Chapter Twelve

Wilkins swore at the French as he ducked from bullets behind a fallen masonry, aiming his rifle and firing at them. The French could see victory sliding away from them as a group of men spurred to the aid of the murderous rifleman. With a yell of hatred, they spurred towards Wilkins, now standing as he brought down a runner in front.

"Adam!' Sharpe bellowed, 'Adam!"

Wilkins, murderer, villain, and rifleman, turned for a second, gave his demon-like smile, and drew his knife. Other riflemen, and Portuguese too, called for him to run.

And run he did.

Wilkins snarled as he leaped onto the nearest two, slicing and stabbing at their eyes and faces. Even as he turned to kill another, a dozen bayonets stabbed into his chest. Adam Wilkins was dead before he hit the ground. The French cheered as they jabbed at another hated rifleman.

And then a bellow erupted from two giants woken up.

Patrick Harper, his eyes shining with battle-light, and the blood of a thousand Irish warriors pumping through him, charged to kill the French. He screamed battle cries in Gaelic, the ancient language of his beloved Ireland. And beside him came Richard Sharpe, in his own battle-fury, coming to exact revenge.

None could have stood against them. There was no way the French could have stood. But stand they did for a minute longer, because they had promised their General that they would give him this fort.

Behind the two berserkers, however, came more furious soldiers. Will Boris, using the brass knuckles he had worn as a pugilist, broke jaws and noses alike. Daniel Hagman and five Portuguese from the wall fired a small but deadly volley into the mass of Frenchmen. Tongue and Harris, the two educated men, fired close range. MacGall, cursing in Scots, led the 22nd Light Company.

The French broke. Their enemies fought with a determination and rage they did not possess. Running back down the hill, they fled from the jeering enemy who had beaten them once again.

Sharpe knelt beside Wilkins. There were dozens of puncture wounds in his chest, and his eyes were glazed over in death.

"You stupid bugger.' Sharpe cursed in his tears of grief, 'you goddamn idiot."

Harper and the others gathered round the corpse of a man who had been born a tramp, lived a killer, and died a hero.

Wilkins had once drunkenly stated he'd rather be burned than buried. Thus, they fulfilled his wishes that night. He and ten others were burned, but Wilkins had been the only casualty of Sharpe's riflemen from that fight.

Sharpe sat with Harper with their backs to the glowing embers.

Harper turned to Sharpe, "Sir, I must congratulate you. You're a bastard of a fighter. I've said it before, and I'll say it again now."

Sharpe smiled, "You're one to talk."

Harper grinned, "Aye, it's true. I would have beaten you to the ground that time last winter. But you cheated."

Sharpe laughed out loud, "Could I have beaten you if I hadn't?"

They were silent for a moment.

Harper looked up, "Damn pity about Wilkins. He was a useful bugger, he was."

Sharpe nodded in agreement. There was nothing to say.

Lewis came up, juggling three glasses of wine in two hands, "Sir! A drink to celebrate our victory."

Sharpe accepted the offer, as did Harper.

The men were cheerful that night, and toasted that the casualties of today would have a horde of Frenchmen to carve the way for them.

MacGall ordered the Light Company to stand guard for the night. Everyone else went to bed.

Sharpe and Harper stayed awake. They stood on the north wall, looking at the two hundred or so French cavalry that had seen almost no action for the last days. Sharpe had seen the disadvantage in the rocky slope. There was no cover, and anybody moving around would doubtless send some loose rocks down the hill.

Harper looked at the men at the bottom. "They must think we'd never dare hit them from this side."

Sharpe grimaced. "Who would, Pat? Herron's smart enough to know I'm not going to try to escape on this shit-heap."

Harper scowled at the thought, "Aye, right you are. We couldn't think of trying to escape this way. We'd make too much noise."

Sharpe was about to agree, and then suddenly, an idea hit him. It came so quickly, so spontaneously, that he could barely speak. Goddamn it! How could he never have thought of it? "Harps!"

Harper looked over at the lieutenant, "Sir!"

Sharpe felt incredibly excited as he talked, "You just said that we'd make too much noise going down this slope?"

"Aye. But what does that explain?"

"If we tried to escape on this side, we'd make noise, but what if there were something to distract them?"

A big smile began to form on the Irishman's, "Christ! What are you saying?"

Sharpe grinned, "If we distracted Herron and his main force up at the gate, we'd overwhelm those bastards down there. We'd be home free!"

Patrick Harper gave a huge whoop, jumping into the air, "God save Ireland! It's brilliant!"

Sharpe nodded with grim satisfaction.

The next morning, Sharpe spoke with the sergeants and officers, "Before I tell you my plan, I must know how much gunpowder we have."

He waited patiently, knowing that their answer what they were going to influence how he'd work his plan.

Lewis answered first, "We actually brought 3 barrels of gunpowder. Kind of odd, since we had no special need for it."

"Well we do now. We're using it to get out of here."

MacGall smiled, "How?"

Sharpe looked at the wall facing Herron. "We're blowing that thing up."

Lewis choked on his water. MacGall thought about that, and remarked, "A diversion, Sharpe?" He had not called Sharpe 'sir' once the whole time since they met. Sharpe liked it better that way.

"Herron and the men in front will be deafened by the noise, and also, they'll be dodging rocks. In the meantime, we bolt down the rocks, take out the guards with bayonets, and steal their horses."

Sergeant Connelly raised a hand, "Assuming everyone knows how to ride a horse."

Sharpe thought of that. It made a bugger lot of sense.

He shrugged, "Then we'll just set them loose. They'll be panicking from the sound." That was true, and a panicked horse, if set loose, runs far.

It was settled. Everything depended on timing, and speed.

It was planned perfectly. Sharpe directed his men to lay the gunpowder under three parts of the wall facing Herron's main camp.

Trails winded like snakes across the ground to where Harper sat grinning, a torch held away from the trails. Sharpe and the rest were standing ready to head down the hill.

Sharpe looked at the men down below. It was a cloudy day, and the French were content to keep their shelters handy in case of a storm.

Sharpe smiled to himself. He waved his hand to Harper.

The time had come.

Harper lit each trail, an exact minute between each one. They caused the powder to crackle, as they went to the parts in the wall that would unleash the deadliest barrage Sharpe could ever provide.

Harper started running, "It's AWAY!"

Sharpe and the men charged down the hill. None had loaded guns; it would be a fight for the bayonets. Thinking of this, Sharpe thought of Wilkins.

Then he thought of the powder. Shouldn't it have reached the wall yet? Suddenly he was aware of something that he hadn't noticed.

It had begun to rain.

Everyone had stopped, realizing that their plan was ruined. Even now the French noticed them, and were rousing their companions.

Sharpe sighed. It would lead to another fight. And this time he knew that it was over.

"Sir! The powder under the wall is still dry!"

Sharpe turned.

Oliver Sanders, the singer with the angel voice, was hurtling towards the wall. He had Harper's abandoned torch in his hand.

Sharpe went into automatic action, "Sanders! Get back here!"

"Sir!" Harper restrained the lieutenant. "He's doing it for us! He's made up his mind."

Sharpe reluctantly started to run. No, he was running as fast as the rest of them, but he restrained the urge to look back several times. He hated losing his men, but one was making a sacrifice for them, and it would not be done in vain.

The wall exploded behind them. In all his life, Sharpe had never heard something so loud. He also felt its heat. Faintly too, were the screams of the French due to the chunks of rock crushing them.

The French in front of them were paralysed with shock. Many stood limp as the British and Portuguese ran past. Those that resisted were quickly killed.

Sharpe looked and saw MacGall and the 22nd scatter those horses that hadn't bolted. Lewis and the Portuguese were already plunging into the woods.

Sharpe looked at his riflemen. All were silent. They had known that Sanders had as good a chance to die as the others did, but it still hurt. Sharpe was unsure if it was rain, or tears on some of their faces.

Summoning up the courage, he called out, "Rifles, let's go home."

Slowly at first, the riflemen followed him to the way back to Lisbon. Back to where Hogan was waiting, or far more likely, bringing up reinforcements like he'd promised. They were no longer needed. The 22nd had been more than enough.

Sharpe looked back at those French mulling round. Whether Herron lived or not, it was irrelevant. Somehow, Sharpe knew that Herron would let them go. Enough men had died.

He looked at the men round him. Portuguese guerrillas, men of the 22nd, the flotsam and jetsam of the Second Battalion of the 95th Rifles.

All of them had fought harder than they had ever had to. But they would fight like that again, and again if they wanted to win. This war with Napoleon was far from over. It would be a long time before the Corsican Ogre was defeated, Sharpe thought. So they, the devils of the battlefield, the unwanted criminals, would fight like hell to stay alive.

And they were alive. They had fought a foe many times their number. A lesser force would have surrendered. But they had made a stand. And it had been their stand.

Sharpe's stand.