The French were slow and he guessed they were new troops, on remounts, and a lancer should always meet the enemy at full speed or he was done. He steered Thor to the right; they had practised this, and the trumpeter gave the call again, ragged this time because of the motion of the horse but enough to make a man's blood run cold, and he touched Thor with his left heel, never a spur in his life, and the huge horse turned like a dancer; the sabre was dropped so it pointed down like a spike from Lossow's outstretched hand, and he galloped, laughing along the face of the enemy, and simply knocked the lances away. It would not last, it never did, and someone was bright enough to face him, but by then the chaos he had created in half a dozen Frenchmen had let his first troop into the gap, and Lossow knew the job was done and he let Thor rear up and deal with the brave fellow who challenged him. The trumpeter was there, of course, because that was his duty.
'Left! Lossow ordered, and the Germans turned, chewing up the French line, the sabres wicked in their work, and Lossow was satisfied
'Lieutenant?
The man saluted, oblivious of the fight. 'Sir?
'Stirrup the infantry."
'Sir.
And his duty was done. He had a minute left and Thor needed exercise so Lossow touched with his heels and the horse went forward, and the sabre turned a galloping lance so neatly that Lossow thought he would remember that moment till the day he died, preferably in Germany, and the Klingenthal steel of the curved blade opened the Frenchman's throat as far as his spine, and he wished that every moment was this good, with a fine horse, a good turf, a blade made by the dwarves themselves, and an enemy for breakfast.
He watched his men work, proud of them. They were disciplined, protecting one another, their sword drill immaculate and thorough, and Lossow knew why the lord Wellington preferred German cavalry. Not as flashy as the English, not as good for a parade, but for killing Frenchmen — they were as good as British infantry at that. Lossow, a happy man, thought in the valley's bottom — as part of his mind watched the enemy infantry, another checked on the fleeing lancers — that this army, Wellington's army, could be as perfect an instrument of war as any in history. With men like these horsemen and with that infantry? It was beautiful!
'Recall.
The trumpet sounded, the men pulled back in perfect order, and Lossow waved the sabre. The lancers were done for, utterly beaten, but he had expected no less. Poor devils. They were not to know that Lossow's men had tracked this valley for three days, waiting for a sight of Sharpe, and Lossow was glad it was he and not that pig Schwalbach further south who had found the British infantry. He looked up the valley. The rescued infantry were moving fast, each man holding on to a cavalryman's stirrup, and Lossow brought the other hundred and fifty sabres back slowly, screening the retreat, enjoying the warm sun, and saluting the French infantry who were forming up, too late, their show spoiled.
'Compliments of Hanover! he shouted, but the garlic-eating slime did not understand German.
An hour later Sharpe opened his eyes, saw Harper leaning over him, pinning him to the ground, and Teresa was holding one hand, and then a German soldier came to him with a piece of iron, glowing hot, and Sharpe knew the dream of the last few minutes, of his shoulder being pinned by an Indian with a lance, was just that: a dream. The Indian, turbaned and smiling, had played with him, and every time Sharpe had tried to jerk free the lance would come back, hoisting him a little higher.
'Still, Captain. Harper spoke gently, gripped hard.
The cauterizing iron hit him like the devils of hell. His shout was cut off as he fainted, as the flash burned and stank, and it took all Harper's strength to hold him down, but it was done and Lossow's horse-doctor nodded his satisfaction. They splashed water on his face, trickled brandy into his throat, and Sharpe opened his eyes, grimaced as the pain shot through him, and struggled upwards. He looked at Harper.
'You said it would mend.
'Didn't want to worry you, sir. Almost bled to death. He propped Sharpe against a rock. 'Food! Bring that food!"
Sharpe looked up to see a German officer with crinkled eyes and a good smile looking down on him. He had met the man before. Where? He remembered. In the village where Batten had been caught by the provosts. He stuck out his good hand.
'Captain —
'Lossow, sir. At your service!
Sharpe smiled, a bit wanly. 'You have our thanks, sir.
The German waved away the formality. 'On the contrary. You have ours. A lovely fight!
'Did you lose anyone?
'Lose anyone? They were lancers, Captain! An angry toad would be more dangerous! Now, if they put lances in the front rank, and sabres behind, they might be dangerous. But just lancers? No problem to us!
Sharpe nodded, grateful. 'But thank you.
Lossow took the mug of stew from Harper and put it on Sharpe's lap.
'You got the gold.
'You know about it?
'Why do you think I am here? A patrol to the south, me here, and all for you, Captain. The lord Wellington wants the gold badly!
Kearsey sniffed, said nothing, and Sharpe sipped at the stew. It tasted miraculous after the hard tack of the last week.
'He can have it.
'Yes, but there are problems.
Sharpe put the mug down, willed the pain in his shoulder to go down. 'Problems?
'French patrols. Lossow's hand described an arc to the west. 'Like fleas on a bottom.
Sharpe laughed and the pain came back, but he forced his left hand round to hold the hot mug and it worked. He spooned the tough beef into his mouth.
'We must get to the army.
'I know.
'We must.
He looked to his right and saw one of Lossow's men sharpening his sword, using a stone and oil to smooth down the dent. It was only this morning that he had cut down on the voltigeur and the man — Sharpe remembered yellow teeth — had pushed his musket up and saved his life. 'We must.
'We will try.
Sharpe lifted Lossow's brandy bottle; the Germans were never short of captured brandy, and the spirit flowed like cream into his throat. He coughed.
'The Partisans? Have you seen Partisans?
Lossow turned and spoke to one of his officers, a short exchange, and turned back to Sharpe. 'Two miles away, Captain, keeping in touch with us. They want the gold?
Sharpe nodded. 'And me. He looked at the girl and back to the German.
'Don't worry, Captain. Lossow stood up and hitched his sword-belt round. 'You're in good hands.
The girl smiled at Sharpe, stood up and came to him. Her dress was another four inches shorter and Sharpe realized he had been bandaged after the cauterizing iron had driven him in agony back to unconsciousness. She still had the rifle, slung proprietarily on a shoulder, with Tongue's ammunition pouch and bayonet strapped to her waist. Lossow moved to one side to let her sit by Sharpe.
'Any more wounded, Captain, and she will be naked! The German Captain laughed. 'We should all cut ourselves!
Teresa looked at Sharpe, spoke softly. 'The Captain's already seen me. Haven't you?
How did she know? Sharpe thought. He wondered if his telescope was undamaged by the fight and he remembered a French bullet thumping into his pack and throwing him forward. He could not be bothered to check right now, but leaned back, sipped at the brandy, and slept in the sun. The girl sat beside him, watching the Light Company rest, while beyond them, beyond the tethered horses, Lossow's picquets watched French patrols comb the western valleys. The Light Company would move soon, cutting westward, but for now they could sleep and forget the one more river they had to cross.