Gough looked at the throng of Frenchmen through the smoke. The 87th’s colors just above the colonel’s head were twitching as the bullets struck them. “Steel?” he asked.

“We have to do something, Gough. Can’t just stand here and die.”

Sharpe had lost sight of Vandal. There was too much smoke. He saw a Frenchman stoop to the body of a fallen Portuguese skirmisher and rummage through the dead man’s pockets. Sharpe knelt, aimed, and fired. When the rifle smoke cleared he saw the Frenchman on all fours, head down. He reloaded. He was tempted to ram the ball down naked rather than wrapping it in its greased leather patch. He thought the French might charge at any moment and the thing to do now was to kill them fast, to pour fire at them, and a naked ball in a rifle was quick to load. At this distance the inaccuracy did not matter. But if he saw Vandal again he wanted to be sure of his shot and so he took a leather patch, wrapped the ball, and rammed it down the rifled barrel. “Look for their officers,” he told his men.

A pistol sounded beside Sharpe and he looked to see that Captain Galiana had dismounted and was now reloading the small weapon. “Fire!” the lieutenant commanding the closest company of the 87th shouted and the muskets blasted out smoke. A man fell back from the front rank, a hole black in his forehead.

“Leave him be!” a sergeant shouted. “He’s a dead ’un! Reload!”

“Fix bayonets!” the shout came from just behind the 87th and was repeated down the line, getting fainter as the order traveled north. “Fix bayonets!”

“God save Ireland,” Harper said. “This is desperate.”

“Not much choice,” Sharpe said. The French were winning by sheer numbers. They were pressing forward, and Colonel Wheatley could either retreat or attack. To retreat was to lose, but to attack was at least to test the French.

“Swords, sir?” Slattery asked.

“Fix swords,” Sharpe said. It was no time to worry about whether this was his fight or not. The battle trembled. Another French volley slammed into the red ranks. Then two gouts of canister slashed away the blue-coated men who had fired the shots. An Irish boy was screaming horribly, rolling in front of the ranks with bloody hands clutching his groin. A sergeant silenced him with a merciful blow of a musket butt to the skull.

“Forward now! Forward!” a brigade major bellowed.

“The 87th will advance!” Gough shouted. “Faugh a ballagh!”

“Faugh a ballagh!” the surviving men of the 87th responded, and went forward.

“Steady, boys!” Gough shouted. “Steady!”

But the 87th did not want to be steady. A quarter of their number was either dead or wounded, and they had a seething anger against the men who had punished them in the last hour, and so they went eagerly. The sooner they were at the enemy, the sooner that enemy would die, and Gough could not hold them. They began to run, and as they ran they sounded a high-pitched scream, terrifying in itself, and their seventeen-inch bayonets were bright in the sun, which was almost at its winter zenith.

“Forward!” The men to Sharpe’s right were keeping pace with the 87th. Duncan’s gunners handspiked their cannon around to rake the flank of the French line.

“And kill! And kill!” Ensign Keogh was shouting at the top of his voice. He carried his slim sword in one hand and gripped his cocked hat in the other.

“Faugh a ballagh!” Gough bellowed.

French muskets roared horribly close and men were torn backward, blood spraying their neighbors, but the charge could not be stopped now. All along the line the redcoats were going forward with bayonets because to stay still was to die and to retreat was to lose. They numbered fewer than a thousand now, and they were attacking three times their number. “Get into them! Get into them!” an officer of the Cauliflowers shouted. “Kill them, kill them!”

The front rank of the French tried to step back, but the ranks behind thrust them on, and the redcoats struck. Bayonets rammed forward. Muskets fired at less than a yard’s range. A sergeant of the 87th was chanting as though he were training men at the barracks. “Lunge! Recover! Stance! Lunge! Recover! Stance! Not in his ribs, you bloody fool! In his belly! Lunge! Recover! Stance! In the belly, boys, in the belly! Lunge!”

An Irishman’s bayonet was trapped in the ribs of a Frenchman. It would not come out and in desperation he pulled his trigger and was surprised that the weapon was loaded. The blast of gas and ball jerked the bayonet free. “In the belly!” the sergeant shouted, for a bayonet was far less likely to be trapped in an enemy’s stomach than in his ribs. Those officers still mounted were firing pistols over their men’s shakos. Men lunged, recovered, lunged again, and some were so battle-maddened that they did not care how they fought and just clubbed with their musket butts. “Rip it out, boy!” the sergeant shouted. “Don’t just prick the bastard! Do some damage! Lunge! Recover!”

They were the despised of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. They were the drunks and the thieves, the scourings of gutters and jails. They wore the red coat because no one else wanted them, or because they were so desperate that they had no choice. They were the scum of Britain, but they could fight. They had always fought, but in the army they were taught how to fight with discipline. They discovered sergeants and officers who valued them. They punished them too, of course, and swore at them, and cursed them, and whipped their backs bloody and cursed them again, but valued them. They even loved them, and officers worth five thousand pounds a year were fighting alongside them now. The redcoats were doing what they did best, what they were paid a shilling a day less stoppages to do: they were killing.

The French advance was stopped. There was no edging forward now. Their front ranks were dying and the ranks behind were trying to escape the wild men with bloody faces, men who were screaming like fiends. “Faugh a ballagh! Faugh a ballagh!” Gough kicked his horse through his men and hacked down with his sword at a French sergeant. The color party was behind him, the ensigns carrying the two flags and the sergeants armed with nine-foot-long spontoons, razor-pointed pikes that were meant to protect the colors, though now the sergeants were on the offensive, savaging the French with the long narrow blades. Sergeant Patrick Masterson was one of the pikemen and he was almost as big as Harper. He thrust the spontoon into French faces, one after the other, driving them down where bayonets could kill them. He lunged a path through the first French rank, had the blade parried by a bayonet, withdrew it, lunged again, but at the last second dropped the spontoon’s head so that it punched through cloth and skin and muscle into an enemy belly. The thrust was so hard that the blade sank to the crosspiece, which stopped an enemy’s corpse, trapping itself on the shaft. He kicked the dying Frenchman off the blade and thrust again and redcoats cut their way into the gap he made. Some Frenchmen lay unwounded, their hands over their heads, just praying that the screaming fiends would spare them. Ensign Keogh sliced his sword at a mustachioed Frenchman, opening a slashing wound from one cheek to the other and almost hitting a redcoat beside him as the wild swing hissed backward. Keogh’s hat was gone. He was shouting the 87th’s war cry, “Faugh a ballagh!” Clear the way, and the blades were carving the way through the tight-packed French ranks.

All along the line it was the same. Bayonets against conscripts, savagery against sudden, bowel-loosening terror. The fight had been poised, it had even tilted toward the French as their greater numbers told, but Wheatley had made the move and the laws of mathematics had been taken over by the crueler laws of hard-training and harder men. The redcoats were going forward, slowly forward because they were fighting against a press of enemy and were stumbling on the bodies they had put on the blood-slicked grass, but they were still going forward.