"Too quiet, Pat," Sharpe replied, his blue eyes scanning the gray mist.
Somewhere ahead, the French were waiting. They were "Crapauds"—tough, disciplined, and currently holding the vital ridge that Wellesley needed. Sharpe didn't care about the high-room politics or the Duke's grand strategy; he cared about his "Chosen Men" and the ammunition they were running dangerously low on.
"Rifles! Front rank, down! Second rank, fire!" Sharpe bellowed.
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.
