Sharpe's Eagle (15 page)

The cavalry were seventy yards away, just urging their horses into the canter, ten riders in
the first rank. Harper guessed that fifty men were aimed at the tiny party round the gun, and
there were fifty more in reserve. He touched the fuse onto the reed. There was a fizzing, a puff
of smoke from the touch-hole, and then the enormous explosion. Grey-white smoke belched from the
muzzle; the gun, on its five-foot wheels, lurched back its fifteen hundredweight that dug the
trail into the soil and bounced the wheels off the ground. The thin metal canister split apart as
it left the muzzle, and Harper watched through the smoke as the musket balls and scrap iron
snatched the cavalry off the field. The first three ranks were destroyed; the other two were
dazed, unable to advance over the bloody corpses and the wounded who staggered upright, bleeding
and shocked. Harper heard Knowles shouting.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

Good lad, thought the Irishman. The cavalry had split either side of the carnage; some of the
reserve was galloping forward, but the horsemen seemed dazed by the sudden blow. They came on
towards the gun but stayed clear of its line of fire, and Knowles watched the two wings of
horsemen as they drew nearer. He waited, waited until they put spurs to their horses and tried to
gallop the last few paces, and slashed his sword down.

"Fire!"

The muskets coughed out flame and smoke. The leading horses dropped, making a barrier to those
behind.

"Change muskets!" Knowles felt the stirrings of confidence, the realisation that he could do
it!

"Fire!"

A second volley destroyed the horsemen trying to close on the two sides of the gun. More
horses fell, more men were pitched from their saddles in a flurry of arms, legs, sabres and
scabbards. The horsemen behind went on, lapped round the back of the gun, and the rifles started
their sharper reports and more horses were shot. Knowles was startled to see no more horsemen in
front of the cannon; he turned his men round, changed to the third musket, and blasted a third
volley over the heads of the kneeling Riflemen.

"Thank you, sir!"

Harper grinned at the Lieutenant. The cavalry had gone, shattered by the canister, bloodied by
the close volleys, prevented from closing with the infantry because of the barriers of dead and
wounded horses. Harper watched as Knowles started his men reloading their muskets. He turned back
to the gun. There was so much to remember! Sponge out, stop the vent; he summoned the Riflemen to
reload their captured cannon.

Sharpe had seen the four-pounder fire, watched the horsemen cut down in a bloody swathe, then
he had turned to the Chasseurs attacking his own formation. As the cavalry had come closer he had
halted the three ranks, turned them to face the French except for the rear rank that about-turned
to deal with the horsemen who would envelop the small formation. The horsemen were in savage
mood. An easy victory had been snatched away from them, the gun had been captured, but there was
still the insolent colour waving from the small group of infantry. They spurred towards Sharpe,
their discipline ragged, their mood simply one of revenge and a determi-nation to crush this tiny
force like a boot heel stamping on a scorpion. Sharpe watched them come. Forrest glanced
nervously at him and cleared his throat, but Sharpe shook his head.

"Wait, Major, always wait."

He and Forrest stood beneath the defiant colour. It taunted the French. They spurred towards
it, the trumpet rang out its curdling charge, the Chasseurs screamed revenge, raised their
sabres, and died.

Sharpe had let them come to forty yards, and the volley destroyed the first line that opposed
the British. The second rank of French horsemen clapped spurs to their mounts. They were
confident. Had the British not fired their volley? They jumped over the writhing remains of the
first rank and to their horror saw that the red-coated ranks were not busy reloading but were
calmly aiming their muskets again. Some pulled desperately at their reins, but it was too late.
The volley from Sharpe's second set of muskets piled the horses beside the bodies of the first
line.

"Change muskets!"

The rear rank fired, once and twice. Sharpe whirled, but the experienced sergeants had done
well. His men were ringed with horses, dead and dying, stunned and wounded Chasseurs struggled
from the mess and ran into the wide expanse of the field. The French had lost all cohesion, all
chance of a further attack.

"Left turn! Forward!"

He ran on. He could see Harper and Knowles. The young Lieutenant looked calm, and Sharpe could
see the ring of French dead that showed he had learnt to hold his fire. The cannon fired again,
shrouding the group in smoke, and Sharpe glanced back to see more horsemen fall where they were
reforming ranks off to his right. A few horsemen still galloped round them; once Sharpe stopped
and fired a volley of twenty muskets to drive off a group of six Chasseurs who came galloping up
on the flank. Then his men reached the gun. Sharpe grabbed Harper, pound-ed him on the back,
grinned up at the huge Irishman, and turned to congratulate Knowles. They had done it! Captured
the gun, driven off the cavalry, inflicted terrible damage on men and horses, and without a
single scratch to themselves.

And that was it. With the gun in his hands Sharpe knew the French dare not attack again. He
watched them circle well clear of its range as the British formed a square. Forrest was beaming,
looking for all the world like a Bishop who had conducted a particularly pleasing confir-mation
service. "We did it, Sharpe! We did it!" Sharpe looked up at the colour over the small square. A
little honour had been regained, not enough, but a little. A French gun had been captured, the
Chasseurs had been mauled, some of the South Essex had learned to fight. But that was not all.
Lashed to the trail of the captured gun, festooned on the limber, were ropes. Long, tough, French
ropes that could span a broken bridge instead of haul the gun up steep slopes. Ropes, timber from
the gun's carriage; all he needed to start taking the wounded back across the river.

At the bridge Lennox watched as a Chasseur officer walked his horse towards the British
square. Negotiating again; but it would be too late for him. He felt cold and numb, the pain had
passed, and he knew that there was not long. He gripped the sword; some atavistic memory told him
it was his pass into a better heaven, perhaps where his wife waited. He felt content, lazy but
content. He had watched Sharpe walk suicidally forward, wondered what he was doing, then heard
the distinctive crack of the rifles, seen the figures running on the gun, and watched as the
French cavalry broke themselves on the massed volleys of the infantry. Now it was over. The
French would pick up their wounded and go, and Sharpe would come back to the bridge. And he would
keep the promise, Lennox knew that now; a man who could plan the capture of that gun would have
the daring to do what Lennox wanted. That way there could be no shame in this day's work. The
image of the colour, far up the smoke-veiled field, dimmed in the Scotsman's eyes. The sun was
hot but it was damned cold all the same. He gripped the sword and closed his eyes.

"Damn you, Sharpe! I will break you! I will see you never hold rank again! You will go back to
the gutter you came from!" Simmerson's face was contorted with anger; even his jug ears had
reddened with fury. He stood with Gibbons and Forrest, and the Major tried ineffectually to stem
Sir Henry's anger. The Colonel shook Forrest's arm off his elbow. Til have you court-martialled.
I'll write to my cousin. Sharpe, you are finished! Done!"

Sharpe stood on the other side of the room, his own face rigid with the effort of controlling
his own anger and scorn. He looked out of the window. They were back in Plasencia, in the Mirabel
Palace which was Wellesley's temporary headquarters, and he stared down the Sancho Polo street at
the huddled rooftops of the poorer quarter of the town which were crammed inside the city's
ram-parts. Carriages passed below, smart equipages with uni-formed drivers, carrying veiled
Spanish ladies on mysteri-ous journeys. The Battalion had limped home the night before, its
wounded carried in commandeered ox-carts which had solid axles that screeched, Harper said, like
the banshees. Mingled with the endless noise was the cries of the wounded. Many had died; many
more would die in the slow grip of gangrene in the days ahead. Sharpe had been under arrest, his
sword taken from him, marching with his incredulous Riflemen who decided the world had gone mad
and swore vengeance for him should Simmerson have his way.

The door opened and Lieutenant Colonel Lawford came into the room. His face had none of the
animation Sharpe had seen at their reunion just five days before; he looked coldly on them all;
like the rest of the army he felt demeaned and shamed by the loss of the colour. "Gentle-men."
His voice was icily polite. "Sir Arthur will see you now. You have ten minutes."

Simmerson marched through the open door, Gibbons close behind him. Forrest beckoned Sharpe to
precede him but Sharpe hung back. The Major smiled at him, a hopeless smile; Forrest was lost in
this web of carnage and blame.

The General sat behind a plain oak table piled with papers and hand-drawn maps. There was
nowhere for Simmerson to sit, so the four officers lined up in front of the table like schoolboys
hauled in front of the Headmas-ter. Lawford went and stood behind the General, who ignored all of
them, just scratched away with a pen on a piece of paper. Finally the sentence was done.
Wellesley's face was unreadable.

"Well, Sir Henry?"

Sir Henry Simmerson's eyes darted round the room as though he might find inspiration written
on the walls. The General's tone had been cold. The Colonel licked his lips and cleared his
throat.

"We destroyed the bridge, sir."

"And your Battalion."

The words were said softly. Sharpe had seen Wellesley like this before, masking a burning
anger with an apparent and misleading quietness. Simmerson sniffed and tossed his head.

"The fault was hardly mine, sir."

"Ah!" The General's eyebrows went up; he laid down his quill and leaned back in the chair.
"Whose then, sir?"

"I regret to say, sir, that Lieutenant Sharpe disobeyed an order even though it was repeated
to him. Major Forrest heard me give the order to Lieutenant Gibbons, who then carried it to
Sharpe. By his action Lieutenant Sharpe exposed the Battalion and betrayed it." Simmerson had
found his rehearsed theme and he warmed to his task. "I am requesting, sir, that Lieutenant
Sharpe be court-martialled. ,

Wellesley held up a hand and stopped the flow of words. He looked, almost casually, at Sharpe,
and there was something frightening about those blue eyes over the great, hooked nose that
looked, judged, and were quite inscrutable. The eyes flicked to Forrest.

"You heard this order, Major?"

"Yes, sir."

"You, Lieutenant. What happened?"

Gibbons arched his eyebrows and glanced at Sharpe. His tone was bored, supercilious. "I
ordered Lieutenant Sharpe to deploy his Riflemen, sir. He refused. Captain Hogan joined in his
refusal." Simmerson looked pleased. The General's fingers beat a brief tattoo on the table. "Ah,
Captain Hogan. I saw him an hour ago." Wellesley drew out a piece of paper and looked at it.
Sharpe knew it was all an act: Wellesley knew precisely what was on the paper but he was drawing
out the tension. The blue eyes came up to Simmerson again; the tone of voice was still mild. "I
have served with Captain Hogan for many years, Sir Henry. He was in India. I have always found
him a most trustworthy man." He raised his eyebrows in a query, as though inviting Simmerson to
put him right. Simmerson, inevitably, accepted the invitation.

"Hogan, sir, is an Engineer. He was not in a position to make decisions about the deployment
of troops." He sounded pleased with himself, even anxious to show Wellesley that he bore the
General no ill-will despite their political opposition.

Somewhere in the palace a clock whirred loudly and then chimed ten o'clock. Wellesley sat, his
fingers drum-ming the table, and then jerked his gaze up to Simmerson.

"Your request is denied, Sir Henry. I will not court-martial Lieutenant Sharpe." He paused for
a second, looked at the paper and back to Simmerson. "We have decisions to take about your
Battalion, Sir Henry, I think you had better stay."

Lawford moved to the door. Wellesley's voice had been hard and cold, the tone final, but
Simmerson exploded, his voice rising indignantly.

"He lost my colour! He disobeyed!"

Wellesley's fist hit the table with a crash. "Sir! I know what order he disobeyed! I would
have disobeyed it! You proposed sending skirmishers against cavalry! Is that right,
sir?"

Simmerson said nothing. He was aghast at the tumult of anger that had overwhelmed him.
Wellesley went on.

"First, Sir Henry, you had no business in taking your Battalion over the bridge. It was
unnecessary, time wast-ing, and damned foolish. Secondly." He was ticking off on his fingers.
"Only a fool, sir, deploys skirmishers against cavalry. Third. You have disgraced this army,
which I have spent a year in the making, in the face of our foes and of our allies. Fourthly."
Wellesley's voice was biting hard. "The only credit gained in this miserable engagement was by
Lieutenant Sharpe. I understand, sir, that he regained one of your lost colours and moreover
captured a French gun and used it with some effect on your attackers. Is that correct?"

No-one spoke. Sharpe stared rigidly ahead at a picture on the wall behind the General. He
heard a rustle of paper. Wellesley had picked up the sheet from the desk. His voice was
lower.

"You have lost, sir, as well as your colour, two hundred and forty-two men either killed or
injured. You lost a Major, three Captains, five Lieutenants, four Ensigns and ten Sergeants. Are
my figures correct?" Again no-one spoke. Wellesley stood up. "Your orders, sir, were those of a
fool! The next time, Sir Henry, I suggest you fly a white flag and save the French the trouble of
unsheathing their swords! The job you had to do, sir, could have been done by a company; I was
forced by diplomacy to commit a Battalion, and I sent yours, sir, so that your men would have a
sight and taste of the French. I was wrong! As a result one of our colours is now on its way to
Paris to be paraded in front of the mob. Tell me if I malign you?"