Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (46 page)

‘Lennox!’ Simmerson was in his element. ‘Form your company on the left! Mr Sterritt’s company will guard the bridge and, if you please, I’ll borrow Mr Gibbons from you as my
aide de camp
!’

‘Your gain is my loss, sir.’ Lennox grinned at Sharpe. ‘
Aide de camp
! He thinks he’s fighting the Battle of Blenheim! What will you do, Sharpe?’

Sharpe grinned back. ‘I’m not invited. I’ll watch your gallant efforts. Enjoy yourself!’

The cavalry had stopped half a mile away, lined across the road, their horses’ uncropped tails swishing at the summer flies. Sharpe wondered what they made of the scene in front of them: the Spanish advancing clumsily in four ranks, eight hundred men round their colours marching towards four hundred French horsemen while, at the bridge, another eight hundred infantry prepared to advance.

Simmerson assembled his company commanders and Sharpe listened as he gave his orders. The South Essex were to form line, in four ranks like the Spanish, and advance behind them. ‘We’ll wait and see, gentlemen, what the enemy does and deploy accordingly! Unfurl the colours!’

Lennox winked at Sharpe. It was farcical that two clumsy Regiments of foot thought they could attack four hundred horsemen who would dance out of the way and laugh at the efforts made against them. The French commander probably did not believe what was happening and, at the very least, it would provide him with an amusing story to tell when he rejoined Victor’s army. Sharpe wondered what Simmerson would do when it finally dawned on him that the French would not attack. Probably the Colonel would claim that he had scared the enemy away.

The Ensigns pulled the leather covers from the South Essex colours, unfurled them, and hoisted them into their sockets. They made a brave sight even in the middle of this comedy, and Sharpe felt the familiar pang of loyalty. The first raised was the King’s Colour, a great Union Jack with the Regiment’s number in the centre, and next the South Essex’s own standard, a yellow flag emblazoned with the crest and with the Union flag stitched in the upper corner. It was impossible to see the flags, the morning sun shining through them, and not be moved. They were the Regiment; should only a handful of men be left on a battlefield, the rest slaughtered, the Regiment still existed if the colours flew and defied the enemy. They were a rallying point in the smoke and chaos of battle, but more than that; there were men who would hardly fight for England’s King and Country but they would fight for the colours, for their Regiment’s honour, for the gaudy flags that cost a few guineas and were carried in the centre of the line by the youngest Ensigns and guarded by veteran Sergeants armed with long wicked-bladed pikes. Sharpe had known as many as ten men to carry the colours in battle, replacing the dead, picking up the flags even though they knew that then they became the enemy’s prime target. Honour was all. The flags of the South Essex were new and gleaming, the Regimental Colour devoid of battle honours, neither was torn by bullet or roundshot, but seeing them filled Sharpe with a sudden emotion, and it changed the farce of Simmerson’s mad hopes into an affair of honour.

The South Essex followed the Regimienta towards the horsemen. Like the Spanish the British line was a hundred and fifty yards wide, its four ranks tipped with bayonets, the company officers riding or walking with drawn swords. The Spanish had halted, some four hundred yards up the road, and Simmerson had no choice but to stop the Battalion to find out what the Regimienta intended. Hogan joined Sharpe and nodded at the two Regiments.

‘Not joining in the battle?’

‘I think it’s a private party. Captain Sterritt and I are guarding the bridge.’

Sterritt, a mild man, smiled nervously at Sharpe and Hogan. Like his Colonel he was appalled at the appearance of these veteran soldiers and secretly frightened that the enemy might prove to be as tough and carefree as the Rifleman or the Engineer. Hogan was wiping his hands on a piece of rag and Sharpe asked him if the job was finished.

‘Aye. It’s all done. Ten kegs of powder snuggled down, fuses laid, and the hole filled in. As soon as these gallant soldiers get the hell out of the way I can find out whether it works or not. Now what’s happening?’

The Spanish were forming square. A good Battalion could march from line into square in thirty seconds but the Spanish took four times as long. It was the proper formation when faced by attacking cavalry, but as the French showed no lunatic inclination to charge four times their own number the Spanish convolutions were hardly necessary. Sharpe watched as the officers and sergeants harried and chivvied their men into the rough semblance of a square, a slightly lopsided square, but it would do. Sharpe remembered the three women. He could not see them with the Regimienta, and he looked round to see them watching decorously from the river-bank. One of them saw his glance and raised a gloved hand.

‘It’s a good job the French don’t have those guns.’

Hogan raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d forgotten that rumour. That would heat things up.’

There was no more fatal combination than cavalry and artillery for men on foot. Infantry in square were totally safe from cavalry; all the horsemen could do was ride round and round the formation, hacking uselessly at the bayonets. But if the cavalry were supported by cannons the square became a deathtrap. Grapeshot would blast holes in the ranks; the cavalry would ride into the gaps and slice down with their sabres. Sharpe looked at the skyline. There were no guns.

Simmerson had watched the Regimienta form their square. He was obviously nonplussed. It must have occurred to him that he could not attack the French, so the French had to attack him. There was a pause in proceedings. The Spanish had formed their rough square on the right of the track; Simmerson gave his orders and with a marvellous precision the South Essex demonstrated, on the left, how a Battalion should form a square. Even at half a mile Sharpe could see the horsemen clapping ironically.

Now there were two squares, the Spanish nearer the French, and still the horsemen made no move. Time passed. The sun climbed higher in the sky, the grassland shivered in the haze, the French horses lowered their necks and cropped at the thin pasture. Captain Sterritt, guarding the bridge with his company, became plaintive.

‘Why don’t they attack?’

‘Would you?’ Sharpe asked.

Sterritt looked puzzled. Sharpe could understand why. Simmerson was looking increasingly foolish, he had marched to war with drawn sword and unfurled banners and the enemy was refusing to fight. Now he was stranded, like a beached whale, in a defensive square. It was virtually impossible to make an ordered march while in a square formation; it was easy enough for the leading edge, they marched forwards, but the sides had to step sideways, and the rear edge walk backwards, all of them fighting off encircling horsemen. It was not impossible, Sharpe had done it, but when survival depends on doing the impossible then men will find a way. Simmerson wanted to move but he did not want his neat, ordered square to be torn out of alignment as he advanced. He could have resumed the line formation but then he would look even more foolish for having formed a square at all. So he stayed where he was and the French looked on, filled with wonderment at the strange antics of the enemies.

‘Someone’s got to do something!’ Captain Sterritt frowned in bewilderment. War was not supposed to be like this! It was glory and victory, not this humiliation.

‘Someone’s doing something!’ Hogan nodded at the South Essex. A horseman had been released from the square and was galloping towards the bridge.

‘It’s Lieutenant Gibbons.’ Sterritt raised a hand to his Colonel’s nephew, who pulled his horse to a violent stop. His features were stern, filled with the seriousness of the moment. He looked down on Sharpe.

‘You’re to report to the Colonel.’

‘Why?’

Gibbons looked astonished. ‘The Colonel wants you. Now!’

Hogan coughed. ‘Lieutenant Sharpe is under my orders. Why does the Colonel want him?’

Gibbons flung an arm towards the immobile French. ‘We need a skirmish line, Sharpe, something to sting the French into action.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘How far ahead of the square am I supposed to take my men?’ He spoke in sweet reasonableness.

Gibbons shrugged. ‘Near enough to move the cavalry. Hurry!’

‘I’m not moving.

Gibbons stared down at Sharpe. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I will not kill my men. I go more than fifty yards from that square and the French will ride us down like hares. Don’t you know that skirmishers fall back from cavalry?’

‘Are you coming, Sharpe?’ Gibbons made it sound like an ultimatum.

‘No.’

The Lieutenant turned to Hogan. ‘Sir? Will you order Lieutenant Sharpe to obey?’

‘Listen, laddie.’ Sharpe noticed that Hogan had broadened his Irish accent. ‘Tell your Colonel from me that the sooner he gets back over the bridge the sooner we can put a hole in it, and the sooner we get home. And, no, I will not instruct Lieutenant Sharpe to commit suicide. Good day, sir.’

Gibbons wrenched his horse round, tearing at its mouth with the bit, and clapped his spurs into its side, shouted something unintelligible at Sharpe or Hogan, and galloped back towards the impotent square in spurts of dust. Sterritt turned to them, appalled.

‘You can’t refuse an order!’

Hogan’s patience snapped. Sharpe had never heard the little Irishman lose his temper but the events had exasperated him. ‘Don’t you bloody understand? Do you know what a skirmish line is? It’s a line of men scattered in front of the enemy. They’ll be ridden down like scarecrows! Christ! What does he think he’s doing?’

Sterritt blanched in front of Hogan’s anger. He tried to placate the Engineer. ‘But someone’s got to do something.’

‘You’re quite right. They’ve got to get back over the bloody bridge and stop wasting our time!’

Some of Sterritt’s company began tittering. Sharpe felt his own patience snap. He ignored Sterritt’s presence.

‘Quiet!’

An embarrassed silence settled over the end of the bridge. It was broken by the giggling of the three Spanish women.

‘We can start with them.’ Hogan turned to them and shouted in Spanish. They looked at him, at each other, but he shouted again, insisting. Reluctantly they walked their horses past the Riflemen, past the officers, and back to the north bank.

‘That’s three less to get over the bridge anyway.’ Hogan looked at the sky. ‘It must be midday already.’

The French must have been as bored as anyone else. Sharpe heard the notes of a bugle and watched as they formed into four squadrons. They still faced the bridge, their leading squadron about three hundred yards beyond the Spanish square. Instead of the two long lines they efficiently made ranks of ten men; their commander ironically saluted the squares with his sword, and gave the order to move. The horsemen went into a trot; they circled towards the Spanish, kept on circling; they were turning to ride away, back up the hill and off to the east where they would rejoin Marshal Victor and his army waiting for Wellesley’s advance.

The disaster happened when the French were at the closest point where a wide turn would take them to the Regimienta de la Santa Maria. In frustration or in pride, but in complete stupidity, the Spanish Colonel gave the order to fire. Every musket that could be brought to bear exploded in flame and smoke, the balls shot uselessly away. A musket was optimistically effective at fifty yards; at two hundred, the distance between the French and the Spanish, the volley was simply thrown away. Sharpe saw just two horses fall.

‘Oh Christ!’ He had spoken out loud.

There was a simple mathematics to what happened next. The Spanish had shot their volley and would take at least twenty seconds to reload. A galloping horse could cover two hundred yards in much less time. The French Colonel had no hesitation. His column was sideways to the Spanish, he gave his orders, the bugle sounded, and with a marvellous precision the French turned from a column of forty ranks of ten men each into ten lines of forty men. The first two spurred straight into the gallop, their sabres drawn; the others trotted or walked behind. There was still no reason for them to succeed. An infantry square, even without loaded muskets, was impervious to cavalry. All the men had to do was stay still and keep the bayonets firm and the horses would sheer away, flow down the sides of the square, and be blasted by the loaded muskets at the sides and backs of the formation.

Sharpe ran a few paces forward. With a dreadful certainty he knew what would happen. The Spanish soldiers were ill-led, frightened. They had fired a volley terrifying in its noise and smoke, but their enemy was suddenly on them, the horses baring their teeth through the veils of musket smoke, the riders tall in their stirrups, shrieking, sabres aloft, and galloping straight for them. Like beads off a burst string the Spanish broke. The French launched another two lines of cavalry as the first crashed into the panicked mass. The sabres fell, rose bloodied, and fell again. The Chasseurs were literally hacking their way into the packed square, the horses unable to move against the crush of screaming men. The third line of Frenchmen swerved away, checked their line, and launched themselves against the Spaniards who had broken clear and were running for their lives. The Spanish dropped their muskets, ran for safety, ran towards the South Essex.

The French were among them, riding along with the running men, hacking down expertly on the heads and shoulders of the fugitives. Behind them more lines of cavalry were trotting knee to knee into the attack. The French sabres came down right and left, more Spaniards broke from the mass, the colours went down, they were sprinting towards the British square, desperate for its safety. The South Essex could not see what was happening, only the Spanish coming towards them and the odd horsemen in the swirling dust.

‘Fire!’ Sharpe repeated the word. ‘Fire, you idiot.’

Simmerson had one hope for survival. He had to blast the Spanish out of his way; otherwise the fugitives would break into his own square and let the horsemen through after them. He did nothing. With a groan Sharpe watched the Spanish reach the red ranks and beat aside the bayonets as they scrambled to safety. The South Essex gave ground; they split to let the desperate men into the hollow centre; the first Frenchman reached the ranks, cut down with his sabre, and was blasted from the saddle by musket fire. Sharpe watched the horse stagger from bullet wounds; it crashed sideways into the face of the square, dragging down all four ranks. Another horseman came to the gap; he hacked left and right, then he too was plucked from his horse by a volley. Then it was over. The French came into the gap, the square broke, the men mixed with the Spanish and ran. This time there was only one place to go. The bridge. Sharpe turned to Sterritt.