Free Sharpe's Gold by Bernard Cornwell Page A

his glass open, found Kearsey, and saw the Major look over his shoulder

    and urge Marlborough to go faster. The big roan responded, widening the gap from the

    nearest lancers, and Knowles clapped his hands. 'Go on, sir!'
    'They must have caught him crossing the road, sir,' Harper said.
    Marlborough was taking the Major out of trouble, stretching the lead, galloping

    easily. Kearsey had not even bothered to unsheath his sabre and Sharpe was just relaxing

    when suddenly the big horse reared up, twisted sideways, and Kearsey fell.
    'What the -'
    'Bloody nightjar!' Harper had seen a bird fly up, startled, right beneath the horse's

    nose. Sharpe wondered, irrelevantly, how the Irishman could possibly have identified

    the bird at such a distance. He focused the glass again. Kearsey was on his feet,

    Marlborough was unhurt, and the little man was reaching up desperately to put his foot

    in the stirrup. The trumpet sounded again, the sound delayed by the distance, but Sharpe

    had already seen the lancers spurring their horses, reaching out with their nine-foot

    weapons, and he gritted his teeth as Kearsey seemed to take an age in swinging himself into

    the saddle.
    'Where's El Catolico?' Knowles asked.
    'Miles away.' Harper sounded gloomy.
    The horse went forward again, Kearsey's heels raking back, but the lancers were

    desperately close. The Major turned the roan downslope towards the village, letting his

    speed build up before turning back, but his horse seemed winded or frightened. The roan's

    head tossed nervously, Kearsey urged it, and at the moment when Sharpe knew the lancers must

    catch him the Major realized it as well. He circled back, sword drawn, and Knowles

    groaned.
    'He might do it yet.' Harper spoke gently, as if to a nervous recruit on the

    battlefield.
    Four lancers were closest to the Major. He spurred towards them, singled one out, and

    Sharpe saw the sabre, point downwards, high in Kearsey's hand. Marlborough had calmed, and

    as the lancers thundered in, Kearsey touched the spurs, the horse leapt forward, and the

    Major had turned the right-hand lance to one side, swivelled his wrist with the speed of a

    trained swordsman, and one Pole lay beheaded on the ground.
    'Beautiful!' Sharpe was grinning. Once a man got past the razor tip of a lance he was

    safe.
    Kearsey was through, crouching on Marlborough's neck, urging the horse on towards the

    hills, but the first squadron of lancers were close behind their fellows, at full gallop,

    and the effort was useless. A dust cloud engulfed the Englishman, the silver points

    disappeared in the storm, and Kearsey was trapped with only his sword to save him. A man

    reeled out of the fight holding his stomach, and Sharpe knew the sabre had laid open the

    horseman's guts. The dust billowed like cannon smoke. The lance points were forced upwards

    in the press and once – Sharpe was not sure – he thought he saw the slashing light of the

    lifted sabre. It was magnificent, quite hopeless, one man against a regiment, and Sharpe

    watched the commotion subside, the dust drift towards the nightjar's treacherous nest,

    and the lance points sink to rest. It was over.
    'Poor bastard.' Harper had not been looking forward to company prayers, but he had

    never wanted lancers to take away the unpleasant prospect.
    'He's alive!' Knowles was pointing. 'Look!' It was true. Sharpe rested the glass on the

    rock rim of the gully and saw the Major riding between two of his captors. There was blood

    on his thigh, a lot, and Sharpe saw Kearsey trying to stem the flow with his two fists where a

    lance point had gouged into his right leg. It was a good capture for the Poles. An

    exploring officer whom they could keep for a few months before exchanging for a

    Frenchman of equal rank. They could well have recognized him. The exploring officers

    often rode in sight of their enemy, their uniforms distinct, relying on their fast

    horses to carry them from trouble, and