‘The ambushers ambushed!’
The horsemen had stopped. Sharpe swung the glass back. One Spaniard held the reins of the prisoners’ horses while the others dismounted. The naked men were pulled from their saddles and the ropes that had tied their legs beneath the horses’ bellies were used to lash their ankles tightly together. Then more rope was produced, thick loops hanging from the Partisans’ saddles, and the two Frenchmen were tied behind the horses. Knowles had borrowed Sharpe’s telescope and beneath his tan he paled, shocked by the sight.
‘They won’t run far,’ the Lieutenant said half in hope.
Kearsey shook his head. ‘They will.’
Sharpe took the glass back. The Partisans were unfastening their saddle-bags, going back to the horses with the roped men. ‘What are they doing, sir?’
‘Thistles.’
Sharpe understood. Along the paths and in the high rocks huge purple thistles grew, often as high as a man, and the Spanish, a horse at a time, were thrusting the heads of the spiny plants beneath the empty saddles. The first horse began fighting, rearing up, but was held firm, until with a final crack over its rump the beast was released and it sprung off, infuriated by the pain, the prisoner jerked by the legs and scraped in a cloud of dust behind the angry horse.
The second horse followed, pulling left and right, zigzagging behind the first towards the village. The three Spaniards mounted and stood their horses quietly. One had a long cigar, and through the telescope Sharpe saw the smoke drift over the fields.
‘Good God.’ Knowles stared unbelieving.
‘No need for blasphemy.’ Kearsey’s gruff reprimand did not hide the excitement in his voice.
The two naked, tied men were invisible in the dust, but, as the horses swerved at a rock, Sharpe caught a glimpse, a flash through the cloud, of a body streaked red, and then the horse was running again. By now the Frenchmen would be unconscious, the pain gone, but the Partisans had guessed right and Sharpe saw the first movement in the village as the gates of Cesar Moreno’s big house were thrown open and cavalry, hidden all morning, rode on to the street. Sharpe saw sky-blue trousers, brown jackets, and the tall fur helmet. ‘Hussars.’
‘Wait. This is the clever bit.’ Kearsey could not hide his admiration.
The Hussars, sabres drawn, cantered down the street to meet the two horses with their terrible attachments. It seemed that the Spanish plan was to end in anticlimax, for the Hussars would rescue the two bloody and battered Frenchmen at the northern end of the village, but then the two horses became aware of the cavalry. They stopped.
‘Jesus,’ Harper muttered. He was using Sharpe’s glass. ‘One of those buggers is moving.’
Sharpe could see him. Far from unconscious, one of the two naked Frenchmen was trying to sit up, a writhing mass of blood, but suddenly he was whirled back to the roadway, wrenched terribly about, and the horses were moving, away from the Hussars, splitting apart in a mad, panicked gallop. Kearsey nodded in satisfaction. ‘They won’t go near French cavalry, not unless they’re ridden. They’re too used to running from it.’
There was chaos in the valley. The horses, with their thistle-driven pain, circled crazily in the fields; the Hussars, all order gone, tried to ride them down, and the nearer the French came to them the more the Spanish horses took the disorganized mass northwards. Sharpe guessed there were a hundred Frenchmen, in undisciplined groups, crossing and recrossing the fields. He looked back to the village, saw more horsemen standing in the street, watching the chase, and he wondered how he would feel if those two bodies were his men, and he knew that he would do what the French were doing: try to rescue them.
‘Good.’ Knowles seemed to have sided, instinctively, with the French.
One of the horses had been caught and quieted, and dismounted French cavalrymen were unbuckling the girth and untying the prisoner. A trumpet sounded, calling order to the scattered Hussars who still raced after the other horse, and at that exact moment, as the trumpet notes reached the gully, El Católico launched his own horsemen from the northern hills. They came down on to the scattered and outnumbered French in a long line, blacks and browns and greys, swords of all descriptions held over their heads, the dust spurting behind them, while from the rocks on the hillside Sharpe saw muskets firing over their heads at the surprised French.
Kearsey almost jumped over the rim with joy. His fist slammed into the rock. ‘Perfect!’
The ambushers had been ambushed.
CHAPTER FIVE
El Católico, the Catholic, led the horsemen from the cover of the hills, and Sharpe found him in the telescope. Kearsey barked out a description, but even without it Sharpe would have recognized the tall man as the leader. ‘Grey cloak, grey boots, long rapier, black horse.’
Kearsey was thumping his fist on the rock, willing the Partisans on, closer and closer to the wheeling French. Sharpe scanned the guerrilla line, looking for the blue and silver of a Prince of Wales Dragoon, but he could see no sign of Captain Hardy. He remembered Kearsey saying that El Católico’s fiancée, Teresa, fought like a man, but he could see no woman in the charging line, just men screaming defiance as the first horses met and the swords chopped down on the outnumbered French.
In the village the trumpets split the quiet; men scrambled on to nervous mounts, sabres hissed from scabbards, but El Católico was no fool. He was not going to fight a regiment and lose. Sharpe saw him waving at his men, turning them back, and the Rifleman searched with the telescope in the obscuring dust for clues to what was happening. The French had been hard-punished. Outnumbered two to one, they had fallen back, taking casualties, and the Spanish charge had given them no time to form a disciplined line. Sharpe saw prisoners, dragged by the arms, going back with the horsemen who had been disciplined, presumably by El Católico, to make the one killing charge and then get out of danger’s way. Sharpe admired the action. The French had been baited, had fallen for the lure, and then been savagely hurt in one quick charge. It was hardly two minutes since the Spanish had appeared and already, hidden by dust, they were returning to the hills and taking with them more prisoners whose fate would be worse than that of the two men who had drawn the Hussars from the safety of the village walls. One man alone stayed in the valley.
El Católico stood his horse and watched the Hussars stretching out from the village. Closer to him were the survivors of the Spanish charge and they now spurred their horses to attack the lone Partisan. El Católico seemed unconcerned. He urged his horse into a canter, away from the safety of the hills, circled in the uncut barley and looked over his shoulder as the French came close. A dozen men were chasing him, leaning over their horses’ manes, sabres stretched out, and it was certain that the tall Partisan leader must be taken until, at the last moment, his horse sidestepped, the thin rapier flashed, one Frenchman was down and the big, black horse with its grey rider was in full gallop to the north and the Hussars were milling in uncertainty where their leader lay dead. Sharpe whistled softly.
Kearsey smiled. ‘He’s the finest swordsman on the border. Probably in Spain. I’ve seen him take on four Frenchmen and he never stopped saying the prayer for their death.’
Sharpe stared into the valley. A hundred horsemen had ridden out to rescue the two prisoners and now two dozen of the Hussars were dead or captured. The Partisans had lost none; the speed of their charge and withdrawal had ensured that,
