The morning crept on. The two armies faced each other, the cavalry chafing that there were no broken infantry to slaughter, the artillery piling their ammunition to break the infantry, while the infantry sat on the grass and made up their ammunition and cleaned the locks of their muskets. No-one seemed to be in a hurry. The first attack had been repulsed, and now the French were doubly determined to break the small British army in front of them. Through his telescope Sharpe watched the blue Battalions moving sluggishly into place, Regiment after Regiment, Brigade after Brigade, until between the Pajar and the Cascajal he could see more than thirty Eagles gathering for the attack. Forrest joined him and smiled nervously as he took the proffered telescope.
‘Are they getting ready, Sharpe?’
Forrest scanned the French line. It was obvious what was about to happen. On the Cascajal the gunners were levering the pieces round so that they could fire at the troops to the right of the South Essex, at the Legion and at the Guards. Opposite those Regiments was gathering a vast horde of enemy Battalions. The French had failed to take the Medellin, by night or day, so now they were planning a hammer blow of such weight that no troops in the world could withstand the fury and intensity of their attack. Behind the French infantry Sharpe could see impatient cavalry waiting to pour through the gap and slaughter the defeated British. The day was gathering its strength, pausing before the carnage, readying itself for the emphatic demonstration of French superiority that would destroy Britain’s army, swat it contemptuously aside, and to that end, at one o’clock, the French guns opened fire again.
CHAPTER 23
Sir Henry Simmerson had hardly moved all morning. He had watched the repulse of the first attack but, apart from the Light Company, the South Essex had not been needed; now, Sir Henry knew, things would be very different. The eastern side of the Portina was filled with French troops, Battalion after Battalion, preparing to come forward in the inevitable columns, and Sir Henry had silently inspected them with his telescope. Fifteen thousand men were about to launch themselves against the centre of the British position and, beyond them, another fifteen thousand were already beginning to approach the Pajar and the network of obstacles that sheltered the Spanish. To Sir Henry’s right the four Battalions of the King’s German Legion, the Coldstream and the Third Guards waited for the attack but Sir Henry knew that the battle was lost. No troops, not even the vaunted Legion and the Guards, could stand up to the overwhelming numbers that waited for the signal to begin their massive approach.
Sir Henry grunted and shifted in his saddle. He had been right all along. It had been madness to let Wellesley have an army, it was madness to fight in this God-forsaken, heathen country when the British should more properly be fighting behind the walls of Flemish towns. He looked again at the French. Any fool could see what was about to happen: that the huge columns would punch through the thin British line like an angry bull going through a matchwood fence. Talavera would be cut off, the Spanish hunted like rats through the streets, but the troops on the Medellin, like his own Battalion, were in a worse position. At least the troops near Talavera stood a chance of reaching the bridge and beginning the long retreat to ignominy, but for the South Essex and for the other Battalions the only fate was to be out off and the inevitable surrender.
‘We will not surrender.’
Lieutenant Gibbons edged his horse closer to his uncle. It had not occurred to him that they might surrender, but he had long known that the easiest way to stay in Sir Henry’s favour was to offer agreement. ‘Quite right, sir.”
Simmerson pushed his telescope shut. ‘It will be a disaster, Christian, a disaster. The army is about to be destroyed.’
His nephew agreed and Simmerson reflected, for the thousandth time, what a waste of talent it was that Gibbons was only a Lieutenant. He had never heard anything but military sense from his nephew, the boy understood all his problems, agreed with his solutions, and if Sir Henry had found it temporarily impossible to give his nephew a deserved Captaincy, then at least he could keep him away from that damned Sharpe and use him as a trusted adviser and confidant. A new Battalion appeared in the French line, almost opposite the South Essex, and Simmerson opened the telescope and looked at them.
‘That’s strange.’
‘Sir?’ Simmerson handed the telescope to his nephew. The fresh Battalion marching from behind the Cascajal was dressed in white jackets with red turnbacks and collars. Simmerson had never seen troops like them.
‘Major Forrest!’
‘Sir?’
Simmerson pointed to the new troops who were forming a column. ‘Do you know who they are?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Find out.’
The Colonel watched Forrest spur his horse down the line. ‘Going to see Sharpe. Thinks he knows it all.’ But not for long, thought Simmerson; this battle would see the end of military adventurers like Sharpe and Wellesley and return the army to prudent men, officers of sense, men like Sir Henry Simmerson. He turned and watched the shells exploding among the KGL and the Guards. The Battalions were lying flat, and most of the French shots exploded harmlessly or bounced over their heads. Every now and then, though, there was a puff of smoke in the centre of the ranks, and Simmerson could see the Sergeants pulling the mangled dead from the line and closing up the gaps. The skirmish line was forward, lying in the long grass by the stream, a futile gesture in the face of the imminent French attack. Forrest came back. ‘Major?’
‘Captain Sharpe tells me they’re from the German Division, sir. Thinks they’re probably the Dutch Battalions.’
Simmerson laughed. ‘Germans fighting Germans, eh? Let ’em kill each other!’ Forrest did not laugh.
‘Captain Sharpe asks that the Light Company go forward, sir. He thinks the Dutchmen will attack this part of the line.’
Simmerson said nothing. He watched the French, and certainly the Dutch, if that was who they were, were very nearly opposite the South Essex. A second Battalion formed a separate column behind the first, but Simmerson had no intention of letting his Battalion get involved in the death struggle of Wellesley’s army. The King’s German Legion could fight the Dutchmen of the German Division while Simmerson would at least save one Battalion from disaster.
‘Sir?’ Forrest prompted him.
Simmerson waved down the interruption. There was an idea in his head and it was exciting, an idea that stretched into the future and depended on what he did at this moment, and he watched the beauty of it grow in his mind. The army was doomed. That was certain, and in an hour or so Wellesley’s force would be dead or prisoners, but there was no need for the South Essex to be part of that disaster. If he were to march them now, march them away from the Medellin to a position in the rear, then they would not be encircled by the French. More than that, they would be the rallying point for what fugitives managed to escape the fury of the French, and then he could lead them, the only unit to escape unscathed from the destruction of an army, back to Lisbon and England. Such an action would have to be rewarded, and Simmerson imagined himself in the lavish gold lace and cocked hat of a General. He gripped the pommel of his saddle in excitement. It was so obvious! He was not such a fool that he did not realise that the loss of the colour at Valdelacasa was a black mark against him, even though he was satisfied that in his letter he had plausibly and firmly fixed the blame on Sharpe, but if he could salvage even a small part of this army then Valdelacasa would be forgotten and the Horse Guards in Whitehall would be forced to recognise his ability and reward his initiative. His confidence soared. For a time he had been unsettled by the hard men who fought this war, but now they had marched the army into a terrible position and only he, Simmerson, had the vision to see what was needed. He straightened in the saddle.
‘Major! Battalion will about turn and form column of march on the left!’ Forrest did not move. The Colonel wheeled his horse. ‘Come on, Forrest, we haven’t much time!’
Forrest was appalled. If he did as Simmerson ordered,
then the South Essex would hinge back like a swinging gate and leave a gap in the British line through which the French could pour their troops. And the French columns had started their advance! Their Voltigeurs were swarming towards the stream, the drums had begun their war rhythm, the shells were falling ever more thickly among the German Legion below them. Simmerson slapped the rump of Forrest’s horse. ‘Hurry, man! It’s our only hope!’
The orders were given and the South Essex began the clumsy wheeling movement that left the flank of the Medellin an open slope to the enemy. Sharpe’s company was the pivot of the movement, and the ranks shuffled awkwardly and stared behind them, aghast, as the enemy columns began their advance. The skirmish line was already fighting, Sharpe could hear the muskets and rifles, but three hundred yards beyond the stream the Eagles were coming. This attack was not only vaster than the first but this time the French were sending their field artillery with the columns, and Sharpe could see the horses and guns waiting to begin their journey to the stream. And the South Essex were retreating! Sharpe ran clumsily along the swinging line.
‘Sir!’
Simmerson looked down on him. ‘Captain Sharpe?’
‘For God’s sake, sir! There’s a column aimed for us…’ He was interrupted by a Dragoon Lieutenant, one of Hill’s staff, who slid his horse to a stop in a spray of earth. Simmerson looked at the newcomer. ‘Lieutenant?’
‘General Hill’s compliments, sir, and would you stay in position and deploy skirmishers.’
Simmerson nodded benignly. ‘My compliments to General Hill, but he will find out I am doing the right thing. Carry on!’
Sharpe thought of arguing but knew it was hopeless. He ran back to the company. Harper stood behind it, keeping the dressing, and he looked woefully at his Captain.
‘What’s happening, sir?’
‘We’re going forward, that’s what’s happening.’ Sharpe pushed through the ranks. ‘Light Company! Skirmish order. Follow me!’
He ran down the hill, his men following. Damn Simmerson! The Voltigeurs from the white-jacketed Battalion were already over the stream and outflanking the King’s Germans, and Sharpe could see too many men lying dead or injured where the Legion was fighting against twice their number. It was a lung-bursting run, hampered by packs, pouches, haversacks and weapons, but the men forced themselves on towards the Dutchmen who had crossed the stream. Shells burst among the Light Company and Harper, driving them from the back, watched two men fall, but there was no time to look after them. He watched Sharpe drag his sword clumsily from the scabbard and realised the Captain planned to charge right into the Voltigeurs and push them back across the stream. Harper took a deep breath. ‘Bayonets! Bayonets!’
The men with muskets had little chance of fixing their bayonets in time, but the Riflemen had no need to try. The Baker’s bayonet was long and equipped with a handle, and Sharpe’s Riflemen held them like swords; the French saw them coming, turned, and fumbled with their ammunition. A first bullet passed Sharpe, singing in his ear, a second struck the ground and ricocheted up to hit his canteen, and then he was swinging the sword at the nearest man: the rest of the company were stabbing and shouting, and the white-coated Voltigeurs were scrambling back to the far side of the Portina.
‘Down! Down! Down!’ Sharpe screamed at his men and pushed two of them to the ground. The skirmish line had been restored but that was a small victory. He ran among his men. ‘Aim low! Kill the bastards!’
The Dutch skirmishers reformed and started sniping across the stream. Sharpe ignored them and kept running until he found a Captain of the King’s German Legion whose company had suffered because Simmerson refused to send out his Light Company.
‘I’m sorry!’
The Captain waved down Sharpe’s apology. ‘You are velcome! Ve are fighting the German Division, no?’ The Captain laughed. ‘They are good soldier but ve are better. Enjoy yourself!’
Sharpe went back to his company. The enemy were fifty yards away, across the stream, and Sharpe’s Riflemen were asserting their superiority thanks to the seven spiralling grooves in the barrels of their weapons. The Voltigeurs were edging backwards, and Sharpe’s redcoats of the South Essex crept nearer to the stream to improve their aim; he watched them proudly, helping each other, pointing out targets, firing coolly and remembering the lessons he had pounded into them during the advance to Talavera. Ensign Denny was standing up, shouting shrill encouragement, and Sharpe pushed him to the ground. ‘Don’t make yourself a target, Mr Denny, they like to kill promising young officers!’
Denny beamed from ear to ear at the compliment. ‘What about you, sir? Why don’t you get down?’
‘I will. Remember to keep moving!’
Harper was kneeling by Hagman, loading for him, and picking out ripe targets for the old poacher. Sharpe gave them his own rifle and left them to pick off the enemy officers. Knowles was sensibly watching the open end of the line, directing the fire of half a dozen men to stop the whitecoats outflanking the South Essex, and Sharpe was not needed there. He grinned. The company was doing well, it was fighting like a veteran unit, and already there were a dozen bodies on the far side of the stream. There were two, dressed in red, on their own side but the South Essex, perhaps due to the ferocity of their charge, held the initiative, and the Dutchmen did not want to risk coming too close to the British skirmish line.
But beyond the Voltigeurs, coming steadily, was the first column, the right-hand column of a series that filled the plain between the Cascajal and the town. The attack was only minutes away and when it came, Sharpe knew, the skirmish line would be thrown back. The whole horizon was hidden by the clouds of dust thrown up by the thousands of French infantry, their drumming and cheering rivalled the sound of the guns and exploding shells, and in the background was the sinister noise of the jangling chains which were part of the artillery harness. Sharpe had never seen an attack on this scale; the columns covered half a mile in the width of their attack, and behind them, hardly seen in the dust and smoke, was a second line, equally strong, that the French would throw in if the British checked the first Battalions. Sharpe looked behind. Simmerson had swung the Battalion and it was marching away from the great gap he had created in the line; Sharpe could see a horseman riding recklessly towards the single colour and he guessed that Hill or even Wellesley was dealing furiously with Simmerson, but for the moment the gap existed and the white-coated Dutchmen were marching straight for it.
He joined Harper. There were only seconds before the column would force them back, and he stared at its slow advance and at the Eagle which flashed tantalisingly from its centre. Beside it rode a horseman with a fringed and cockaded hat, and Sharpe tapped Hagman on the shoulder.
‘Sir?’ The Cheshire man gave a toothless grin. Sharpe shouted over the drumbeats and the crackle of musketry. ‘See the man with the fancy hat?’
Hagman looked. ‘Two hundred yards?’ He took his own rifle and aimed carefully, ignoring the buzzing of the enemy bullets around them, let his breath out halfway and squeezed the trigger. The rifle slammed back into his shoulder, there was a billow of smoke, but Sharpe leapt to one side and saw the enemy Colonel fall into the mass of the column. He slapped Hagman on the back. ‘Well done!’ He walked to the other Riflemen. ‘Aim at the artillery! The guns!’ He was frightened of the horse artillery that the French were bringing with the columns; if the gunners were allowed to get close enough and load with canister or grape shot, they would blast great holes in the British line and give to the French columns the fire power that was normally denied to them by their packed formation. He watched his Riflemen as they aimed at the horses and at the gunners riding on the French four-pounders; if anything could stop the artillery it would be the long-range accuracy of the Baker rifle, but there was so little time before the column would force them back and the skirmish would become an affair of running and firing, running and firing, and all the time getting closer and closer to the huge space that Simmerson had created in the British
defence.
He ran back to Harper, at the centre of the line, and retrieved his rifle. As the column was drummed closer the enemy Voltigeurs were plucking up courage and making short dashes towards the stream in an attempt to force the British skirmish line back. Sharpe could see half a dozen of his men lying dead or badly wounded, one of them in a green jacket, and he pointed at the man and raised his eyebrows to Harper.
‘Pendleton, sir. Dead.’
Poor Pendleton, only seventeen, and so many pockets left to pick. The Voltigeurs were firing faster, not bothering to aim, just concentrating on saturating their enemy with musket fire, and Sharpe saw another man go down; Jedediah Horrell, whose new boots had given him blisters. It was time to retreat and Sharpe blew his whistle twice and watched as his men squeezed off a last shot before running a few paces back, kneeling, and loading again. He rammed a bullet into his rifle and slid the steel ramrod back into the slit stock. He looked for a target and found him in a man wearing the single stripe of a French Sergeant who was counting off Voltigeurs for the rush that would take them over the stream. Sharpe put the rifle to his shoulder, felt the satisfying click as the flat, ring-neck cock rode back on the mainspring, and pulled the trigger. The Sergeant spun round, hit in the shoulder, and turned to see who had fired. Harper grabbed Sharpe’s arm.
‘That was a terrible shot. Now let’s get the hell out of here! They’ll want revenge for that!’
Sharpe grinned and sprinted back with the Sergeant towards the new skirmish line that was seventy paces behind the stream. The air was full of the ‘boom-boom, boom-boom, boomaboom, boomaboom, boom-boom, Vive L’Empereur’ and the columns were splashing through the stream, the whole plain smothered in French infantry marching beneath countless Eagles towards the thin defensive line that was still being shelled by the guns on the Cascajal. The British guns had a target they could not miss, and Sharpe watched as, time and time again, the solid shot lanced into the columns, crushing men by the dozen, but there were too many men and the files closed, the ranks stepped over the dead, and the columns came on. There was a cheer from the British skirmishers when a spherical case shot, Britain’s secret weapon developed by Colonel Shrapnel, successfully detonated right over one of the columns, and the musket balls, packed in the spherical case, splattered down onto the French and shredded half the ranks, but there were not enough guns to check the attack, and the French took the punishment and kept coming.