Then, at last, the blessed sound of raking volleys, of the platoon fire, as the troops of the Legion and the Guards tore apart the heads of the French columns and shattered them, drove the ranks back, destroyed the leading troops, hammering the volleys into the out-gunned columns. Sharpe could see nothing. The Dutch Battalion had marched into the gap onto the flank of the 7th Battalion of the King’s German Legion and stopped. The Germans were fighting on two fronts, ahead of them, and to the side where the South Essex should have been, and Sharpe could give them little help. The Voltigeurs had disappeared, back into the column to swell its numbers, and Sharpe and his company, black-faced and exhausted, were left in the centre of the gap watching the rear of the enemy column as it tried to roll up the flank of the Germans.
“Why don’t they march on?” Lieutenant Knowles was beside him, bleeding from the scalp, and with the face, suddenly, of a veteran.
“Because the other columns are being defeated. They don’t want to be left on their own.” He accepted a drink from Knowles’ canteen; his own was shattered, and the water was wonderfully cool in his parched throat. He wished he could see what was happening but the sound, as ever, told its own story. The drumming from the twelve French columns faltered and stopped; the cheers of the British rose into the air; the volleys paused while bayonets scraped from scabbards and clicked onto muskets. The cheers became vengeful screams, and from the top of the Medellin the General Officers watched as the first line of the French attack disintegrated and the line of Germans and Guardsmen chased them backwards, pursuing the shattered columns at bayonet point across the stream, past the horse artillery which had simply been abandoned by the enemy without firing a shot.
“Oh God,” Sharpe groaned in disbelief.
“What?” Knowles looked towards the stream, behind the backs of the Dutch Battalion who were marooned in the middle of the field, to where the victorious Germans were in trouble. The first French columns had fled, broken and defeated, but at the stream was a second line of columns, as large as the first, and the shattered Frenchmen found shelter behind the waiting guns of their reserve. The German and British troops, their blood roused, bayonets wet but muskets unloaded, ran straight into the fire of the reserve French troops, and it was the turn of the British to be shattered by musket volleys. They turned and fled, in total disorder, and behind them the second line of columns, reinforced with the survivors of the first, struck up the drumbeats and started to march into a plain where Simmerson’s gap had been widened to half a mile and where the only British troops were running in disorder.
Sir Henry, safe with the South Essex at the back of the Medellin, saw the second French advance and breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment he had been terrified. He had watched the French columns creep over the plain, the dust rising behind them, the Voltigeurs pushing ahead of them. He had seen the sun flash silver off thousands of bayonets and burn gold off thousands of badges as the trumpets and drums drove the Eagles of twelve columns right up to the stretched British line. And stop. The musketry had gone up and down the British line like a running flame, its thunder drowning all other sounds, and from his vantage point on the hillside Simmerson watched as the columns shook like standing corn struck by a sudden wind as the volleys smashed into them. Then the columns had crumbled, broken, and run, and he could hardly believe that such a thin line could throw back such an attack. He watched, dumbfounded, as the British cheered, as the Union flags went forward, as the bayonets reached for the blue enemy and came back red. He had expected defeat, and in its place saw victory; he had expected the French to carve their way through the British line as though it did not exist, and instead the British were driving twice their number in bloody chaos before them, and with them went his dreams and hopes.
Except the British went too far. The new French columns opened their fire, the Germans and the Guards were split apart and broken, and a new French attack, even bigger than the first, was driving its way forward from the stream. The cheers of the British had gone, the drums were back, and the Union flags were falling back in chaos before the triumphant Eagles. He had been right after all. He turned to point out his perspicacity to Christian Gibbons but instead of his nephew he found himself looking into the eyes of a strange Lieutenant Colonel; or not so strange? He had an idea that he had seen the man before but could not place him. He was about to ask the man what he wanted, but the strange, elegant Lieutenant Colonel spoke first.
“You are relieved, Sir Henry. The Battalion is mine.”
“What… „The man did-not wait to argue. He turned to a smiling Forrest and rapped out a stream of orders. The Battalion was halting, turning, heading back for the battle. Simmerson rode up behind the man and shouted a protest, but the Lieutenant Colonel wheeled on him with a drawn sword and bared teeth, and Sir Henry decided that this was no place for an argument and reined in his horse instead. The new man then looked at Gibbons.
“Who are you, Lieutenant?”
“Gibbons, sir.”
“Ah yes. I remember. Of the Light Company?”
“Yes, sir.” Gibbons flashed a frantic look at his uncle, but Simmerson was staring at the advancing French. The new Colonel hit Gibbons’ horse with the flat of his sword.
“Then join the Light Company, Mr. Gibbons! Hurry! They need help, even yours!”
The French advanced across a plain that was dotted with bodies, hung about by smoke, but tantalisingly empty of troops. Sir Henry sat his horse and watched the South Essex march towards the battle, saw another Battalion, the 48th, hurrying into the path of the enemy, and from the far side of the gaping hole other British Battalions marched desperately to make a thin screen in front of the massing Eagles. Staff officers kicked up dust as they galloped down the slope; the long six-pounders reared back on their trails as they pounded the enemy; British cavalry hovered menacingly to stop the enemy’s horsemen trying to exploit the shattered British Battalions. The battle was still not lost. Sir Henry looked round the hilltop and felt terribly alone.
CHAPTER 23
Sharpe’s view of the battle was blocked by the Battalion of Dutch troops and by the smoke which drifted like strange fog patches in the burning Spanish heat. With the retreat of the first line of French columns the Dutchmen had become a target for the British guns and, sensibly enough, the white-coated troops had deployed from column into line. They now stood like a dirty white wall at right angles to the stream and faced the fleeing remnants of the King’s German Legion who ran across their front. Sharpe could see the Dutchmen ramming and firing their muskets at the broken Battalions, but they made no move to advance and finish off the survivors, and Sharpe guessed that, with their Colonel shot by Hagman, the Battalion was uncertain what to do and was waiting for the second French attack to catch up with them.
“Sir! Sir!” Ensign Denny tugged Sharpe’s jacket and pointed. Through the hanging smoke from the Medellin guns Sharpe saw a British Battalion marching down the hill. “It’s ours, sir! Ours!” Denny was excited, jumping up and down as the single standard cleaved the smoke and came into full sight on the hillside. They were still a quarter of a mile away, and behind them, dimly glimpsed through the smoke, Sharpe could see another Battalion marching for the gap to put itself in front of this second, larger French attack. He could hear the drums again, as persistent as ever, and he sensed that the crisis of the battle was coming and, as if in confirmation, the French guns started again and from their searing hot barrels threw shell after shell into the British Battalions that were racing to form a new line to meet the next attack. Victory was so close for the French, they had only to break through the scratch defence that was scrappily forming, and the day was theirs.