Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (54 page)

He was right. Cavalry cannot break a well-formed infantry square. It was a rule of war, proved time and again, that as long as the infantry were solidly ranked, their muskets tipped with bayonets, horses will not charge home. Sharpe had stood in squares and watched the cavalry charge, seen the sabres raised and the mouths open, and then the muskets had fired, the horses fell, and the surviving cavalry sheered away down the sides of the square, were blasted by the muskets. The squares could not be broken. Sharpe had seen them broken, but never when they were well formed. He had seen a Battalion attacked as they formed square, seen the enemy penetrate the unclosed gap and slaughter the ranks from the inside, but it would never have happened if the gap had been closed. He had seen a square break itself, when the men panicked and ran, but that was the fault of the infantry themselves. The South Essex had broken once, three years before at Valdelacasa, and then it had been because the survivors of another square had run to them, clawed at the tight ranks, and the French cavalry had ridden in with the fugitives. Yet these French squares, below him, would not break. Each was of four ranks, the front rank kneeling, and each was solid, calm, and ringed with bayonets. Leroux was safe.

Leroux was safe because he had taken shelter with the infantry. The enemy cavalry, facing west on the hillside, were vulnerable to a British pursuit. Their safety lay in their greater numbers, yet Wellington’s men had the greater morale. Sharpe heard the far-away sound of a trumpet, he looked right, and he saw the British Light Dragoons begin their charge. Three hundred men against a thousand, an uphill charge, and Captain Lossow whooped at them with glee.

The cavalry were charging.

A cavalry charge begins slowly. The horses walk. The troopers have time to see the advertisement engraved on their sabres, “Warranted Never to Fail“, and feel the fear that the same guarantee does not apply to men.

Dust showed behind the walking horses. It drifted across the lush valley. The shadow of the Light Dragoons was long behind them, the sabres were upright, curved, slashing light from the rising sun. The valley was quiet, the enemy still.

A second trumpet. The horses went into the trot and still the men were knee to knee. The triangular banners, guidons, were high above the line of blue and silver uniforms. The faint drumming of hooves came to the hilltop where Sharpe watched. The French cavalry did not move.

Lossow wanted to take his men into the valley to join the charge, but Major Hogan shook his head. “We must watch Leroux. He might make a run for it.” He knew it was unlikely. Leroux was in the safest place; in a square’s centre.

Harsh voices came thin from the valley; orders. Sharpe looked right and saw four hundred and fifty heavy, clumsy swords drawn into the light. The German Heavy Dragoons were in six squadrons, three ahead, three behind, and each squadron was in two ranks. The ranks were forty yards apart so that, should they charge, the second line would have plenty of space to swerve or jump over the dead of the first. The Germans were behind and to the left of the British Light Dragoons who trotted towards the enemy cavalry on the hill.

A trumpet sounded, much closer, and Lossow’s horses moved impatiently. The German squadrons were advancing at the walk and Sharpe frowned. He looked to his left. “They can’t see them!”

“What?” Hogan looked at Sharpe.

“The infantry!” Sharpe pointed. “They can’t bloody see them!” It was true. The French squares were shadowed in the small valley, hidden by a spur of hillside, and the German Heavy Cavalry were unaware qf their presence. The Germans were riding towards ambush. Their line of charge against the French cavalry would take them past the small valley, inside musket range, and the first they would know of the presence of French infantry would be the flaming muskets.

Hogan swore. They were too far from the KGL squadrons to give them warning, they could only watch as the cavalrymen walked towards disaster.

The British Light Dragoons were ahead, trotting towards the hill, and their advance was well beyond the infantry’s range. Sharpe drew his sword. “We can’t just sit here!”

Hogan knew they could not warn the Heavy Cavalry, but to do nothing was worse than making a hopeless attempt. He shrugged. “Go.”

Lossow’s trumpeter blew the full charge, no time now for a decorous walk that would gradually speed up into the full gallop, and Lossow’s men threw themselves into a reckless downhill gallop. If their Heavy comrades just saw them, if they just wondered why they came so fast and waved so frantically, then they might avert disaster. But the six squadrons of the Heavy German Cavalry went on stolidly, the trumpet sounded and they went into the trot, and Sharpe knew they were too late.

Another trumpet sounded, far ahead, and the British Light Dragoons went into the canter. They would stay at the canter until the final few yards when they would be released into the full gallop. A cavalry charge works best when all the horses arrive at once; a solid, moving wall of men, horses and steel. The British reached the bottom of the hill, began to climb it, and still the French did not move.

The German Heavy Cavalry still trotted, still ignorant of the ambush that waited fifty yards ahead. Some of the faces beneath their strange black bicornes looked curiously at Lossow’s men. Sharpe was lurching in his saddle, praying that he would not fall, and the sword was in his right hand and he wished that there were no squares, that he could face Leroux in open battle, but Leroux was safe.

The British trumpet released the Light Dragoons. It threw them forward, shouting, in the final gallop that put the weight of a charging horse behind the sabre. They were outnumbered, they charged uphill, yet they urged their horses on. The French, at last, moved.

They ran. They ran without a fight. Perhaps no man wanted to die after the previous day’s carnage. There was little glory in defeating this cavalry pursuit, no man would win his Legion of Honour medal today, and so the French turned, spurred eastwards, and the British Dragoons chased them, swore at them to fight, but there was no fight in the French cavalry. They would run to fight another day.

The German Heavy Dragoons saw the French run, saw their chance of a fight fading, and so the trumpet put them into the canter. The notes of the call sounded close to Sharpe and then they were drowned by the sound he had been dreading, the sound of an infantry volley. The nearest faces of the squares disappeared in smoke, the leading German squadrons tumbled in dust, falling horses, and cartwheeling swords. Men died beneath their horses, crushed, men screamed. The ambush had worked.

There was no need to warn them now. The French squares had turned one squadron into a shambles, hurt two more, and the other Germans must know they were beaten. Suddenly they had found infantry, well formed infantry, and cavalry cannot break well-formed squares.

The black bicorne hats turned left, the cavalry saw the squares with horror, and the trumpets pealed above the defeated charge. Sharpe knew the squadrons were being called away, called off, that they would ride away from the squares. He looked at Harper and grinned ruefully. “No cavalry charge today, Patrick.”

The Irishman did not reply. He slammed his heels back, whooped with mad joy, and Sharpe jerked his head back to the Germans. They were pulling at their reins, but not to ride away. They were turning towards the squares, were charging them, and the trumpets were pushing them on. It was madness.

Sharpe pulled at his reins, kicked back, and let the horse ride with the others. The sword felt good in his hand. He saw the French infantry reloading, calm and professional, and he knew this charge was doomed.

The German squadrons were still at the canter. They wheeled left, they aligned their ranks, and the madness came on them. The trumpets threw them on.

Lossow, his men, Sharpe and Harper, came up behind the Heavy Squadrons as they began the final charge. Sharpe knew this was madness, knew this was doomed, but it was irresistible. The sword was long in his hand, his blood sang with the trumpet’s challenge, and they went on; galloping into the impossible charge.

The German Heavy Dragoons were jealous. The day before the British Heavy Cavalry had charged to glory, had bloodied their swords to the hilts against French infantry that had not had time to form square. The Germans did not like the British having all the glory.

The Germans were also disciplined, the most disciplined of all Wellington’s cavalry. Not for them the British habit of charging once and then going berserk in a mad chase that left the horses blown and their riders vulnerable to the enemy’s reserves. The Germans were coolly efficient about war. But not now. Now they were suddenly enraged, enough to attempt the impossible. Four hundred and fifty men, less those who had already died, were charging fifteen hundred well formed infantry. The trumpet hurled them into the gallop.

They had no chance, Sharpe knew, but the madness was driving sense out of his head. Artillery could break a square, infantry could break a square, but cavalry could not. There was a mathematical logic that proved it. A man on horseback needed some four feet of width in which to charge. Facing him, in four ranks, were eight men. An infantryman only needed two feet, slightly less, and so the horseman was charging down a narrow corridor at the end of which waited eight bullets and eight bayonets. And even if the infantry were unloaded, if they only had their bayonets, then the charge would still fail. A horse would not charge home that solid wall of men and steel. It would go so far, then swerve, and Sharpe had stood in squares often enough to know how safe they were. This was an impossible charge.

There was terror and madness in the air. The Germans had turned into this charge in a sudden explosion of anger. Their long heavy swords were raised for the first stroke, the hooves slung up great clods of turf, and the French square nearest to the charge fired again. Eighty yards to go.

Screams came from ahead of Sharpe. He had a glimpse of a horse sliding on its belly, head up and yellow teeth bared to the sky. A man rolled over and over, blood whipping from his neck, his sword stuck straight up and quivering in the ground. The trumpet again, incoherent challenges, and everywhere the hammering of hooves that filled the valley.

A horse drummed the earth with its legs, dying on its side, blood frothing as it lashed its neck and screamed in pain. The second rank gathered itself, jumped, and the French had saved one rank’s muskets for the moment. Smoke pumped from the square, bullets lashed at the charge, and a man was hit at full jump. He came backwards from his horse, a halo of blood about his face, and the horse went on alone. A standard bearer was down, his horse dead, and he ran with the standard, holding it aloft, and another German leaned left from the saddle, took the staff at the full gallop, and again the banner was high and taking them on in the impossible charge.

The earth quivered with the heavy horses, with the hammer of their hooves. The ranks had loosened in this madness so the valley seemed filled with big men on big horses, the sunlight catching their swords, the brass-plated straps of the bicornes, and the gleaming hooves that drove them on. The hooves threw up earth that stung Sharpe’s face. The horses seemed to strain towards the enemy, their eyes wild, their teeth bared, and Sharpe let the madness flow up in him to conquer the terror. He rode past a dead horse, its rider crouching for safety behind the corpse, and Sharpe had never done this. He had never ridden with the cavalry in a charge and there was a splendour to it that he could not have dreamt. This was the moment when a man became a god, when the air was noise, when speed lent its strength to the sword, a glorious feeling in those minutes before a bullet turned the god into dead meat.

A cavalryman, wounded, was being dragged by his stirrup. He screamed.

At fifty yards another rank of the square brought up their muskets, looked into the storm of anger, and fired. A horse and rider tumbled, hooves high in the sunlight, falling, and the blood streaked impossibly far on the grass, then the next rank was past, manes flying, and still the French had one more loaded rank.

The square blossomed smoke. A bullet hammered past Sharpe, but he did not hear it. He could only hear the hooves. An officer ahead of Sharpe was hit. He saw the man shaking with the pain, imagined the scream that he could not hear in this valley of noise, and saw the long sword dangle useless by its wrist strap. The man’s horse was hit too, jerking its head in sudden pain, yet it charged on. A dying man on a dying horse leading the charge.

The trumpet hurled them at the enemy. One trumpeter was down, his legs broken, yet he played on, played the charge again and again, the notes that could drive a man into wild glory. These screams in the valley, horses and men, screams of pain drowned by the trumpets. The guidons were lowered like lances, it was the final moment, and crossfire took them from another square and one guidon went down, point first into the earth and the man who had held it seemed to fall so slowly, then suddenly he was rolling and screaming, streaking the grass with his blood, and still the charge was led by a dying man on a dying horse. The man died first. He fell forward onto the neck of his horse, yet the horse still obeyed its last command. It charged. It used up its blood, its great heart pumping to the dying limbs, and the horse fell to its knees. Still it tried to charge as it slid on the grass, slick with blood that pumped from its chest, and it slid with its dead burden and died itself. And as it died, and could not turn, it slid like a great missile of dead meat into the front face of the square. Man and horse, in death, smashing the ranks back, opening the gap, and the next rank of Germans saw it.

They saw daylight. They twitched the reins, they screamed, and the French tried desperately to remake the line. Too late. A horse was there, the first sword came sobbing down, and then the horse was hit by a musket ball, it fell, made more space, and two more horses were in the gap, the swords hissed, and the horses leaped the pile of dead and were within the square. The French were dead men.

Some ran, some surrendered, others fought. The Germans came at them with their long swords and the horses fought as they were trained to fight. The horses killed with their hooves, hammering at skulls, they bit so that a man could lose his face in one horrid second of bowel-loosening fear, and the dust rose with the screams as the last German squadrons tugged right and went for another square.

Survivors of the first clawed at the second square, they tore into its ranks and the horsemen came too. Harper was there, the sabre fast in his hand, and Spears’ horse was trained for this. It moved constantly so no infantryman could hamstring it, it lined up the targets for the sabre, and the Irishman was chanting his Gaelic war cries, the slaughter-madness on him, and the valley was filled with the horsemen, the swords, and the hopeless infantry.

The second square collapsed, broke apart, and the Germans grunted as they brought the heavy blades down in the killing blows. The trumpeter, his legs broken, still lashed them into a fury, though now the notes were of pure triumph. Sharpe’s horse, not trained for war, swerved from the chaos and he swore at it, tugged at the reins, and then a mounted French infantry officer came for him, sword held like a lance, and Sharpe lashed with his great sword, missed, and he cursed this horse that would not take him to the target. Leroux?

Where in God’s name was Leroux?

He could see Harper. The Irishman was in among the fugitives from the second square. One man came at the Sergeant with a bayonet and Harper kicked up with his foot, caught the bayonet, and then sliced down with the sabre. The man fell, and his shako was ludicrously stuck on Harper’s sabre. It stayed there through two more strokes, then shook itself offas the huge Sergeant killed a French officer.

Sharpe could see Hogan. The Major, his sword not even drawn, was circling among the infantry shouting at them to surrender. The muskets were being thrown down, the hands going up, but still Sharpe could not see Leroux.

The third square was retreating up the hillslope. Back there somewhere, Sharpe knew, were two more French Battalions. A new trumpet call rang out, reforming two squadrons, and then Sharpe saw Leroux. He was in the third square. He had been on foot, but now swung himself into his saddle, and Sharpe kicked with his heels and rode towards the unbroken square. Its men were nervous, panicked by the smell of blood and fear, and as Sharpe rode so did the trumpet throw the reformed squadrons against the square.

The first two squares were ended. Most had surrendered, many were dead, and the Germans, who had done a fine thing, wanted to do more. Individual riders spurred towards the unbroken square.

The square fired, not at the cavalry, but at survivors of the first squares who wanted to break into its ranks. The infantry were frantic with fear, stumbling as the square inched backwards, and the first Germans came, were blasted from the saddles, while one man rode down the face of the square, his face a mask of blood, and his long sword beat uselessly at the bayonets, rattled against muskets, and then a shot threw him onto the ground.

More Germans charged home, the swords fell, and there was no reason for the square to break, yet its men were terrified of the fate of their comrades. Some threw down their muskets, raised their hands, and Sharpe could see the mounted officers in the square’s interior tearing at their standard. This Battalion did not carry the Regiment’s Eagle, they carried a flag which they tore into strips to hide in their uniforms. The square was dying and Sharpe saw the surrender and still he charged, wanting to break through the ranks to get his enemy, Leroux.

Leroux had not yet given up. He had not expected this - what man could? He had ridden all night, looping far to the south to avoid British cavalry patrols, and at Alba de Tormes, in the dawn, he had pulled off the heavy cassock that had been his disguise. He had thought himself safe in the square. He had never seen a square broken, never, not even when he had charged with the Emperor himself. And now this!

Leroux could see the German horsemen all around the surrendering square, yet there were not many. Most had ridden on to the two French Battalions in the rear. It would still be possible for the Frenchman to break out, to ride north for a mile before turning east, and he rode to the north side of the square, shouted at the ranks to split, and then he saw Sharpe coming directly at him. That damned Rifleman! He had thought Sharpe dead, wished him dead, had treasured his memory of the screams on the upper cloister, and then his idiot sister had taken a fancy to the man, protected him, and the bastard was back. This time he would kill him. He drew the pistol, the deadly, rifled pistol, from its chest holster and levelled it over the ranks of the square. He could not miss. He pulled the trigger.

Sharpe hauled on the rein, leaned back, and La Marquesa’s horse reared up, hooves flailing, and the bullet took the horse in the throat. Sharpe kicked the stirrups free, pushed desperately away from the saddle, and then he was rolling on the grass as the horse fell at the French ranks. The men shrank back, pushed back, and Sharpe snarled at them, picked up his sword, and plunged into their ranks.

They could have killed him, any one of them, yet they wanted only to surrender. They let Sharpe through, their faces dull, and he snatched a musket from a man in the rear rank. The French soldiers watched the tall Rifleman, feared him, and not one lifted a finger against him.

Leroux was shouting at another face of the square, beating with the flat of his Kligenthal, and Sharpe propped his own sword against his leg, checked the unfamiliar pan of the musket, and levelled it. His rifle was on his back, still without ammunition, and this heavy, strange musket would have to suffice. He pulled the trigger.

Powder stung his face, the kick slammed his shoulder, the smoke blinded him. He tossed the musket down, picked up his sword, and Leroux was hit! He was clutching his left leg, blood showing, and the ball must have passed through the flesh of his thigh, through the saddle, and stung the horse. It reared up in sudden pain and Leroux had to snatch at its mane, he tried to control it, but it reared again and he was falling.

The square had surrendered. Some Germans already pushed their way into its centre and one of them took a strip of the tasselled gold cloth that had been the French standard and waved it high, shouting at his comrades. The French soldiers sat down, muskets beside them, resigned to their fate.

Leroux struck the ground, was winded, and the pain in his left leg made him wince. He had dropped the Kligenthal and he could not see because his big, round, fur hat had slipped over his eyes. He knelt up, pushed the hat back, and the Kligenthal was on the ground. A boot was across the blade. Leroux slowly looked up, past the black trousers, past the tattered green jacket, and he saw his own death in the eyes of the Rifleman.

Sharpe saw the fear in the pale eyes. He stepped back a pace, releasing the Kligenthal, and smiled at Leroux. “Get up, you bastard.”