“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 Battalions.”
Simmerson laughed. “Germans fighting Germans, eh? Let ‘em kill each other!” Forrest did not laugh.
“Captain Sharpe asks that the Light Company go forward, 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 destruction of an army, back to Lisbon and England. Such an action would have to be rewarded, and Simmerson imagined himself in the lavish gold lace and cocked hat of a General. He gripped the pommel of his saddle in excitement. 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 swarming 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 General 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!”