Free Sharpe's Revenge by Bernard Cornwell

skirmishers would scatter to fight their lonely battles with the French light troops. Sharpe, a skirmisher by nature, wanted to fight with them and, as ever, he wanted to fight on foot. He summoned a headquarters’ clerk and gave the man Sycorax’s reins. ‘Keep her out of trouble.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    A drummer made a flurry of sound as Taplow uncased his battalion’s colours. Sharpe, walking past the colour party, took his shako off in salute to the two heavy flags of fringed silks. A French roundshot, fired blind and at extreme range from one of the ridge’s centre batteries, smacked into the wet ground and, instead of bouncing, drove a slurry-filled furrow across Sharpe’s front. He wiped the mud from his face and unslun g his rifle.
    The rifle was another of Sharpe’s eccentricities. Officers might be expected to carry a pistol into battle, but not a longarm, yet Sharpe insisted on keeping the ranker’s weapon. He loaded it as he walked, tested the flint’s seating in its leather-lined doghead, then slung it back on his shoulder.
    â€˜A nice day for a battle.’ Frederickson greeted Sharpe cheerfully.
    â€˜You think Easter is an appropriate day?’
    â€˜It has an implicit promise that we’ll rise from the grave. Not that I have any intention of testing the promise.’ Frederickson turned his one eye to the skyline. ‘If you were Marshal Soult, what would you have waiting up there?’
    â€˜Every damned field gun in my army.’ The knot was tying itself in Sharpe’s belly as he imagined the efficient French twelve-pounders lined wheel to wheel.
    â€˜Let us hope he doesn’t have sufficient guns.’ Frederickson did not sound hopeful. He, like Sharpe, could imagine the horse-teams dragging the field guns from where the Spanish had been repulsed to where they could decimate this new attack.
    Trumpet calls sounded far to Sharpe’s left, were repeated ever closer, and the first line of Beresford’s attack started forward. The second line was held for a moment before it too was ordered into motion. Almost at once the careful alignments of the thin lines wavered because of the ground’s unevenness. Sergeants began bellowing orders for the men to watch their dressing. The officers’ horses, as if sensing what waited for them, became skittish.
    â€˜Are you here to take command?’ Frederickson asked Sharpe as the skirmishers started forward.
    â€˜Are you the senior Captain?’
    Frederickson cast a dour look at the Captains of the three redcoat Light Companies. ‘By a very long way.’
    The sour tone told Sharpe that Frederickson was resenting the lack of promotion. Rank was clearly more important to a man who planned to stay in the army, and Frederickson well knew how slow promotion could be in peacetime when there were no cannons and muskets to create convenient vacancies. And Frederickson, more than any man Sharpe knew, deserved promotion. Sharpe made a mental note to ask Nairn if he could help, then smiled. ‘I won’t interfere with you, William. I’ll just watch, so fight your own battle.’
    â€˜The last one,’ Frederickson said almost in wonder. ‘I suppose that’s what it will be. Our last battle. Let us make it a good one, sir. Let’s send some souls to hell.’
    â€˜Amen.’
    The three advancing lines seemed very fragile as they climbed upwards. The sweep of the lines was interrupted by the battalions’ colours; splashes of bright cloth guarded by the long, shining-bladed halberds. Following the three lines were the battalion bands, all playing different tunes so that the belly-jarring thump of their big drums clashed. The music was jaunty, rhythmic and simple; the music for death.
    Frederickson’s Riflemen were mingled with the redcoats of the other three Light companies. Those redcoats carried the quick-firing but short-ranged muskets, while the