He had a similar thought, aware that the rifle's report would bring chaos down on his head. He slung the longarm over his shoulder and instead rewarded his surroundings with the sound of metal dragging 'gainst his sword's scabbard's throat. Out came the blade like some great cleaver in the dark: a sword made for heavy cavalry and not for infantrymen, but someone so tall as Sharpe could wield it with aggressive ease. It did not exist for fine swordsmanship; it was a killer's instrument.

But he was not in a killing mindset when he gave chase to the retreating Clove. Rather, he had half a mind to keep an eye out for the girl. She must be spooked, now. And it didn't matter how bloody good a soldier was, Sharpe believed they all made mistakes when they were spooked.

And with any luck, he could cut down some enemies as he chased.