The British line was holding. The Frenchmen tried to rush the stream but fell as they reached the water. The British pairs moved in short rushes, changing position, confusing their enemy, waiting for the Voltigeurs to come in range and then letting off their shots. The green-jacketed Riflemen of the Royal Americans looked for the enemy officers and Sergeants, and Sharpe could hear the crack of the Rifles as they destroyed the enemy leaders. The sound was rising to its first crescendo, the roar of the cannon, the melding crashes of shells, the drums and voices of the column, and the sound of bugles mixing with the musketry. The mist was thickening with the smoke of the French batteries that drifted westward towards the British line, but soon, Sharpe knew, the mist would be burned off. He felt the faintest breeze and saw a great swirl of whiteness shiver and move and heard Knowles draw breath with amazement before the mist closed down. In the gap was a mass of men, tight-packed marching ranks tipped with steel, one of the columns aiming for the stream. It was time to retreat and, sure enough, Sharpe heard the whistles and bugles and saw the skirmishers to the left start to go backwards towards the Medellin. They left bodies, red and green, behind them.
He blew his own whistle, waved an arm, and listened for the Sergeants to repeat the signal. His men would be disappointed. They had not fired a shot but Sharpe suspected that they would have their opportunities soon enough. The drumming and the chanting went on, the shot crashed overhead, but as the company climbed the hill the mist cut them off from the battle. No-one was shooting at them, no shells landed with spluttering fuses on their piece of the hillside, and Sharpe continued to have the strange sensation of listening to a battle that had nothing to do with him. The illusion vanished as the line climbed out of the mist onto a hillside bright with the early sun. Sharpe checked the line, turned, and heard his men gasp and swear at the view they suddenly encountered.
The crest of the Medellin was empty of soldiers. Only the French shells continued to tear up the earth in great gouts of soil and flame. The skirmishers in front of the French attack scrambled up the slope, ever nearer to the bursting shells, and turned to shoot at the columns that crawled out of the mist like great, strange animals emerging from the sea. The nearest column was too hundred yards to the left and to Sharpe’s raw troops it must have seemed overwhelming. The Voltigeurs were joining its ranks, swelling it, the drummers beat it along with their relentless, hypnotic beating and the deep shouts of ‘Vive L’Empereur’ punctuated the grinding advance. There were three columns climbing the slope; each, Sharpe guessed, had close to two thousand men and over each there hung, glittering in the new sun, three gilded Eagles reaching for the crest.
Sharpe turned his skirmish line to face the column and then waved the men down. There was little they could do at this range. He decided not to rejoin the Battalion; the company would suffer less by staying on the hillside and watching the attack than if they tried to run through the barrage of shells, and as they knelt, watching the huge formation march up the slope, Sharpe saw the men of the King’s German Legion join his crude line. They would be privileged spectators on the edge of the French attack. Ensign Denny came and knelt beside Sharpe, and his face betrayed the worry and fear that the drumming, chanting mass engendered. Sharpe looked at him. ‘What do you think?’
‘Sir?’
‘Frightening?’ Denny nodded. Sharpe laughed. ‘Did you ever learn mathematics?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So add up how many Frenchmen can actually use their muskets.’
Denny stared at the column and Sharpe saw realisation dawn on his face. The French column was a tried and tested battle winner, but against good troops it was a death trap. Only the front rank and the two flank files could actually use their guns, and of the hundreds of men in the nearest column only the sixty in the front rank and the men on the ends of the thirty or so other ranks could actually fire at their enemies. The mass of men in the middle were there merely to add weight, to look impressive, cheer, and fill up the gaps left by the dead.
The sound of the battle changed abruptly. The shelling stopped. The great marching squares were close to the crest of the Medellin, and the French gunners were afraid of hitting their own men. For a moment there was just the drumming, the sound of thousands of boots hitting the hillside in unison, and suddenly a great cheer as the French infantry thought they had won. It was easy to see why they thought victory was in their grasp. There was no enemy in front of them, just the empty skyline, and the skirmish line had scrambled back over the crest to join their Battalions. They had done their job. They had kept the Voltigeurs from the British line, and the French cheer died away as the British orders rang out and suddenly the hilltop was lined two deep with waiting men. It still looked ridiculous. Three great fists, enormous masses, aimed at a tenuous two-deep line, but the look was deceptive; mathematics in this situation was all.
The column nearest Sharpe was headed for the 66th and the 3rd. The two British Battalions were outnumbered two to one, but every redcoat on the crest could fire his musket. Of the hundreds of Frenchmen who climbed in the column only a few more than a hundred could actually fire back and Sharpe had seen it happen too often to have any doubts about the outcome. He watched the order given, saw the British line appear to take a quarter turn to the right as they brought their muskets to their shoulders, and watched as the French column instinctively checked in the face of so many guns. The drums rattled, the French officers shouted, a kind of low growl came from the columns, swelled to a roar, to a cheer, and the French charged towards the summit.
And stopped. The slim steel blades of the British officers swept down and the relentless volleys began. Nothing could stand in the way of that musket fire. From right to left along the Battalions the platoon volleys flamed and flickered, a rolling fire that never stopped, the machine-like regularity of trained troops pouring four shots a minute into the dense mass of Frenchmen. The noise rose to the real crescendo of battle, the awesome sound of the ordered volleys and mixed with it the curious ringing as the bullets struck French bayonets. Sharpe looked to his left and saw the South Essex watching. They were too far away for their muskets to be of any use, but he was glad that Simmerson’s raw troops could see a demonstration of how practised firepower won battles.
The drumming went on, the boys banging their instruments frenetically to force the column up the slope and, incredibly, the French tried. The instinct of victory was too strong, too ingrained, and as the front ranks were destroyed by the murderous fire, the men behind struggled over the bodies to be thrown backwards in turn by the relentless bullets. They faced an impossible task. The column was stuck, hunched against the storm, soaking up an incredible punishment but refusing to give in, to accept defeat. Sharpe was amazed, as he had been at Vimeiro, that troops could take such punishment but they did and he watched as the officers tried to organise a new attack. The French, too late, tried to form into line, and he could see the officers waving their swords to lead the rear ranks into the open flanks. Sharpe held his rifle up.
‘Come on!’
His men cheered and followed him across the hillside. There was little danger that the French could form line but the appearance of a couple of hundred skirmishers on the flank would deter them. The Germans of the Legion went with Sharpe’s company and they all stopped a hundred paces from the struggling mass of Frenchmen and began their own volleys, more ragged than the ordered fire from the crest, but effective enough to repel the Frenchmen who were bravely trying to form a line. The Germans began fixing bayonets; they knew the column could not stand the fire much longer, and Sharpe yelled at his own men to fix blades. The sound of drums faded. One boy gave a further determined rattle with his sticks, but the distinctive rhythm of the charge faded away and the attack was done. The crest of the hill rippled with light as the 66th fixed bayonets; the volleys died, the British cheered and the French were finished. Broken and smashed by musket fire they did not wait for the bayonet charge. The mass split into small groups of fug
itives, the Eagles dropped, the blue ranks broke and ran for the stream.
‘Forward!’ Sharpe, the German officers, and from the ridge the company officers of the 66th shouted as they led the red-steel-tipped line down the slope. Sharpe looked for the Eagles but they were far ahead, being carried to safety, and he forgot them and led his men diagonally down the hill to cut off the fleeing groups of Frenchmen. It was a time for prisoners, and as the skirmishers cut into the blue mass the Frenchmen threw down their guns and held their hands high. One officer refused to surrender and flickered his blade towards Sharpe, but the huge cavalry sword beat it aside and the man dropped to his knees and held clasped hands towards the Rifleman. Sharpe ignored him. He wanted to get to the stream and stop his men pursuing the French onto the far bank, where reserve Battalions waited to punish the British victors. The mist had almost cleared.
Some Frenchmen stopped at the stream and turned their muskets on the British. A ball plucked at Sharpe’s sleeve, another scorched past his face, but the small group broke and fled as he swept the sword towards them. His boots splashed in the stream; he could hear shots behind him and saw bullets strike the water, but he turned and screamed at his men to stop. He drove them back from the stream, herded them with the prisoners, away from the French reserve troops who waited with loaded muskets on the far bank.
It was done. The first attack beaten and the slope of the Medellin was smothered in bodies that lay in a blue smear from the stream almost to the crest they had failed to reach. There would be another attack, but first each side must count the living and collect the dead. Sharpe looked for Harper and saw, thankfully, that the Sergeant was alive. Lieutenant Knowles was there, grinning broadly, and with his sword still unbloodied.
‘What’s the time, Lieutenant?’
Knowles tucked the blade under his arm and opened his watch. ‘Five minutes after six, sir. Wasn’t that incredible?’
Sharpe laughed. ‘Just wait. That was nothing.’
Harper ran down the slope towards them and held out a bundle in his hands. ‘Breakfast, sir?’
‘Not garlic sausage?’
Harper grinned. ‘Just for you.’
Sharpe broke off a length and bit into the pungent, tasty meat. He stretched his arms, felt the tenseness ease in his muscles, and began to feel better. The first round was over and he looked up the littered slope to the single colour of the Battalion. Beneath it was Gibbons, mounted beside his uncle, and Sharpe hoped the Lieutenant had watched the skirmishers and was feeling the fear. Harper saw where he was looking and he saw the expression on his Captain’s face. The Sergeant turned to the men of the company, guarding their prisoners and boasting of their exploits. ‘All right, this isn’t a harvest bloody festival! Reload your guns. They’ll be back.’
CHAPTER 22
The battle had flared briefly then died into silence and, as the sun climbed higher and the smoke drifted into nothingness, the Portina valley filled with men, British and French, who came to rescue the wounded and bury the dead. Men who an hour before had struggled desperately to kill each other now chatted and exchanged tobacco for food, and wine for brandy. Sharpe took a dozen men down to the stream to find four men of the Light Company who were missing. They had not died in the skirmish; all had been killed as they climbed back up the slope with their prisoners. The French guns had opened fire but this time with their barrels depressed, and the shells blew apart in the loose ranks of the British trudging up the hill. The men began to run, the French prisoners turned and sprinted for their own lines, but there was no cover from the shelling. Sharpe had watched one iron ball strike a rabbit hole and bounce into the air with smoke spiralling crazily from its fuse. The shell, small enough to pick up with one hand, landed by Gataker. The Rifleman had bent down to pinch out the fuse but he was too late; it exploded, spitting him with its fractured casing and belching smoke and flame as it hurled his corpse backwards. Sharpe had knelt beside him but Gataker was dead; the first of Sharpe’s Riflemen to die since the fighting in the northern mountains of the last winter.
When the guns stopped they were ordered back to bury the dead quickly, and the men scraped shallow holes in the soft earth beside the stream. The French came as well. For a few minutes the troops avoided each other but soon someone made a joke, held out a hand, and within minutes the enemies shook hands, tried on each other’s shakoes, shared the meagre scraps of food and treated each other like long-lost friends rather than sworn enemies. The valley was littered with the remains of battle: unexploded shells, weapons, looted packs, the usual garbage of defeat.
‘Sharpe! Captain!’ Sharpe turned to see Hogan picking his way through the dead and the wounded. ‘I’ve been looking for you!’ The Engineer slid from his horse and looked around. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m all right.’ Sharpe accepted Hogan’s offered water-bottle. ‘How’s Josefina?’
Hogan smiled. ‘She slept.’
Sharpe looked at the dark rings under the Irishman’s eyes. ‘But you didn’t?’
Hogan shook his head and then indicated the bodies. ‘One sleepless night isn’t much to complain about.’
‘And Josefina?’
‘I think she’s all right. Really, Richard.’ Hogan shook his head. ‘She’s subdued, unhappy. But what would you expect after last night?’
Last night, thought Sharpe. Good God, it was only last night. He turned away and looked at the bloodied water of the Portina stream and at the Frenchmen on the far bank who were excavating a wide shallow hole into which their stripped dead were being thrown. He turned back to Hogan. ‘What’s happening in town?’
‘In the town? Oh, you’re worried about her safety?’ Sharpe nodded. Hogan took out his snuff box. ‘Everything’s quiet. They rounded up most of the Spanish and they’re back in their lines. There’s a guard in the town to stop any more looting.’
‘So she’s safe?’
Hogan looked at Sharpe’s red-rimmed eyes, at the deep shadows on the face, and nodded. ‘She’s safe, Richard.’ Hogan said no more. Sharpe’s face scared him; a grim face, he thought, like the face of a desperate adventurer who would risk everything on the single fall of a pair of dice. The two men began walking beside the stream, between the bodies, and Hogan thought of the Prince of Wales Dragoon, a Captain with a broken arm, who had called at the house early in the morning. Josefina had been surprised to see him, but pleased, and told Hogan that she had met the cavalry officer in the town the day before. The Dragoon had taken over Hogan’s vigil but this, the Engineer thought, was no time to tell Sharpe about Captain Claud Hardy. Hogan had liked the man, had taken immediately to Hardy’s laughing description of how he had fallen from his horse, and the Irishman could see how relieved Josefina was to have someone sitting beside her who told her jokes, talked blithely of balls and banquets, hunting and horses, but who shrewdly understood whatever horrors still lurked in her memories of the night before. Hardy was good for Josefina, Hogan knew, but this was not the time to tell that to Sharpe.
‘Richard?’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you done anything about…?’ Hogan broke off.
‘Gibbons and Berry?’
‘Yes.’ Hogan stepped aside and led his horse away from a Frenchman dragging a naked corpse over the grass. Sharpe waited until the man had gone.
‘Why?’
Hogan shrugged. ‘I was thinking.’ He spoke hesitantly. ‘I was hoping that after a night to think about it you would be careful. It could destroy your career. A duel, a fight. Be careful.’ Hogan was virtually pleading. Sharpe stopped and turned to him.
‘I promise you one thing. I will do nothing to Lieutenant Berry.’
Hogan thought for a moment. Sharpe’s face was unreadable but finally the Irishman nodded slowly. ‘I suppose that’s a good thing. But you’re still determined about Gibbons?’
Sharpe smiled. ‘Lieutenant Gibbons will soon join Lieutenant Berry.’ He turned away and began walking up the slope. Hogan ran after him.
‘You mean?’
‘Yes. Berry’s dead. Tell Josefina that, will you?’
Hogan felt an immense sadness, not for Berry, who had probably deserved whatever Sharpe had done to him, but for Sharpe, who saw all of life as one immense battle and had equipped himself to fight it with an unparalleled ferocity. ‘Be careful, Richard.’
‘I will. I promise.’
‘When will we see you?’ Hogan dreaded that Sharpe would walk into Josefina’s room and find Hardy there.
‘I don’t know.’ Sharpe indicated the waiting French army. ‘There’s a hell of a fight still to come and I suspect we’ll all have to stay on the field till one side goes home. Maybe tonight. Probably tomorrow. I don’t know.’
Bugles split the valley, calling the troops back to their positions, and Hogan gathered his reins in his hand. The two men watched as British and French soldiers shook hands and slapped each other’s backs before the killing restarted. Hogan heaved himself into the saddle. ‘I’ll tell her about Berry, Richard. Be careful, we don’t want to lose you.’ He put spurs to his horse and cantered beside the stream, back towards Talavera.
Sharpe walked up the slope of the Medellin with his men as they counted the spoils they had collected from the dead. He himself had found nothing but as he walked up the hill he knew that there would be richer pickings on the field before the sun fell; there was an Eagle to be plucked.