Sharpe's Fortress by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page B

spare flint.
    “And where's your own spare flint, John Hammond?”
    “Christ knows, Sergeant.”
    “Then ask Him, for you're on a charge.”
    A man swore as a bullet tore up his left arm. He backed out of the ranks, the arm hanging

    useless and dripping blood.
    Sharpe pushed into the gap between the companies, put the musket to his shoulder and

    fired. The kick slammed into his shoulder, but it felt good. Something to do at last. He

    dropped the butt, fished a cartridge from the pouch and bit off the top, tasting the salt in

    the gunpowder. He rammed, fired again, loaded again. A bullet made an odd fluttering

    noise as it went past his ear, then another whined overhead. He waited for the rolling

    volley to come down the battalion's face, then fired with the other men of six company's

    first platoon. Drop the butt, new cartridge, bite, prime, pour, ram, ramrod back in the

    hoops, gun up, butt into the bruised shoulder and haul back the dog-head, Sharpe did it as

    efficiently as any other man, but he had been trained to it. That was the difference, he

    thought grimly. He was trained, but no one trained the officers. They had bugger all to do,

    so why train them? Ensign Venables was right, the only duty of a junior officer was to

    stay alive, but Sharpe could not resist a fight. Besides, it felt better to stand in the

    ranks and fire into the enemy's smoke than stand behind the company and do nothing.
    The Arabs were fighting well. Damned well. Sharpe could not remember any other enemy

    who had stood and taken so much concentrated platoon fire. Indeed, the robed men were

    trying to advance, but they were checked by the ragged heap of bodies that had been their

    front ranks. How many damned ranks had they? A dozen? He watched a green flag fall, then the

    banner was picked up and waved in the air.
    Their big drums still beat, making a menacing sound to match the redcoats' pipers. The

    Arab guns had unnaturally long barrels that spewed dirty smoke and licking tongues of

    flame. Another bullet whipped close enough to Sharpe to bat his face with a gust of warm

    air.
    He fired again, then a hand seized his coat collar and dragged him violently

    backwards.
    “Your place, Ensign Sharpe,” Captain Urquhart said vehemently, 'is here! Behind the

    line!" The Captain was mounted and his horse had inadvertently stepped back as Urquhart

    seized Sharpe's collar, and the weight of the horse had made the Captain's tug far more

    violent than he had intended.
    “You're not a private any longer,” he said, steadying Sharpe who had almost been pulled

    off his feet.
    “Of course, sir,” Sharpe said, and he did not meet Urquhart's gaze, but stared bitterly

    ahead. He was blushing, knowing he had been reprimanded in front of the men. Damn it to

    hell, he thought.
    “Prepare to charge!” Major Swinton called.
    “Prepare to charge!” Captain Urquhart echoed, spurring his horse away from Sharpe.
    The Scotsmen pulled out their bayonets and twisted them onto the lugs of their musket

    barrels.
    “Empty your guns!” Swinton called, and those men who were still loaded raised their

    muskets and fired a last volley.
    '74th!" Swinton shouted.
    “Forward! I want to hear some pipes! Let me hear pipes!”
    “Go on, Swinton, go on!” Wallace shouted. There was no need to encourage the

    battalion forward, for it was going willingly, but the Colonel was excited. He drew his

    claymore and pushed his horse into the rear rank of number seven company.
    “Onto them, lads! Onto them!”
    The redcoats marched forward, trampling through the scatter of little fires started by

    their musket wadding.
    The Arabs seemed astonished that the redcoats were advancing.
    Some drew their own bayonets, while others pulled long curved swords from scabbards.
    “They won't stand!” Wellesley shouted.
    “They won't stand.”
    “They bloody well will,” a man grunted.
    “Go on!” Swinton shouted.
    “Go on!” And the 74th, released to the