Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil (9 page)

‘Fire!’

Now it was the deadly platoon fire that rippled out of the British and Portuguese lines. Hours of training had made these men into clockwork killers. Each platoon of a battalion fired a couple of seconds after the platoon on its left, and so the bullets seemed never ending as they flicked through the screen of smoke to strike at the French. The fire flayed at the enemy, flensing men off the front and flanks of the column, so that it seemed as if the enemy marched into an invisible mincing machine. The French survivors, inexorably forced to the front ranks, tried to struggle into the storm of musketry, but no man could live against that fire. In the past, in the glorious days when the Emperor’s name struck fear into Europe, the columns had won by overaweing their enemies, but Wellington’s men had long mastered the grim art of bloodying French glory. They did it with musket-fire, the fastest musket-fire in the world. They blackened their faces with the explosions of the priming in their weapons’ pans, they bruised their shoulders with the slamming kicks, and they broke the enemy. Cartridge after cartridge was bitten open, loaded and fired, while in front of the British line the musket wadding burned pale in the scorched grass.

The columns could not move. A few brave men tried to advance, but the bullets cut them down. The survivors edged back and the drumroll faltered.

‘Cease fire!’ a British voice called. ‘Fix bayonets!’

Four thousand men drew their seventeen-inch blades and slotted them on to hot muzzles.

‘Present!’ The voices of the officers and sergeants were calm. Most of these men were veterans and they took pride in sounding unmoved by the carnage of battle. ‘Battalions will advance! Forward!’

All along the front line the battalions marched stolidly into their own fog of smoke. They had fired blind through the choking screen, but a column could hardly be missed even by men obscured by smoke. Now, at last, they broke through the smoke to see what carnage their disciplined fire had done.

Officers’ swords swept downwards. ‘Charge!’

Now, and only now, did the British and Portuguese soldiers cheer. Till this moment they had kept silent, but now, with blackened faces and bayonets levelled, they cheered and broke into a quick march.

The French broke. They ran. They left two blood-soaked heaps of dead, dying and wounded men behind and raced back towards safety. A drummer boy wept because a bullet was in his guts. He would die before noon, and his drum would be chopped up for firewood.

‘Halt!’ The British did not press their charge home. There was no need, for the columns had fled in panic.

‘Dress ranks! Unfix bayonets! Skirmishers forward! Reload!’

Major-General Nairn looked down at his watch and noted that it had taken precisely three minutes and twenty seconds to break the French attack. In the past, he reflected, when more moustaches had filled the enemy ranks, it would have taken about six minutes longer. He put the watch away. ‘Advance the brigade.’

‘Battalion will advance!’

‘Silence in the ranks!’

‘Forward!’

The seemingly tenuous lines started forward again. In two gory places the men stepped clumsily over the piles of enemy dead. The men, long practised in the art, dragged their enemies’ bodies with them for a few paces; giving themselves just enough time to loot the pockets and pouches of the dead or wounded. They took food, coins, talismans and drink. One redcoat kicked the wounded drummer boy’s instrument downhill. The drum’s snares twanged as it bounced and rolled down the long hill.

‘Looks like it’s going to be an easy Easter!’ Frederickson said happily.

But then the skyline was reached, and the plateau of the ridge’s summit was revealed, and nothing looked easy any more.

The battle, as if by mutual consent, stopped to draw breath.

Beresford used the lull to divide his attack. His left hand division would now slant away to threaten the land between the ridge and the city, while the right division, in which Nairn’s Brigade marched, would advance northwards along the ridge’s summit. Horse artillery was being dragged up the slope to thicken Beresford’s attack. The morning passed. Many of the waiting men fell asleep with their heads pillowed on their packs and their faces shaded by mildewed shakoes. Some ate, and a few just stared emptily at the sky. Some men gazed along the ridge towards the fearful French defences. Every few minutes a random French cannonball bounded through the somnolent lines, provoking an irritated scramble from its bouncing path. Sometimes a howitzer shell banged a sharp explosion on the turf, but the fire was sporadic and allowed most of the waiting men to ignore the enemy. Sharpe watched one fusilier patiently hammer the soft lead of a musketball into a perfect cube, then prick its faces with a touch-hole spike to make a dice. No one would gamble with the man who, disgusted, hurled the lead cube away.

In the early afternoon the battalions which had broken the twin French columns were moved to the rear of Beresford’s new formations. Nairn’s brigade now formed the right flank of the first line. He had his two English battalions forward, and his Highlanders in reserve. The horse gunners stacked their ready ammunition alongside the advanced positions, while the skirmishers deployed as a protective screen even further forward.

Sharpe strolled forward to join Frederickson who offered a piece of French garlic sausage. ‘I suppose,’ Frederickson was staring at the ridge’s plateau, ‘that this would be a good moment to resign from the army?’

Sharpe smiled at the grim joke, then drew out his telescope which he trained on the nearest French fortification. He said nothing, and his silence was ominous.

‘The bloody French must know the war’s lost,’ Frederickson said irritably, ‘so why prolong the killing?’

‘Pride,’ Sharpe said curtly, though why, for that matter, were his own countrymen insisting on taking Toulouse if it was really believed that the Emperor was doomed? Perhaps peace was a chimera. Perhaps it was just a rumour that would fade like the stench of blood and powder-smoke from this battlefield.

And, as Sharpe well knew, there would be much blood and smoke on this high ridge. The French were waiting, prepared, and Beresford’s infantry must now advance through a series of strong fortifications that ran across the ridge’s spine. There were gun batteries and entrenchments, all bolstered by earthen redoubts which, topped by palisades, stood like small fortresses athwart the line of attack. One redoubt, larger than the rest, dominated the ridge’s centre and, like its smaller brethren, was faced with a ditch above which its wooden palisade was embrasured for artillery. It was no wonder that Beresford’s climb up the southern slope had not been opposed by French gunfire, for all the enemy cannons were now dug safe into the small forts.

Frederickson borrowed Sharpe’s glass and stared for a long time at the awesome defences. ‘Easter’s meant to be a day for miracles, is it not?’

Sharpe smiled dutifully, then turned to greet Sergeant Harper. ‘We’ll be earning our crust today, Sergeant.’

‘Aye, sir, we will.’ Harper accepted Frederickson’s offer of the telescope and made a quick scrutiny of the great redoubt in the ridge’s centre. ‘Why don’t we just beat the bastards to jelly with gunfire?’

‘Can’t get the big guns up here,’ Frederickson answered cheerfully. ‘We’ve only got galloper guns today.’

‘Peashooters.’ Harper spat scornfully, then handed the telescope to Sharpe. ‘Do you know where our boys are, sir?’

‘Our boys’ were the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, the battalion that Sharpe and Harper had fought in for so many years. ‘They’re off to the cast.’ Sharpe vaguely waved in that direction. He could still not see the city of Toulouse, which was hidden by a shoulder of the ridge, but gunsmoke showed in the far distance to betray where Wellington’s feint attacks threatened Toulouse’s eastern suburb.

‘They shouldn’t be taking much of a beating today, then,’ Harper said hopefully.

‘I suppose not.’ Sharpe suddenly wished he was back with the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers who, under their new Colonel, did not have to face this devil’s ridge of forts, trenches and guns. They would be safe, while Sharpe was foully aware of the symptoms of terror. He could feel his heart thumping, sweat was chill on his skin, and a muscle in his left thigh was twitching. His throat was parched, his belly felt hollow, and he wanted to vomit. He tried to smile, and sought for some casual words that would demonstrate his lack of fear, but he could think of nothing.

Hooves sounded behind, and Sharpe turned to see Major-General Nairn cantering towards the skirmish line. The General curbed his horse, then grimaced at the landscape ahead. ‘We’ve got the right flank, so we’ll be attacking the batteries.’

That was a brighter prospect than assaulting the larger redoubts. The batteries, constructed on the edge of the ridge, were the positions from which the long approach march had been cannonaded, and they had been built purely to defend the gunners from counter-battery fire. Thus there were no fortifications facing the ridge’s centre, so Nairn’s brigade would only have to deal with the flanking trenches and the batteries’ guns which had been dragged from their embrasures and arrayed like ordinary field artillery. Those nearest guns were supported by at least two battalions of French infantry who waited in three deep lines to add their volley fire to the gunnery.

Nairn seemed to shiver as he stared at the ridge’s summit, then he asked to borrow Sharpe’s glass through which he gazed long and hard at the enemy positions. He said nothing when he closed the tubes, except to express surprise at the evident quality of the spyglass. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Vitoria,’ Sharpe said. The telescope had been a gift from the Emperor Napoleon to his brother, King Joseph of Spain, who had lost it when his baggage had been captured by the British after the battle at Vitoria. A small brass plate, let into the ivory of the barrel, recorded the gift.

Nairn held the glass out to Sharpe. ‘I hate to spoil your enjoyment, Major, but I need you.’

Sharpe retrieved his horse. His task, once the advance began, would be to relay Nairn’s orders. The junior aides would be doing the same thing, but Sharpe’s rank and reputation would give him an authority that could be useful to Nairn. At times, Sharpe knew, he would have to use his own judgement, then claim that his decision was a verbal order from Nairn himself.

It was another hour before the order to advance was given. The French had spasmodically shelled the waiting men during the prolonged delay, but the very sparseness of the cannonade was evidence that the real artillery effort would wait until the British and Portuguese troops had marched closer to the guns. Some men grumbled at the wait, others averred that it was necessary so that the Spanish could regroup and attack again from the ridge’s far end. Two chaplains led mules loaded with spare water canteens around the waiting troops. The Irishmen in the ranks crossed themselves. The loudest noise on the ridge, apart from the occasional bang of a French gun, were the pipes of the Highland Regiments.

‘It’s going to be a bloody business, right enough. A bloody, bloody business,’ Nairn said for the fourth or fifth time to Sharpe. The Scotsman was nervous. He knew this would be his one chance to fight his brigade in battle, and he feared he would be found wanting.

Yet the true responsibility did not lie with Nairn, nor even with Wellington who commanded the battle from its northern flank, but with the ordinary soldier. It was the redcoat and greenjacket who had to march forward in the certain knowledge that the best artillery in Europe waited to decimate his ranks. A shilling, a third of a pint of rum and two pounds of twice baked bread each day were the wages for this moment, and in return they must march into hell and come out victors.

‘It won’t be long now,’ Nairn said, as if to comfort the aides who bunched around him.

Divisional aides were galloping across the ridge’s southern spur. Bands were forming into ranks and colours were being hoisted. The British gunners gave their cannon trails a last adjustment.

‘The General’s compliments, sir,’ a cavalry Captain reined in close to Nairn, ‘and if you are ready?’

‘My compliments to the General.’ Nairn drew his sword.

No actual order to advance had been given, nor was it necessary, for as soon as the leading battalions saw the arrival of the Divisional aide, they were ordered to their feet. What waited for them on the ridge was a foretaste of hell, so it seemed best to get it done fast.

‘My compliments to Colonel Taplow,’ Nairn said to Sharpe, ‘and tell him not to let his men fall off to the right.’

‘Indeed, sir.’ Sharpe put his spurs to Sycorax’s flanks. Nairn’s concern about the right flank was justified for, as the attack met opposition, there would be a temptation for the right-hand men to seek safety down the ridge’s western slope.

Taplow did not wait for Sharpe’s arrival, but had already ordered his men forward. They advanced in two lines behind their chain of skirmishers. The front line was composed of five companies, and the rear of four. The battalion’s bayonets were fixed, and their colours lofted between the two lines. Sharpe found Taplow on a grey horse just in front of the colour party. ‘The General’s compliments, sir.’

‘He’ll not find us wanting!’ Taplow interrupted Sharpe. ‘I told you it would be up to us!’ Taplow was in high spirits.

‘He’s eager, sir, that your men don’t deviate too far to the right.’ Sharpe phrased Nairn’s warning as tactfully as he could.

‘Damn your eyes! Does he think we’re amateurs?’ Taplow’s rage was instant and overwhelming. ‘Tell him we shall march to the guns. Direct to the guns! We’ll die like Englishmen, not like skulking Scotchmen. Damn your eyes, Major, and good day to you.’

The other English battalion of Nairn’s brigade marched on Taplow’s left, while behind came the Highlanders who advanced to the eerie skirl of their pipers. They were a secretive, proud battalion who followed their clan chief to war. Many spoke no English, just the Gaelic. In battle they could be terrifying, while off the battlefield they had a grave courtesy. To the left of Nairn’s brigade, and straddling the spine of the ridge’s summit, another brigade advanced.