Sharpe's Eagle (32 page)

"We will not surrender."

Lieutenant Gibbons edged his horse closer to his uncle. It had not occurred to him that they
might surrender, but he had long known that the easiest way to stay in Sir Henry's favour was to
offer agreement. "Quite right, sir."

Simmerson pushed his telescope shut. "It will be a disaster, Christian, a disaster. The army
is about to be destroyed."

His nephew agreed and Simmerson reflected, for the thousandth time, what a waste of talent it
was that Gibbons was only a Lieutenant. He had never heard anything but military sense from his
nephew, the boy understood all his problems, agreed with his solutions, and if Sir Henry had
found it temporarily impossible to give his nephew a deserved Captaincy, then at least he could
keep him away from that damned Sharpe and use him as a trusted adviser and confidant. A new
Battalion appeared in the French line, almost opposite the South Essex, and Simmerson opened the
telescope and looked at them.

"That's strange."

"Sir?" Simmerson handed the telescope to his nephew. The fresh Battalion marching from behind
the Cascajal was dressed in white jackets with red turnbacks and collars. Simmerson had never
seen troops like them.

"Major Forrest!"

"Sir?"

Simmerson pointed to the new troops who were forming a column. "Do you know who they
are?"

"No, sir."

"Find out."

The Colonel watched Forrest spur his horse down the line. "Going to see Sharpe. Thinks he
knows it all." But not for long, thought Simmerson; this battle would see the end of military
adventurers like Sharpe and Wellesley and return the army to prudent men, officers of sense, men
like Sir Henry Simmerson. He turned and watched the shells exploding among the KGL and the
Guards. The Battalions were lying flat, and most of the French shots exploded harmlessly or
bounced over their heads. Every now and then, though, there was a puff of smoke in the centre of
the ranks, and Simmerson could see the Sergeants pulling the mangled dead from the line and
closing up the gaps. The skirmish line was forward, lying in the long grass by the stream, a
futile gesture in the face of the imminent French attack. Forrest came back. "Major?"

"Captain Sharpe tells me they're from the German Division, sir. Thinks they're probably the
Dutch Battal-ions."

Simmerson laughed. "Germans fighting Germans, eh? Let `em kill each other!" Forrest did not
laugh.

"Captain Sharpe asks that the Light Company go for-ward, sir. He thinks the Dutchmen will
attack this part of the line."

Simmerson said nothing. He watched the French, and certainly the Dutch, if that was who they
were, were very nearly opposite the South Essex. A second Battalion formed a separate column
behind the first, but Simmerson had no intention of letting his Battalion get involved in the
death struggle of Wellesley's army. The King's German Legion could fight the Dutchmen of the
German Division while Simmerson would at least save one Battalion from disaster.

"Sir?" Forrest prompted him.

Simmerson waved down the interruption. There was an idea in his head and it was exciting, an
idea that stretched into the future and depended on what he did at this moment, and he watched
the beauty of it grow in his mind. The army was doomed. That was certain, and in an hour or so
Wellesley's force would be dead or prisoners, but there was no need for the South Essex to be
part of that disaster. If he were to march them now, march them away from the Medellin to a
position in the rear, then they would not be encircled by the French. More than that, they would
be the rallying point for what fugitives managed to escape the fury of the French, and then he
could lead them, the only unit to escape unscathed from the destruc-tion of an army, back to
Lisbon and England. Such an action would have to be rewarded, and Simmerson imag-ined himself in
the lavish gold lace and cocked hat of a General. He gripped the pommel of his saddle in
excite-ment. It was so obvious! He was not such a fool that he did not realise that the loss of
the colour at Valdelacasa was a black mark against him, even though he was satisfied that in his
letter he had plausibly and firmly fixed the blame on Sharpe, but if he could salvage even a
small part of this army then Valdelacasa would be forgotten and the Horse Guards in Whitehall
would be forced to recognise his ability and reward his initiative. His confidence soared. For a
time he had been unsettled by the hard men who fought this war, but now they had marched the army
into a terrible position and only he, Simmerson, had the vision to see what was needed. He
straightened in the saddle.

"Major! Battalion will about turn and form column of march on the left!" Forrest did not move.
The Colonel wheeled his horse. "Come on, Forrest, we haven't much time!"

Forrest was appalled. If he did as Simmerson ordered, then the South Essex would hinge back
like a swinging gate and leave a gap in the British line through which the French could pour
their troops. And the French columns had started their advance! Their Voltigeurs were swarm-ing
towards the stream, the drums had begun their war rhythm, the shells were falling ever more
thickly among the German Legion below them. Simmerson slapped the rump of Forrest's horse.
"Hurry, man! It's our only hope!"

The orders were given and the South Essex began the clumsy wheeling movement that left the
flank of the Medellin an open slope to the enemy. Sharpe's company was the pivot of the movement,
and the ranks shuffled awkwardly and stared behind them, aghast, as the enemy columns began their
advance. The skirmish line was already fighting, Sharpe could hear the muskets and rifles, but
three hundred yards beyond the stream the Eagles were coming. This attack was not only vaster
than the first but this time the French were sending their field artillery with the columns, and
Sharpe could see the horses and guns waiting to begin their journey to the stream. And
the

South Essex were retreating! Sharpe ran clumsily along the swinging line.

"Sir!"

Simmerson looked down on him. "Captain Sharpe?"

"For God's sake, sir! There's a column aimed for us. , He was interrupted by a Dragoon
Lieutenant, one of Hill's staff, who slid his horse to a stop in a spray of earth. Simmerson
looked at the newcomer. "Lieutenant?"

"General Hill's compliments, sir, and would you stay in position and deploy
skirmishers."

Simmerson nodded benignly. "My compliments to Gen-eral Hill, but he will find out I am doing
the right thing. Carry on!"

Sharpe thought of arguing but knew it was hopeless. He ran back to the company. Harper stood
behind it, keeping the dressing, and he looked woefully at his Captain.

"What's happening, sir?"

"We're going forward, that's what's happening." Sharpe pushed through the ranks. "Light
Company! Skirmish order. Follow me!"

He ran down the hill, his men following. Damn Simmerson! The Voltigeurs from the
white-jacketed Battalion were already over the stream and outflanking the King's Germans, and
Sharpe could see too many men lying dead or injured where the Legion was fighting against twice
their number. It was a lung-bursting run, hampered by packs, pouches, haversacks and weapons, but
the men forced themselves on towards the Dutchmen who had crossed the stream. Shells burst among
the Light Company and Harper, driving them from the back, watched two men fall, but there was no
time to look after them. He watched Sharpe drag his sword clumsily from the scabbard and realised
the Captain planned to charge right into the Voltigeurs and push them back across the stream.
Harper took a deep breath. "Bayonets! Bayonets!"

The men with muskets had little chance of fixing their bayonets in time, but the Riflemen had
no need to try. The Baker's bayonet was long and equipped with a handle, and Sharpe's Riflemen
held them like swords; the French saw them coming, turned, and fumbled with their ammuni-tion. A
first bullet passed Sharpe, singing in his ear, a second struck the ground and ricocheted up to
hit his canteen, and then he was swinging the sword at the nearest man; the rest of the company
were stabbing and shouting, and the white-coated Voltigeurs were scrambling back to the far side
of the Portina.

"Down! Down! Down!" Sharpe screamed at his men and pushed two of them to the ground. The
skirmish line had been restored but that was a small victory. He ran among his men. "Aim low!
Kill the bastards!"

The Dutch skirmishers reformed and started sniping across the stream. Sharpe ignored them and
kept running until he found a Captain of the King's German Legion whose company had suffered
because Simmerson refused to send out his Light Company.

"I'm sorry!"

The Captain waved down Sharpe's apology. "You are velcome! Ve are fighting the German
Division, no?" The Captain laughed. "They are good soldier but ve are better. Enjoy
yourself!"

Sharpe went back to his company. The enemy were fifty yards away, across the stream, and
Sharpe's Riflemen were asserting their superiority thanks to the seven spiralling grooves in the
barrels of their weapons. The Voltigeurs were edging backwards, and Sharpe's redcoats of the
South Essex crept nearer to the stream to improve their aim; he watched them proudly, helping
each other, pointing out targets, firing coolly and remembering the lessons he had pounded into
them during the advance to Talavera. Ensign Denny was standing up, shouting shrill encouragement,
and Sharpe pushed him to the ground. "Don't make yourself a target, Mr Denny, they like to kill
promising young officers!"

Denny beamed from ear to ear at the compliment. "What about you, sir? Why don't you get
down?"

"I will. Remember to keep moving!"

Harper was kneeling by Hagman, loading for him, and picking out ripe targets for the old
poacher. Sharpe gave them his own rifle and left them to pick off the enemy officers. Knowles was
sensibly watching the open end of the line, directing the fire of half a dozen men to stop the
whitecoats outflanking the South Essex, and Sharpe was not needed there. He grinned. The company
was doing well, it was fighting like a veteran unit, and already there were a dozen bodies on the
far side of the stream. There were two, dressed in red, on their own side but the South Essex,
perhaps due to the ferocity of their charge, held the initiative, and the Dutchmen did not want
to risk coming too close to the British skirmish line.

But beyond the Voltigeurs, coming steadily, was the first column, the right-hand column of a
series that filled the plain between the Cascajal and the town. The attack was only minutes away
and when it came, Sharpe knew, the skirmish line would be thrown back. The whole horizon was
hidden by the clouds of dust thrown up by the thousands of French infantry, their drumming and
cheer-ing rivalled the sound of the guns and exploding shells, and in the background was the
sinister noise of the jangling chains which were part of the artillery harness. Sharpe had never
seen an attack on this scale; the columns covered half a mile in the width of their attack, and
behind them, hardly seen in the dust and smoke, was a second line, equally strong, that the
French would throw in if the British checked the first Battalions. Sharpe looked behind.
Simmerson had swung the Battalion and it was marching away from the great gap he had created in
the line; Sharpe could see a horseman riding recklessly towards the single colour and he guessed
that Hill or even Wellesley was dealing furiously with Simmerson, but for the moment the gap
existed and the white-coated Dutchmen were march-ing straight for it.

He joined Harper. There were only seconds before the column would force them back, and he
stared at its slow advance and at the Eagle which flashed tantalisingly from its centre. Beside
it rode a horseman with a fringed and cockaded hat, and Sharpe tapped Hagman on the
shoul-der.

"Sir?" The Cheshire man gave a toothless grin. Sharpe shouted over the drumbeats and the
crackle of musketry. "See the man with the fancy hat?"

Hagman looked. "Two hundred yards?" He took his own rifle and aimed carefully, ignoring the
buzzing of the enemy bullets around them, let his breath out halfway and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle slammed back into his shoulder, there was a billow of smoke, but Sharpe leapt to one
side and saw the enemy Colonel fall into the mass of the column. He slapped Hagman on the back.
"Well done!" He walked to the other Riflemen. "Aim at the artillery! The guns!" He was frightened
of the horse artillery that the French were bringing with the columns; if the gunners were
allowed to get close enough and load with canister or grape shot, they would blast great holes in
the British line and give to the French columns the fire power that was normally denied to them
by their packed formation. He watched his Riflemen as they aimed at the horses and at the gunners
riding on the French four-pounders; if anything could stop the artillery it would be the
long-range accuracy of the Baker rifle, but there was so little time before the column would
force them back and the skir-mish would become an affair of running and firing, running and
firing, and all the time getting closer and closer to the huge space that Simmerson had created
in the British defence.

He ran back to Harper, at the centre of the line, and retrieved his rifle. As the column was
drummed closer the enemy Voltigeurs were plucking up courage and making short dashes towards the
stream in an attempt to force the British skirmish line back. Sharpe could see half a dozen of
his men lying dead or badly wounded, one of them in a green jacket, and he pointed at the man and
raised his eyebrows to Harper.

"Pendleton, sir. Dead."

Poor Pendleton, only seventeen, and so many pockets left to pick. The Voltigeurs were firing
faster, not bother-ing to aim, just concentrating on saturating their enemy with musket fire, and
Sharpe saw another man go down; Jedediah Horrell, whose new boots had given him blisters. It was
time to retreat and Sharpe blew his whistle twice and watched as his men squeezed off a last shot
before running a few paces back, kneeling, and loading again. He rammed a bullet into his rifle
and slid the steel ramrod back into the slit stock. He looked for a target and found him in a man
wearing the single stripe of a French Sergeant who was counting off Voltigeurs for the rush that
would take them over the stream. Sharpe put the rifle to his shoulder, felt the satisfying click
as the flat, ring-neck cock rode back on the mainspring, and pulled the trigger. The Sergeant
spun round, hit in the shoulder, and turned to see who had fired. Harper grabbed Sharpe's
arm.