Even Sir Barnaby Moon had thanked Sharpe, not just for the return of the precious saber, but for saving his life. “And for Lady Moon’s life, Sharpe.”
“That was an honor, sir.”
“Her ladyship insists I must give your men some proper reward, Sharpe,” Moon had said, and pressed coins into Sharpe’s hand, “but I do it gladly on my own behalf as well. You’re a brave man, Sharpe.”
“And you’re a lucky one, sir. Her ladyship is beautiful.”
“Thank you, Sharpe,” the brigadier had said, “thank you.” His leg had been broken again in the fall from the curricle so he was staying a few more days in Cádiz, but Sharpe and his men were free to leave the city. And so they sailed to Portugal, to Lisbon, to the army, to the South Essex, and to the Light Company. They were sailing home.
HISTORICAL NOTE
I would hate anyone to think that Sergeant Patrick Masterson’s feat in capturing the eagle of the 8th regiment was in any way due to Sharpe’s help. Masterson and Ensign Keogh were wholly responsible and poor Keogh died in the attempt. Their eagle was the first to be captured by British troops in the Peninsular War (despite Sharpe’s Eagle), and Masterson was rewarded with a battlefield commission. Another member of the family, a descendant, was awarded a VC at Ladysmith. Masterson’s name is sometimes given as Masterman (I’ve seen it spelled both ways on the same page), but Masterson seems correct. He is usually quoted as saying, “Bejabbers, boys, I have their cuckoo.” He did, too.
The colonel of the 8th was Colonel Autie and he died at Barrosa. I did not want to give a real man, who died heroically, my fictional villainy so I awarded the 8th to Vandal instead. Sous-Lieutenant Guillemain was the standard-bearer and he died trying to defend the eagle that was taken to London and presented, with great fanfare, to the prince regent. It was eventually lodged in the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, from where it was stolen in 1852. The staff is still there, but the eagle itself has never been recovered.
Sir Thomas Graham is one of the more likable generals of the Peninsular War. The story of his life sketched in Sharpe’s Fury is true. Until the French insulted his dead wife, he had been a sympathizer with France and her revolution, but he became so convinced of the evil that the revolution’s fine words disguised that he raised the 90th regiment with his own money and so joined the army. Barrosa was his finest achievement, a terrible battle in which the British infantry (greatly helped on the lower ground by Major Duncan’s superb gunnery) gained an astounding victory. They were outnumbered, they were tired, they remained unsupported by General Lapeña’s troops, and they won. Marshal Victor, after his defeat at Wellington’s hands at Talavera, should have some idea of the destructive power of British musketry, yet once again he attacked in columns, thus denying most of his men the ability to discharge their muskets. Once again the two-deep British line proved the superior weapon. It was still a close-run thing and, at the end, the bayonet proved decisive.
The Spanish were mortified by General Lapeña’s supine behavior. Their troops were more than capable of fighting, and of fighting well. They had proved that at Bailen where, in 1808, they had won an overwhelming victory against the French (and captured an eagle), and General Zayas and his men were to fight brilliantly at Albuera just two months after the battle of Barrosa. Zayas had wanted to help his allies at Barrosa, but Lapeña refused his permission. The Spanish government, realizing the service Graham had rendered, offered him the title of Duque del Cerro del Puerco, but Graham refused it, regarding it as a mere bribe that might persuade him to keep quiet about Lapeña’s conduct. Lapeña’s nickname was indeed Doña Manolito, so perhaps it should have been no surprise that he behaved so badly. One thing Graham did gain from the battle was a dog. General Rousseau, who was badly wounded when he led his grenadiers against the Guards, died of his wounds on the Cerro del Puerco. His dog, a poodle, found his dying master and refused to leave his side, or indeed, the grave where Rousseau was buried. Graham adopted the dog and sent him back to Scotland. “He seems to understand French best,” he wrote home. Graham, after the battle, became Wellington’s second in command for much of the Peninsular War. In time he was to become Lord Lynedoch. He lived to a great age and never remarried. His Mary was the love of his life. I strongly recommend Antony Brett-James’s biography, General Graham (London, Macmillan, 1959), to anyone wishing to learn more about this extraordinary and most likeable Scot.
Henry Wellesley was also a most likeable man, probably the most amiable of the Wellesley brothers. I fear, by giving him an inappropriate love affair, I have traduced his memory. It is, nevertheless, true that he had suffered in love. His wife had left him for Henry Paget, 2nd Earl of Anglesey who, as the Marquess of Anglesey, was to lead Wellington’s cavalry at Waterloo. The divorces of Henry Wellesley and Henry Paget (who divorced his first wife to marry Wellesley’s wife) caused a great scandal, and I have no evidence whatsoever that Henry Wellesley was the cause of any more scandal. He was, however, an extremely able ambassador, and Britain needed such a man because the political situation in Spain (which meant, in 1811, Cádiz) was explosive. Britain and Spain, for reasons cited in the novel, were awkward allies, and there were influential Spaniards who wished to end the alliance and seek a rapprochement with Napoleon. That they failed is very much because of Henry Wellesley’s calm wisdom and, of course, because of Sir Thomas Graham’s victory at Barrosa.
The admiral, like Brigadier Moon and Caterina, is a fictional character. The action described at the start of the book, the attack on the pontoon bridge, is also fictional, though it is based on a very similar (and rather more successful) assault made by General Hill on the bridge over the Tagus at Almarez in May 1812. The attack on the fire rafts did occur, though much earlier than is implied in the novel, and General Graham took no part in that attack, but it proved a useful opportunity for Sharpe and him to meet, so I took liberties.
There is very little to be seen at Barrosa these days. The Spanish have no cause to remember the battle, and the village has now spread to become a pleasant seaside resort at the expense of the places where so many British, Portuguese, and French soldiers died. Marshal Victor began the battle with around seven thousand men and lost over two thousand killed and wounded, including General Rousseau who died on the day of the battle and General Ruffin who died of his wounds on board the ship taking him to England. Graham began with just over five thousand British and Portuguese, and lost fourteen hundred killed and wounded. The 28th had only two officers left at the battle’s end. The First Foot Guards, the Coal Heavers, lost ten officers and 210 guardsmen. No unit suffered as much as John Browne’s Flanker Battalion, which suffered at least 50 percent casualties. Major Browne, who did indeed sing “Heart of Oak” as he led them up the hill, miraculously survived. The 87th lost five officers (poor Keogh among them) and 168 men. Every unit suffered heavily, and all fought magnificently.
I must thank Johnny Watt who, at a time when ill health prevented me from traveling, reconnoitered the old city of Cádiz for me. He did a superb job and it was his enthusiasm for the crypt that led to so much murder and mayhem in the cathedral. Sharpe, I confess, had no business being at Barrosa, and if I had not gone to Johnny’s brother’s wedding in the nearby town of Jerez de la Frontera, I doubt my interest in the battle would have been piqued. But we were there and I could not resist seeing yet another peninsular battlefield, and so Sharpe was doomed to follow. He is now back in Portugal where, in 1811, he belongs, and Sharpe and Harper will march again.