Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (50 page)

The British line, two deep, could usually stop the column. Sharpe had seen it happen a dozen times and there was a cold mathematical logic to the process. A column was a great filled rectangle of men and only the men on its outer edges could use their muskets. Each man in the British line could fire and, even though the column had more men than the line, the line would always win the firefight. The frightening thing about the column was its size, and that scared unsteady troops, overawed them, but it was vulnerable to good troops. The column took the punishment, as Sharpe had seen other columns take punishment, and again he was amazed by the French soldiers who stayed so steady under horrific bombardment. Cannon balls struck the columns and successive ranks soaked up the balls’ passages, and shrapnel cracked over their heads, yet still the column moved. The drums never stopped.

This was the might of France, the pride of France, the tactic of the world’s first conscript army, and this column, Clausel’s counter-attack, ignored cold mathematical logic. It was not defeated by the line.

It pushed the Fourth Division back. The British had fired their clockwork volleys, the muskets flashing rhythmically through the smoke cloud, and Sharpe had seen the Light Companies go back to their Battalions, form line, and join in the musket fight. The Fourth Division was awed by the column. Perhaps the British had seen too much blood at Badajoz, had thought that any man who lived through that ditch had no right to die on a summer’s field, and they took a step back before reloading, and the step became two, and the columns still came on and the officers shouted, the Sergeants tried to dress the ranks, but the lines went backwards.

The drummers paused to let the thousands of voices chant their war cry. “Vive 1’Empereur!” And the drums started again, the old rhythm that Sharpe knew so well. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boomaboom, boomaboom, boom-boom. That rhythm had sounded from Egypt to Russia, had driven the columns to rule Europe, and between each phrase the drummers paused, the shout went up, and the column came on as the drummer boys, tight in the column’s centre, let the sticks fall again. With each shout the bayonets went up in the air and splintered the slanting sunlight into twelve thousand shards and to the left of the column, in the space between the two strange hills, the French cavalry hacked into the remnants of the Portuguese.

“No.” Sharpe spoke to himself. Hogan saw his right hand gripping and re-gripping the sword handle.

The Fourth Division were beaten. Some men climbed the lower slopes of the Lesser Arapile, some the slopes of the Teso San Miguel, while some took refuge in the village. The column carved through the defeated Battalions, ignoring them, marching steadily on towards the small valley that led to the very heart of the British line. Some of the Fourth Division, like the South Essex, still went backwards in front of the column, but they were beaten, and the column came to the small valley and the guns, on either side of the French, poured death into their ranks. The British roundshot lanced at the column, the shrapnel exploded above it, but still the Frenchmen closed up, marched on, stepped over their dead, and they left a trail of mangled, shot-torn bodies in their wake like a blood-slime beneath the smoke.

The noise was the noise of French victory. The drums, the cheers, the guns that could not stop them, and the noise filled the valley as the French Battalions went towards the distant landmark of the new Cathedral’s largest tower. The Eagles were bright above their heads.

Wellington’s messengers galloped at break-neck speed down the slope. They went to the Sixth Division, the new Division, the Division that had taken so long to take the fortresses, and it was the only Division between Clausel and victory. The Fourth Division had been beaten and now the Sixth had to win or else Clausel would have plucked victory from disaster.

Battles rarely start quickly. Sometimes it was difficult to know when a skirmish had become a battle, yet the height of a battle was easily determined. When the Eagles were flying and the drums were sounding, when the guns of both sides were in frenzy, then the battle was fully joined. It had yet to be won and Sharpe, who had watched the South Essex go backwards through the smoke-torn valley, could not bear that it might be won or lost without him. He shook off Hogan’s restraining arm, called for his horse, and went down into the smoke.

From the ridge crest there had been a pattern to the battle, often disguised, always shrouded by smoke, but a recognisable pattern. The French left had been broken, the centre had yielded and then delivered a splintering counter-attack, while the French right, like the British left, was still in reserve. Wellington was hooking his attacks from the west, one by one, but Clausel had forced a new pattern and was even now daring to hope for victory. Once in the valley there was no pattern. It was familiar, for Sharpe had been on many battlefields, but for the men who loaded and fired, who looked desperately into the smoke banks for a sign of danger, the valley was a place without pattern or reason. These men could not know that the French left was broken, would not know that the blood was drying to a crust on the flanks of the Heavy Dragoon horses, they only knew that this valley was their fighting place; the ground where they must kill or be killed.

It was a confused place, but it had a simplicity that Sharpe needed. He had been fooled by La Marquesa and his foolishness had led to the escape of his enemy. He had been outwitted by the clever people of the secret war, but in this valley there was a simple job to do. He knew that La Marquesa would be hearing the guns like an echo of last night’s thunder. He knew she must know that he had turned the tables on her, lied through his love as she had lied through hers, and he wondered if she thought of him.

Politics, strategy, cleverness and guile had brought on this battle. Now it was up to the soldiers.

He could see to his right where the Sixth Division marched in small columns towards the great French column. It would be, perhaps, two minutes before the new Division formed its two deep line and the muskets could try again to stop the massive French attack, and he knew there was a job for the South Essex in that short time. The Battalion were at the valley’s end, the Grenadier Company hard against the Teso San Miguel and acting as a hinge. The other nine companies were swinging back in the face of the French and the Light Company, on the left of the line, were swinging fastest and loading slowest. Sharpe could see Major Leroy, commanding the left five Companies, swearing at them and gesturing. Sharpe understood why. If the small Battalion line swung fully back to the hillside then the column could pour out into the open ground of the British rear. Leroy wanted to hold the South Essex, force the column to edge to its right and thus straight onto the muskets of the Sixth Division. The South Essex was like a desperately frail breakwater that had to force a tidal wave away from empty ground and into a channel prepared for it.

The space behind the Battalion was littered with wounded, and the bandsmen were tugging them backwards, away from the heels of the retreating companies, and Sharpe rode there and beckoned to a drummer boy. The lad gaped up at him as he slid from the horse. “Sir?”

“Hold the horse! Understand? Find me when this is over. And don’t bloody lose it!”

He could hear the drums, the cheers of the French, and the crackle of muskets seemed drowned by the great noise. The attack was in the valley, coming forward, and the South Essex thought they were the last obstacle between the French and Salamanca. They fought, but they stepped back after each shot, and Major Leroy galloped his horse behind the thin line and his voice pierced at Sharpe’s ears. “Still, you bastards! Stand still!” The Major was nearing the Light Company, who stepped back the fastest, and he swore at them, cursed them, but while he checked the Light Company the others bent backwards and Leroy was seething in his anger. He saw Sharpe and there was no time for a greeting, for surprise. The American Major pointed at the Company. “Hold them, Sharpe!” He galloped right, to the other Companies, and Sharpe drew his sword.

Harper’s gift. It was the first time he had carried it in battle and the blade was bright in the valley’s gloom. Now he would find if it was lucky.

He stepped past the flank of the Company and the men were red-eyed, their faces smeared black with powder, and at first no one noticed him. They knew Leroy had gone and they were stepping backwards, their ramrods awkward in their hands, and suddenly a voice they knew, a voice they feared never to hear again, was shouting at them. “Still!” They checked in their surprise, began to grin, and then they saw the anger on Sharpe’s face. “Front rank! Kneel!” That would stop the bastards. “Sergeant Harper!”

“Sir!”

“Shoot the next bastard who takes a step back.”

“Yes, sir.”

They stared at him as if he was a ghost. They froze, bullets half rammed down barrels, and he bellowed at them to load, to hurry, and it was the first time he had shouted in a month and the strain tugged at the huge, tender bruise low on his stomach and Harper saw the twinge on his Captain’s face. The front rank was kneeling now, more frightened of Sharpe’s anger than the French, and the Riflemen were tap loading their guns, not bothering with the greased leather patch that gripped the grooves of the barrel. Sharpe knew it was a waste of a good weapon. “Rifles!” He pointed to the open end of the line, nearest the French. “Move! Load properly!”

The sound of the French was close, overwhelming, and he wanted to cringe from it, to turn and watch it, but he dared not. His men were loading again, their training overcoming their fear, and he watched as the ramrods came up and out of the barrels and were propped against mens’ bodies. The muskets were levelled towards the French. He glanced to his left and saw that number Five Company had already fired and he had to trust that no man in the Company disliked him enough to aim deliberately at him. “Fire!”

The balls hammered past him. “Load!” He watched them, daring them to move. The Riflemen were now in a small group at the open end of the line and he looked at them. “Kill their officers. Fire in your own time.” He looked back at the men. “We stay here. Aim at the corner of the column.” He suddenly grinned at them. “Nice to be back.” He turned round, his back to the Company, and now all he could do was stand, to be still, to deny this tiny patch of grassland to the French. He stood with his legs apart, the sword resting on the ground, and the great column was shouting and drumming its way towards them.

The small volleys of the South Essex battered the column’s nearest corner, threw men down so that the ranks behind edged right to avoid the bodies, and still the Company volleys came from the South Essex and the Frenchmen, who had been raked with shrapnel and canister, lanced with roundshot, angled their march so they would go past the single Battalion. The breakwater was holding. The French fired at them as they marched, but it was hard to load a musket and keep walking, harder still to aim in the rhythm of the march, and the column did not win by firepower. It was designed to win by sheer weight, by fear, by glory. The drums hypnotised the valley and drove the Frenchmen on and they passed just fifty yards in front of Sharpe. He watched the packed ranks, saw their mouths open rhythmically when the drums paused and the great shout went up, Vive 1’Empereur!“ Another volley pitted the corner, more men fell, and then an officer tried to drag a group of men out of the column to fire at the Light Company and Daniel Hagman put a bullet through the Frenchman’s throat. Sharpe watched the enemy infantry strip the dead officer as they marched past, successive ranks bending down to go through the officer’s pockets and pouches, and still the drums bore them on and the shout filled the valley, and Sharpe wondered where the Sixth Division were and what was happening on the rest of the field.

He watched the enemy soldiers, so close, and except that they liked moustaches, they looked little different to his own men. Sometimes a Frenchman would catch Sharpe’s eye and there was a curious moment of recognition as though the enemy face was that of an old half-remembered comrade. He saw the mouths open again. “Vive 1’Empereur!” One man caught Sharpe’s eye as he chanted the words, shrugged and Sharpe could not help grinning back. It was ridiculous.

“Fire!” Lieutenant Price’s voice shouted. The Company pulled their triggers and the column jerked spasmodically away from the balls. Sharpe was glad to see the man who had shrugged at him was still alive. He turned round. “Stop firing!”

There was no point in firing now. They might kill a few men on the column’s flanks, but their job had been to push the ponderous column a few yards to its right, and they had done it. They could save their loaded muskets for the column’s retreat, if it did retreat, and Sharpe nodded to Price. “The Company can retire, Lieutenant, as far as the hill.”

The rear of the column was marching past now and Sharpe saw the wounded limping behind, trying to catch up with their comrades, and some of them fell to add to the droppings of the great attack. He looked south, into the smoke, and he could see no cavalry yet, no guns, but they could come. He turned and walked towards his Company and the men grinned at him, called out to him, and he was ashamed because he had feared that one might aim for him. He nodded to them. “How are you?”

They pounded his back, shouted at him, and they all seemed to have inane grins on their faces as though they had won a great victory. He pushed through them, noticing how foul was their breath after his month away from troops, but it was good to be back. Lieutenant Price saluted. “Welcome back, sir.”

“It’s nice to be back. How is it?”

Price glanced at the closest men, then grinned at Sharpe. “Still the best Company in the Battalion, sir.”

“Without me?”

“They had me, sir.” They both laughed to cover a mutual pleasure. Price glanced at Sharpe’s stomach. “And you, sir?”

“The doctors say another month.”

“Harps said it was a miracle.”

Sharpe smiled. “He performed it, then.” He turned to watch the column go on. It was like some mindless machine that was grinding its way northwards, aiming at the city, and he knew that soon the valley would fill with French guns and cavalry unless the column could be stopped. One of his men shouted over the swell of drums and French cheers.

“Harps says you was living in a palace with Duchess!”

“Harps is a bloody liar!” Sharpe pushed through the knot of men and grinned at the big Sergeant. “How are you?”

“I’m doing all right. Yourself, sir?”

“It’s fine.” Sharpe looked north to where the valley was littered with bodies. .“ Casualties?”

Harper shook his head. He sounded disgusted. “Two wounded. We went back too bloody fast.” He nodded at Sharpe’s shoulder. “You got the rifle back?”

“Yes. But I need ammunition.”

„I’ll fix that for you, sir.“ Harper turned as a new sound filled the valley. It was like a hundred children dragging sticks along park railings, the sound of the volleys that the Sixth Division were slamming into the column’s head. The Sixth swore that this day they would restore the reputation that had been sullied by the time they took to capture the three fortresses. They had approached the great column in small columns and then, in the enemy’s face, they swung into line and waited for the French to come into musket range.

The two-deep line curled round the head of the column. The men fought like automatons, biting the cartridges, loading, ramming, firing on command so that the volleys’ flames ran down the face of the line, again and again, and the bullets twitched at the fog of powder smoke and hammered the French. The British volleys made the column’s head into a pile of dead and wounded men. Frenchmen who had thought themselves safe in the fourth or fifth rank suddenly had to cock their muskets and fire desperately into the smoke bank. The column checked. The drums still sounded, but they no longer paused for the great shout. The drummer boys worked their sticks as if they could force the men over the barricade of the dead and onto the Sixth Division, but the men at the column’s front were flinching from the murderous fire. The men behind pressed forward, the column crushed and bulged, and the drummer boys faltered. Some officers, brave beyond duty, tried to take men forward, but it was hopeless. The bravest died, the others shrank back from the British fire, and the column heaved and jerked like some I giant snared animal.

There was a pause in the British volleys. It was filled with a new sound, a scraping and clicking as the hundreds of long bayonets were taken from belt-scabbards and fixed on the muskets. Then a cheer, a British cheer, and the long line came forward with their blades level and the great column, that had so nearly turned the battle, turned instead into a panicked crowd. They ran.

The French had tried to send galloper guns through the small valley to blast the Sixth Division away, but the guns had been broken by the British artillery. The French gunners who still lived put their wounded horses out of their agony with their short carbines. The valley floor was thick with the remains of battle. Bodies, guns, canteens, pouches, haver-sacks, spent cannon balls, dead horses, the wounded. Everywhere the wounded. The French column was a running mass of fugitives, fleeing the steady line of the Sixth Division that came forward into the small valley which was covered by a tenuous awning of smoke. The sun touched the smoke layer with red. The Fourth Division reformed itself, drew bayonets, and went on with the Sixth. The British went forward, the French back, and Clausel’s centre was gone. It had extracted a price for its defeat, a high price, but it was over. The Eagles/Went back, they left the Greater Arapile, the French were^running from the field. The French left had been destroyed, utterly destroyed, in just forty minutes. The centre had tried and failed, and now all that could be done was for the French right to form a barrier on the edge of the plain to stop the British pursuit.

The sun was sinking into a cushion of gold and scarlet, it touched the killing ground with crimson and it promised to give enough light for a little time more. Time enough for more blood to be spilt on an earth that already reeked with the stench of it.