considered Sharpe’s statement, then nodded gravely. “Not quite enough of us, sir, you’re right. And what are you thinking of doing, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“What I’m hoping,” Sharpe said, “is that the frogs will get tired of us and bugger off. Then we can try to float one of those pontoons and get across the river. Tell your men that, Sergeant. I want to get them home, and the best way home is to be patient.”
A sudden rattle of rifle fire drew Sharpe back to Harper’s position. The French were making another attempt to free the pontoons, and this time they had made a rope by linking their musket slings together and three men were bravely fastening the line to one of the samsom posts. One man had been hit and was limping back to the shore. Sharpe began reloading his rifle, but before he had rammed the leather-wrapped ball down the barrel, the remaining Frenchmen sprinted back to their shelter, taking the line with them. Sharpe saw the rope come dripping from the river as men hauled on it. The line straightened and tightened and he guessed that nearly all the French were tugging on it, but he
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