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The Spanish dawn was thick enough to chew. Lieutenant Richard Sharpe adjusted the heavy leather strap of his Baker rifle, the cold morning dew soaking through his green jacket. Beside him, Sergeant Patrick Harper spit a stream of tobacco into the mud, his seven-barrelled gun resting casually on his shoulder. "Quiet morning, sir," Harper rumbled.

With a roar that drowned out the drums of the French, the green-jackets charged. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't honorable—it was a "gutter fight," the kind Richard Sharpe knew best. Where to Find More Sharpe Stories skachat knigi pro strelka sharpa

Harper didn’t need a second order. The roar of his volley gun was like a small cannon. The French officer vanished in a cloud of dust. The Spanish dawn was thick enough to chew

A sudden crack of a musket shattered the silence. Then another. The mist erupted in orange flashes. "Quiet morning, sir," Harper rumbled

"Too quiet, Pat," Sharpe replied, his blue eyes scanning the gray mist.

"Rifles! Front rank, down! Second rank, fire!" Sharpe bellowed.

Unlike the redcoats who fought in rigid lines, Sharpe’s 95th Rifles were ghosts in the smoke. They used the terrain, firing with deadly precision from behind olive trees and stone walls. Sharpe saw a French officer rallying a column of infantry—a battering ram of men designed to crush the British line. "Harper! That officer on the gray horse," Sharpe pointed.