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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

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

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

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.