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?”