Sharpe's Eagle

by Bernard Cornwell

  They all muttered the right words, more concerned with hunger and what was to come than with the death of a fat Lieutenant, and watched bleakly as the body was stripped of its valuables before being piled with the scores of dead that would be buried before the sun rose high and made them offensive. No-one thought it odd that Berry’s body had been found so far from the other dead. The events of the night had been muddled; there were stories that the Germans below the Medellin had fought a running skirmish with another column and groups of French fugitives had become lost in the darkness and wandered in the British lines, and the shivering officers assumed Berry had met such a group.

  By four o’clock the army was in position. Hill’s Brigades were on the Medellin and the Brigade Majors lined the Battalions back from the hill crest so that they would be invisible to the French gunners. The South Essex were on the flank of the hill overlooking the Germans and the Guards who would defend the flat plain between the Medellin and the Pajar. Sharpe stared at the town, half hidden in mist, and wondered what was happening to Josefina. He was impatient for the battle to start, to take his Light Company away from Simmerson and up to the skirmish line that would form in the mist-shrouded Portina valley. He was surprised that Simmerson had said nothing to the Battalion. Instead the Colonel sat on his grey horse and stared moodily at the myriad smoke trails from the French camp that rose and mingled in front of the rising sun. He ignored Sharpe; he always did, as though the Rifleman was a small nuisance that would be brushed from his life when his letter was received in London. Gibbons sat beside Simmerson and it suddenly occurred to Sharpe that the two men were frightened. In front of them the solitary colour drooped from its staff, beaded with morning moisture, a lonely reminder of the Battalion’s disgrace. Simmerson did not know war, and he was staring at the mist along the Portina, wondering what would emerge from the whiteness to challenge his Battal­ion. It was not just Sharpe’s future that depended on this battle. If the Battalion did badly then it would stay a Battalion of Detachments and dwindle away under the onslaught of disease and death until it would simply disappear from the army list; the Battalion that never was. Simmerson would survive. He would sail home to his I country estate, take his seat in Parliament, become an armchair expert on the war, but wherever soldiers met, the names of Simmerson and the South Essex would be scorned. Sharpe grinned to himself; ironically, on this day, Simmerson needed the Riflemen far more than Sharpe needed the Colonel. At last the signal came and the Light Companies went forward, spreading themselves into a thin screen of skirmishers to become the first men to meet the attack. As he walked down the slope towards the mist Sharpe stared at the Cascajal Hill that was topped with French guns, almost wheel to wheel, the barrels pointing at the Medellin. Somewhere behind the guns the French Battalions would be parading into the huge columns that would be thrown at the British line; behind them there would be cavalry waiting to pour through the opening: more than fifty thousand Frenchmen preparing to punish the British for their temerity in sending Wellesley’s small army into their Empire. The Light Company walked into the mist, into the private world where skirmisher would fight Voltigeur, and Sharpe thrust away the thoughts of defeat. It was unthinkable that Wellesley could lose, that the army might be shattered and sent reeling back to the sea, that Sharpe’s problems, Simmerson’s problems, the fate of the South Essex, all. would become drowned in the disastrous flood of defeat. Harper ran up to him and nodded cheerfully as he pulled the muzzle stopper from his rifle.

  “The weather’s hot for us, sir.”

  Sharpe grimaced. “It will clear in an hour or so.” The mist hid everything beyond a hundred paces and took away the advantage of the long range rifles. Sharpe saw the stream ahead.

  “Far enough. See if Mr Denny is all right.”

  Harper went off to the right to where Denny should be joining up with the German skirmishers. Sharpe walked upstream where he suspected the attack would be and found Knowles at the end of the line. Beyond in the mist he could see the redcoats of the 66th and some Riflemen from the Royal Americans.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Sir?” Knowles was nervously alert, half dreading, half enjoying his first day of real battle. Sharpe grinned cheerfully at him.

  “Any problems?”

  “No, sir. Will it be long?” Knowles glanced constantly at the empty far bank of the Portina as though he expected to see the whole French army suddenly materialise.

  “You’ll hear the guns first.” Sharpe stamped his feet against the cold. “What’s the time?”

  Knowles took out his watch, inscribed from his father, and opened the case. “Nearly five, sir.” He went on looking at the ornate watch face with its filigree hand. “Sir?” He sounded embarrassed.

  “Yes?”

  “If I die, sir, would you have this?” He held the watch out.

  Sharpe pushed the watch back. He wanted to laugh but he shook his head gravely. “You’re not going to die. Who’d take over if I went?”

  Knowles looked at him fearfully and Sharpe nodded. “Think about it, Lieutenant. Promotion can be rapid in battle.” He grinned, attempting to dispel Knowles’ gloom. “Who knows? If it’s a good enough day we may all end up Generals.”

  A gun banged on the Cascajal. Knowles’ eyes widened as he heard, for the first time, the rumbling thunder of iron shot in the air. Unseen by the skirmishers the eight-pound ball struck the crest of the Medellin, bounced over the troops in a spray of dirt and stones, and rolled harmlessly to rest four hundred yards down the plateau. The sound of the shot echoed flady from the hills, was muffled by the mist, and died into silence. A hundred thousand men heard it, some crossed themselves, some prayed, and some just thought fitfully of the storm that was about to break across the Portina. Knowles waited for another gun but there was silence.

  “What was that, sir?”

  “A signal to the other French batteries. They’ll be reloading the gun.” Sharpe imagined the sponge hissing as it was thrust into the gun, the steam rising from the vent, and then the new charge and shot being rammed home. “About now, I’d think.”

  The silence was over. From now Sharpe would tell the story of the battle by the sounds and he listened as the iron shot from seventy or eighty French guns screamed and thundered in the air. He could hear the crash of the guns, imagined them throwing their massive weights back onto the trails, bucking in the air and slamming back onto the wheels as the rammer was dipped in water and the men prepared the next shot. Behind was a different noise, the muted sound of the roundshot gouging the Medellin, the thud of iron on earth. He turned back to Knowles. “This is my unlucky day.”

  Knowles turned a worried face on him. The Captain was supposed to be ‘lucky’. Sharpe and the company depended on the superstition. “Why, sir?”

  Sharpe grinned. “They’re firing to our left.” He was shouting over the sound of the massed cannons. “They’ll attack there. I thought I might be the proud owner of a watch otherwise!” He slapped a relieved Knowles on the shoulder and pointed across the stream. “Expect them in about twenty minutes, over to the left a bit. I’ll be back!”

  He walked down the line of men, checking flints, making the old jokes and looking for Harper. He felt desperately tired, not just the tiredness of disturbed and little sleep, but the weariness of problems that seemed to have no end. Berry’s death was like a half forgotten dream and solved nothing except half a promise, and he had little idea how to solve the other half or the promise about the Eagle. The promises were like barriers he had erected in his own life, and honour demanded that they be overcome but his sense told him the task was impossible. He waved at Harper, and as the Sergeant walked towards him the noise of the battle changed. There was a whining quality to the roar of the shot overhead, and Harper looked up into the mist.

  “Shells?”

  Sharpe nodded as the first one exploded on the Medel­lin. The sound rose in intensity, the crash of the shells echoing the thunder of the guns, and added to the din was the
sharper sound of the long British six-pounders firing back. Harper jerked a thumb at the unseen Medellin. “That’s a rare hammering, sir.”

  Sharpe listened. “The bands are still playing.”

  „I’d rather be down here.“

  Distantly, through the incessant crashes that merged into one long rumble, Sharpe could hear the sound of Regimental bands. As long as the bandsmen were playing then the British Battalions were not suffering overmuch from the French bombardment. If Wellesley had not pulled the British line behind the crest the French gunners would be slaughtering the Battalions file by file and the bandsmen would be doing their other job of picking up the wounded and taking them to the rear. Sharpe knew Harper, like himself, was thinking of the promise to Lennox, of the Eagle. He stared across the stream at the empty grass, listened to the cannonade as though it were someone else’s battle, and turned to the Sergeant.

  “There will be other days, you know. Other battles.”

  Harper smiled slowly, crouched, and flicked a pebble into the clear water. “We’ll see what happens, sir.” He stayed still, listening, then pointed ahead. “Hear that?”

  It was the noise Sharpe had been waiting for, faint but unmistakable, the sound he had not heard since Vimeiro, the sound of the French attack. The enemy columns were not in sight, would not be visible for minutes, but through the mist he could hear the serried drummers beating the hypnotic rhythm of the charge. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boomaboom, boomaboom, boom-boom. On and on it would go until the attack was won or lost, the drummer boys thrashing the skins despite the volleys, the endless rhythm that had carried the French to victory after victory. There was a relentless menace about the drumbeats, each repeated phrase brought the French nearer by ten paces, on and on, on and on.

  Sharpe smiled at Harper. “Look after the boy. Is he all right?”

  “Denny, sir? Tripped over his sword three times but otherwise he’s fine.” Harper laughed. “Look after yourself, sir.”

  Sharpe walked back up the stream, the drumbeats nearer, the skirmish line peering apprehensively into the empty mist. Their job was about to begin. The French guns had failed to break the British Battalions and in front of the drums, spread in a vast cloud, the Voltigeurs were coming. Their aim was to get as close to the British Battalions as they could and snipe at the line with their muskets, to thin the ranks, weaken the line, so that when the drummed column arrived the British would be rotten and give way. Sharpe’s skirmishers with the other Light Companies had to stop the Voltigeurs and their private battle, fought in the mist, was about to begin. He found Knowles standing by the stream.

  “See anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  The drumming was louder, competing with the crash of the shells, and at the end of each drummed phrase Sharpe could hear a new sound as the drummers paused to let thousands of voices chant ‘Vive L’Empereur’. It was the victory noise that had terrified the armies of Europe, the sound of Marengo, of Austerlitz, of Jena, the voices and drums of French victory. Then, upstream and out of sight, the Light troops met and Sharpe heard the first crackle of musketry: not the rolling volleys of massed ranks but the spaced, deliberate cracks of aimed shots. Knowles looked at Sharpe with raised eyebrows, the Rifleman shook his head. “That’s only one column. There’ll be at least another one, probably two, and nearer. Wait.”

  And there they were, dim figures running in the mist, dozens of men in blue jackets with red epaulettes who angled across their front. The men raised their muskets.

  “Hold your fire!” Sharpe pushed a musket down. The Voltigeurs ran into the fire of the 66th and the Royal Americans, they were a hundred paces upstream and Sharpe waited to see if the French skirmish line would reach the South Essex. “Wait!”

  He watched the first Frenchmen crumple on the turf, others knelt and took careful aim but it was not his fight. He guessed the French attack, aimed at the Medellin, was going to pass by the South Essex but he was glad enough to let his raw troops see real skirmishing before they had to do it themselves. The French, like the British, fought in pairs. Each man had to protect his partner, firing in turn and calling out warnings, constantly watching the enemy to see if the guns were aimed at him or his partner. Sharpe could hear the shouts, the whistles that passed on com­mands, and in the background, insistent as a tocsin, the drumming and shouting. Knowles was like a leashed hound wanting to go up the bank to the fight but Sharpe held him back. “They don’t need us. Our turn will come. Wait.”

  The British line was holding. The Frenchmen tried to rush the stream but fell as they reached the water. The British pairs moved in short rushes, changing position, confusing their enemy, waiting for the Voltigeurs to come in range and then letting off their shots. The green-jacketed Riflemen of the Royal Americans looked for the enemy officers and Sergeants, and Sharpe could hear the crack of the Rifles as they destroyed the enemy leaders. The sound was rising to its first crescendo, the roar of the cannon, the melding crashes of shells, the drums and voices of the column, and the sound of bugles mixing with the musketry. The mist was thickening with the smoke of the French batteries that drifted westward towards the British line, but soon, Sharpe knew, the mist would be burned off. He felt the faintest breeze and saw a great swirl of whiteness shiver and move and heard Knowles draw breath with amazement before the mist closed down. In the gap was a mass of men, tight-packed marching ranks tipped with steel, one of the columns aiming for the stream. It was time to retreat and, sure enough, Sharpe heard the whistles and bugles and saw the skirmishers to the left start to go backwards towards the Medellin. They left bodies, red and green, behind them.

  He blew his own whistle, waved an arm, and listened for the Sergeants to repeat the signal. His men would be disappointed. They had not fired a shot but Sharpe suspected that they would have their opportunities soon enough. The drumming and the chanting went on, the shot crashed overhead, but as the company climbed the hill the mist cut them off from the battle. No-one was shooting at them, no shells landed with spluttering fuses on their piece of the hillside, and Sharpe continued to have the strange sensation of listening to a batde that had nothing to do with him. The illusion vanished as the line climbed out of the mist onto a hillside bright with the early sun. Sharpe checked the line, turned, and heard his men gasp and swear at the view they suddenly encountered.

  The crest of the Medellin was empty of soldiers. Only the French shells continued to tear up the earth in great gouts of soil and flame. The skirmishers in front of the French attack scrambled up the slope, ever nearer to the bursting shells, and turned to shoot at the columns that crawled out of the mist like great, strange animals emerg­ing from the sea. The nearest column was too hundred yards to the left and to Sharpe’s raw troops it must have seemed overwhelming. The Voltigeurs were joining its ranks, swelling it, the drummers beat it along with their relentless, hypnotic beating and the deep shouts of ‘Vive L’Empereur’ punctuated the grinding advance. There were three columns climbing the slope; each, Sharpe guessed, had close to two thousand men and over each there hung, glittering in the new sun, three gilded Eagles reaching for the crest.

  Sharpe turned his skirmish line to face the column and then waved the men down. There was little they could do at this range. He decided not to rejoin the Battalion; the company would suffer less by staying on the hillside and watching the attack than if they tried to run through the barrage of shells, and as they knelt, watching the huge formation march up the slope, Sharpe saw the men of the King’s German Legion join his crude line. They would be privileged spectators on the edge of the French attack. Ensign Denny came and knelt beside Sharpe, and his face betrayed the worry and fear that the drumming, chanting mass engendered. Sharpe looked at him. “What do you think?”

  “Sir?”

  “Frightening?” Denny nodded. Sharpe laughed. “Did you ever learn mathematics?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So add up how many Frenchmen can actually use their muskets.”

 
; Denny stared at the column and Sharpe saw realisation dawn on his face. The French column was a tried and tested battle winner, but against good troops it was a death trap. Only the front rank and the two flank files could actually use their guns, and of the hundreds of men in the nearest column only the sixty in the front rank and the men on the ends of the thirty or so other ranks could actually fire at their enemies. The mass of men in the middle were there merely to add weight, to look impres­sive, cheer, and fill up the gaps left by the dead.

  The sound of the battle changed abruptly. The shelling stopped. The great marching squares were close to the crest of the Medellin, and the French gunners were afraid of hitting their own men. For a moment there was just the drumming, the sound of thousands of boots hitting the hillside in unison, and suddenly a great cheer as the French infantry thought they had won. It was easy to see why they thought victory was in their grasp. There was no enemy in front of them, just the empty skyline, and the skirmish line had scrambled back over the crest to join their Battalions. They had done their job. They had kept the Voltigeurs from the British line, and the French cheer died away as the British orders rang out and suddenly the hilltop was lined two deep with waiting men. It still looked ridiculous. Three great fists, enormous masses, aimed at a tenuous two-deep line, but the look was deceptive; mathe­matics in this situation was all.

  The column nearest Sharpe was headed for the 66th and the 3rd. The two British Battalions were outnumbered two to one, but every redcoat on the crest could fire his musket. Of the hundreds of Frenchmen who climbed in the column only a few more than a hundred could actually fire back and Sharpe had seen it happen too often to have any doubts about the outcome. He watched the order given, saw the British line appear to take a quarter turn to the right as they brought their muskets to their shoulders, and watched as the French column instinctively checked in the face of so many guns. The drums rattled, the French officers shouted, a kind of low growl came from the columns, swelled to a roar, to a cheer, and the French charged towards the summit.