Colonel Vandal. He was waving his hat, encouraging his men to advance. Sharpe could see the white pom-pom on the hat, could see the narrow black moustache, and he felt a surge of utter fury. “Pat!” he shouted.
“Sir?” Harper was alarmed by the tone of Sharpe’s voice.
“Found the bastard,” Sharpe said. He took the rifle from his shoulder. He had not fired it yet, but he cocked it now.
And the French sensed victory. It would be a hard-won triumph, but their drummers found new energy and the line lurched forward again. “Vive l’empereur!”
AT LEAST thirty officers had ridden south from San Fernando. They had stayed on the Isla de León when Sir Thomas’s forces had sailed, and this Tuesday morning they had been woken by the sound of gunfire. Because they were off duty, they had saddled their horses and ridden south to discover what happened beyond the Rio Sancti Petri.
They went south along the Isla de León’s long Atlantic beach, where they joined a crowd of curious horsemen from Cádiz who also rode to witness the fighting. There were even carriages being whipped along the sand. It was not every day that a battle was fought close to a city. The sound of gunfire rattling windows in Cádiz had prompted scores of spectators to head south along the isthmus.
The surly lieutenant guarding the pontoon bridge did his best to prevent those spectators from crossing the river, but he was effectively outgunned when a curricle was whipped along the track. Its driver was a British officer, his passenger a woman, and the officer threatened to use his whip on the lieutenant if the barricade was not removed. It was not so much the threat of the whip as the officer’s lavish display of silver lace that persuaded the lieutenant to yield. He watched sourly as the curricle crossed the precarious bridge. He hoped a wheel would slip off the cresses and tip the passengers into the river, but the two horses were in expert hands and the light vehicle crossed safely and accelerated along the far beach. The other carriages were too big to cross, but the crowd of horsemen followed the curricle and spurred after it.
What they saw when they passed the makeshift Spanish fort guarding the pontoon bridge was a beach filled with resting Spanish soldiers. Cavalry horses were picketed while their riders rested with hats over their faces. Some played cards and cigar smoke drifted in the breeze. Far ahead was the hill above Barrosa and that was wreathed with a different smoke, and more smoke rose in a dirty plume above a pinewood to the east, but on the beach beside the river all was calm.
It was calm in Bermeja where General Lapeña took a lunch of cold ham with his staff. He watched in surprise as the curricle dashed past, its two wheels throwing up great sprays of sand from the track leading past the village church and the watchtower. “A British officer,” he observed, “going the wrong way!”
There was polite laughter. Some of the general’s staff, though, were embarrassed that they did nothing while the British fought, and that sentiment was felt most strongly by General Zayas, whose men had forced Villatte’s division off the beach. Zayas had requested permission to take his troops farther south and join the fighting, a request that was strengthened when Captain Galiana arrived on a sweat-whitened horse with Colonel Wheatley’s plea for help. Lapeña had curtly refused the request. “Our allies,” he declared grandly, “are merely fighting a rearguard action. If they had followed orders, of course, no fighting would have been necessary, but now we must remain here to make certain they have a position to which they can retreat in safety.” He had stared belligerently at Galiana. “And what business do you have here?” he had demanded angrily. “Are you not posted to the city garrison?” Galiana, whose nervousness at approaching Lapeña had made his request harsh, even peremptory, had not even deigned to answer. He just gave the general a look of utter scorn, then turned his tired horse and spurred back toward the pinewood. “His father was an insolent fool,” Lapeña said harshly, “and the son’s the same. He needs lessons in discipline. He should be posted to South America, somewhere where there’s yellow fever.”
No one spoke for a moment. Lapeña’s chaplain poured wine, but General Zayas blocked his own glass by holding a hand over the rim. “At least let me attack across the creek.” He pressed Lapeña.
“What are your orders, General?”
“I’m asking for orders,” Zayas insisted.
“Your orders,” Lapeña said, “are to guard the bridge, and that is your duty that you will do best by remaining in your present position.”
So the Spanish troops stayed near the Rio Sancti Petri while the curricle sped southward. Its driver was Brigadier Moon who had hired the carriage from the posthouse stables just outside the city. He would have preferred to ride a horse, but his broken leg made that exquisitely painful. The curricle was only slightly more comfortable. Its springs were hard and, even though he had his broken leg propped on the dashboard that stopped most of the sand from the horses’ hooves flying into his face, the mending bone still hurt. He saw a track slanting away from the beach into the pinewoods and he took it, hoping that the road would provide better footing for his horses. It did, and he bowled along smartly in the shade of the trees. His fiancée clung to the curricle’s side and to the brigadier’s arm. She called herself the Marquesa de San Augustin, the widowed Marquesa. “I won’t take you where the bullets fly, my dear,” Moon said.
“You disappoint me,” she said. She wore a black hat from which a thin veil hung over her face.
“Battle’s no place for a woman. Certainly no place for a beautiful woman.”
She smiled. “I would like to see a battle.”
“And so you shall, so you shall, but from a safe distance. I may limp up and lend a hand”—Moon slapped the crutches propped beside him—“but you’re to stay with the curricle. Stay safe.”
“I am safe with you,” the Marquesa said. After marriage, the brigadier had told her, she would be Lady Moon. “La Doña Luna,” she said, squeezing his elbow, “will always be safe with you.” The brigadier responded to her affectionate gesture with a guffaw of laughter. “What is that for?” La Marquesa asked, offended.
“I was thinking of Henry Wellesley’s face when I introduced you last night!” the brigadier said. “He looked like a full moon!”
“He seemed very nice,” the Marquesa said.
“Jealous, he was! I could tell! I didn’t know he liked women. I thought that was why his wife bolted, but it was plain as a pikestaff that he liked you. Maybe I’ve got the fellow wrong?”
“He was most polite.”
“He’s a bloody ambassador, he bloody well ought to be polite. That’s what he’s for.” The brigadier went silent. He had seen a track branching east through the wood and the turn was tight, but he could drive horses like a coachman and he took the bend in masterly fashion. The noise of battle was loud now, and not far ahead, so he gently pulled the reins to slow the horses. There were wounded men on either side of the track. “Don’t look, my dear,” he said. There was a man without trousers, writhing, his crotch a mass of blood. “Shouldn’t have brought you,” he said curtly.
“I want to know your world,” she said, squeezing his elbow.
“Then you must forgive me its horrors,” he said gallantly, and then pulled the reins again because he had emerged from the trees and the line of redcoats under their bullet-torn colors was only a hundred paces ahead. The ground between the curricle and the redcoats was a mess of dead men, injured men, discarded weapons, and scorched grass. “Far enough,” the brigadier said.
The French had replaced the wheel of one twelve-pounder and now hauled the cannon back to its original position, but the battery commander knew he could not stay because the enemy guns had targeted him. He had been forced to abandon his one howitzer at the forward position, but he would not lose his last gun that was loaded with shell. He ordered the gun commander to fire the shell at the redcoats, then to retire smartly. The linstock touched the priming tube, the flame flashed to the breech, and the gun fired to leave a cloud of obscuring smoke behind which the battery commander could drag his last weapon to a safer position.