Sharpes command, p.16
Sharpe's Command, page 16
Same again, but against twice as many men, and Sharpe was down to a dozen men. The sensible course was to surrender, but Sharpe had seen off one attack and obstinately believed he could defeat this second, more ragged assault.
Then he saw the guerrilleros coming from the rear and knew El Héroe’s men were joining the French attack. And those men had evidently been reinforced. El Héroe claimed to lead hundreds, though Sharpe had never seen more than forty or so, but it seemed that, for once, the bastard had not been lying because there were at least fifty or sixty horsemen spurring up the road and on the grassland either side. Sharpe reloaded his rifle and looked for El Héroe’s garish uniform. If he was to be defeated here then he would at least take that slimy bastard down first. He looked over the rifle’s sights and saw no sign of the gaudy jacket. He looked for the distinctive white stallion, but though there were a dozen grey horses among the fast-approaching horsemen, none was El Héroe’s mount.
Sharpe fired at a French infantryman, then heard his men cheering. The smoke from his rifle slowly cleared and he saw that the guerrilleros were attacking the infantry, who were still in a loose line as they came towards the bridge. They could not defend themselves against the mass of horsemen who rode with lances and sabres. Like Teresa’s men they wore red scarves and like her men they pursued the scattered infantry mercilessly. Some muskets fired, but the French were ridden down ruthlessly. Sharpe, his blood-reddened sword low in his hand, could only watch as, for a second time, he was saved by red-scarved partisans massacring his attackers.
‘El Sacerdote.’ Teresa had come to stand beside him.
‘It is?’
‘I can see him.’ She pointed. ‘The black horse. There …’
Sharpe saw him then, a black-cloaked figure on a big black horse, wielding a long straight blade. ‘I thought priests weren’t allowed to shed blood?’
‘When fighting the devil? Of course they can …’ She suddenly turned to stare across the wall and levelled her rifle. She pulled the trigger and flinched at the rifle’s strong kick and Sharpe, as the smoke blew away, saw she had killed the young man he had spared. The boy was on the ground, his legs twitching. ‘So where’s El Héroe?’ he asked.
‘The coward ran back to the village,’ Teresa said scornfully, taking another cartridge from the pouch slung about her neck, ‘I saw him leave, but he won’t stay there. He’ll run to the forts.’
‘No one else will,’ Sharpe said grimly. El Sacerdote’s men had dismounted and were now finishing off the French wounded and searching the bodies for coins. As far as Sharpe could see, not one Frenchman had survived. Some had tried to flee, but the horsemen had pursued them with their nine-foot-long lances and the blue-uniformed bodies lay scattered down the slope to the west of the road. ‘It’s a cruel war,’ he said.
‘They started the cruelty,’ Teresa said, ‘and you reap what you sow.’
Sharpe turned. ‘Sergeant!’
‘Sir?’
‘Sling those bodies into the French wagon park.’ Sharpe gestured at the French who had died after crossing the wall and who now lay on the bridge’s roadway.
‘Very good, sir.’
‘They can bury their own dead,’ Sharpe said, and went to the bridge parapet and gazed straight down to the enclosure where the pontoon carriages were parked. He counted the carriages and reckoned the French had either moved some or destroyed them because he could only see six of the monstrous wheeled vehicles. A knot of Frenchmen were gazing up at the high bridge, trying to decipher what had caused the fusillades of shots and the powder smoke that drifted wraith-like across the valley. They scattered as the first body was launched over the parapet. It fell and smashed into a carriage. ‘Just have to search the other buggers before we chuck them, sir,’ Harper said cheerfully. ‘That first one had a small fortune. Here, Miss Teresa.’ He held out a gold-chained pendant in his massive, powder-stained hand. ‘Not the kind of thing I wear, miss.’
‘You would look good in it, Patrick.’ She took the necklace. The pendant was a small egg-shaped ruby, delicately framed with gold. ‘I shall wear it,’ she said, and gave the embarrassed Harper a kiss on the cheek.
Sharpe was still staring down into the small encampment at the base of the bridge. Most of the big pontoon carriages had been dragged away, he assumed to the small village of Lugar Nuevo that lay close to Fort Napoleon, and their absence gave far more space inside the small enclosure. There was not only more space, there were also more men. At least fifty French infantrymen were staring back at him and dodging the corpses that came flying from the bridge’s high parapet. And not just infantrymen. Sharpe could see the darker blue uniforms of the enemy’s artillery and he used the telescope to count the guns protecting the enclosure. There had been five large cannons when he had first visited the bridge, and all were still there, four pointing westwards and one northwards. Between those monster guns were the puny four-pounders, one of which still lay abandoned a hundred or so paces up the road where Sharpe’s riflemen had slaughtered the men hauling it up the slope. The drag ropes lay limp on the blood-soaked road where the corpses were lit by the late afternoon sun. ‘They’ve added three of the smaller guns down there, Mister Sharpe.’ Dan Hagman had come to stand beside him.
‘Dear God, you’re right,’ Sharpe said. When he had first seen the encampment there had been four of the small battalion guns, the four-pounders, and now there were seven. And all of the smaller cannon, except for the abandoned one on the road, had a heap of canister rounds piled beside their trails. Four of the small cannon were pointing westwards, two northwards and the last still on the road, and all except that abandoned gun had canister piles. No roundshot, just the tin cylinders of canister. ‘The bastards are reading my mind,’ he said bitterly. His plan, insofar as he had any plan, was to assault the encampment from the north. He was not worried about the huge black twenty-four-pounder. The French might get off one shot from that before his men were at the embrasure, but he would be lucky to survive blasts of canister from the smaller guns. Sharpe cursed. He had airily promised General Hill that he could capture the place before Colonel Cadogan’s infantrymen assaulted Fort Napoleon, but now he saw that would not be nearly as easy as he had thought. Somehow he had to survive the canister rounds. ‘God damn them,’ he snarled.
‘What?’ Teresa asked.
‘Too much canister down there,’ Sharpe said. There were really only two approaches to the encampment and now both were dominated by the small guns that could belch vast loads of canister to flense an attacking force. ‘It’s my fault,’ he said.
‘Yours?’
‘We killed their engineers and now they’re trying to protect them. There are more infantry and more guns, the bastards.’
‘Who are bastards?’ a grave voice enquired behind Sharpe, who turned to see El Sacerdote, his clerical black clothes damp with enemy blood.
‘I have to thank you, Padre,’ Sharpe said, ‘you saved us. Muchas gracias.’
‘On the contrary, I must thank you for drawing the French to a place where they could be so conveniently killed. They are not usually so obliging. May I?’ He held a hand towards Sharpe’s telescope and Sharpe gave it to the tall priest, who trained the glass on the small village of Lugar Nuevo. The village lay very close to the pontoon bridge’s southern end and Sharpe could see a sizeable single-masted ship moored at a wooden quay and he guessed it was one of the ships used to bring supplies downriver from Talavera. Those ships would bring food, wine, ammunition and perhaps reinforcements. ‘The village is a supply depot, Captain Sharpe,’ El Sacerdote said in his deep voice. ‘It’s not there to replenish the forts, though it does serve that purpose, but is a place where the French can pile up supplies for any army that crosses the bridge. If the army to the south marches to help the army to the north, they can refresh their powder, ammunition, food and anything else. If General Hill can destroy Lugar Nuevo’s storehouses he will have done Spain a great service.’
‘I’m sure he will, Padre.’
The priest leaned over the parapet and gazed down at the enclosure’s defences. ‘New cannon?’
‘The small four-pounders,’ Sharpe said.
‘Painted black, so they’re iron,’ the priest said, ‘probably taken from the stores at Lugar Nuevo. They’re older guns, but still horribly effective.’ Most French iron cannon had been replaced by the lighter bronze guns. ‘And you have to capture this fort?’ He pointed down towards the engineers’ encampment below the bridge.
‘I must,’ Sharpe said, wondering how in God’s name he would get through the storm of canister that would gout from the new guns.
‘You must indeed,’ El Sacerdote said gravely. He gestured westwards to the long open slope that lay between the woodlands and the formidable defences of Fort Napoleon. ‘Your fellow infantry will come down that slope and that’s well within range of the bigger cannons.’
‘I’m assured the twenty-fours don’t use canister,’ Sharpe said uneasily.
‘So they’ll use shell and roundshot,’ the priest said, ‘and when the attackers reach the fort they’ll stop while the ladders are placed. They will make an unmissable target.’
‘True,’ Sharpe conceded.
‘And you have few men.’ The priest gestured at Sharpe’s handful of riflemen who were still searching the French dead for coins or food.
‘Very few,’ Sharpe said.
‘Then perhaps you would do me the honour of allowing some of my men to assist you?’ El Sacerdote said, then, without waiting for a response, continued, ‘I have a score of artillerymen in my ranks and they are forced to fight with musket and lance. It will do them good to man those long guns.’
‘Man them?’ Sharpe asked, not immediately grasping the priest’s meaning.
‘Hill’s men will assault the southern rampart of the fort,’ El Sacerdote said, ‘and ignore the eastern wall, because any assault from the east will be within sight and range of the guns across the river,’ he pointed to Fort Ragusa. ‘If my men can hammer the eastern wall with roundshot it will distract the defenders on the southern wall.’
‘It will,’ Sharpe said enthusiastically.
‘Then we shall have the pleasure of killing Frenchmen together,’ El Sacerdote said. ‘Probably tomorrow, Captain.’
‘Tomorrow? General Hill is that close?’
‘I rode a half day ahead of him. His army should come tonight. I am, how do you say, scouting for him?’
‘I’m damn glad you were, Padre,’ Sharpe said.
‘And now we shall help you assault this battery,’ he gestured over the parapet, ‘and together we shall send a mass of Frenchmen to hell.’ He returned Sharpe’s telescope with a polite bow. ‘I will ride south today,’ he went on, ‘to report to General Hill. But first I think it is time for us to explore El Héroe’s village.’
‘He’ll have run to the forts,’ Teresa said caustically.
‘The dog returns to its vomit,’ El Sacerdote said and walked away. He stopped after a few paces and turned back to Sharpe. ‘I will ride south this evening,’ he said gravely, ‘to confer with General Hill. You will want me to convey a message?’
‘I’d rather go with you,’ Sharpe said.
‘That would be convenient,’ El Sacerdote said and offered another slight bow before continuing away.
‘You want to go with him?’ Teresa asked.
‘So far,’ Sharpe said carefully, ‘I seem to have disobeyed all General Hill’s instructions. He was adamant that he did not want the garrisons disturbed, and I’ve disturbed them mightily. Now I want to disobey another of his orders.’
‘Which was?’
‘Not to attack the fort here until after his own assault has begun. But if I do that I’ll likely fail. A daylight attack will just make us easy targets for the gunners. I want the General’s blessing to assault these bastards tonight.’
‘And you need permission?’
‘I do, because if my attack on the encampment alarms the forts, which it will, the bastards will be awake and ready when the General attacks them at dawn. Then, if he fails, I will be blamed.’
‘But not if he gives you permission?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And if he says no?’
‘Then we will attack the encampment at the same time he assaults the forts.’
‘In daylight.’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘And they have big cannon.’
‘And canister,’ Sharpe said, imagining the canister flaying outwards in stinking death-clouds of powder smoke.
‘Then I will come with you to see the General,’ Teresa said.
‘To protect me?’
‘No,’ Teresa said, smiling, ‘because General Hill likes women.’
‘Who doesn’t?’
Teresa ignored that. ‘I can tell by the way he looked at me. He’s more likely to say yes to me than to you.’
‘Then you are coming with me,’ Sharpe said.
He used the telescope again to stare towards Fort Napoleon and could see four cannon in the fort’s high eastern wall that looked towards the old bridge. One of those cannon suddenly fired and Sharpe could see the small dark trace of the cannon ball that was arcing towards him. The French had seen their attack on his makeshift fort fail, had seen their comrades ambushed by El Sacerdote’s merciless horsemen and were now trying to exact a revenge. There was an unholy crash as the roundshot struck the stone of the bridge a few feet lower than the parapet. Stone chips flew up as Sharpe stepped back. ‘Cold barrel,’ he said, ‘the next shot will be higher. Time to go.’
Sharpe wondered what on earth the French commander was thinking. He had known of the presence of a small group of riflemen in the hills immediately south of the bridge and had sent men to flush them out and each time had been comprehensively beaten, yet still he had sent more men, not one of whom would return. By now he must have learned that General Hill was approaching with a much larger force and that must terrify him. El Héroe had doubtless betrayed what he thought were Hill’s plans, so probably the Miravete Castle had been reinforced with men and muskets, and the forts either end of the bridge put on full alert, yet Sharpe could see no sign that French numbers had been increased in those forts. The same number of men showed on the ramparts of the bridge forts and the only change from his first visit to the old bridge was the addition of more small four-pounders. He stared obsessively down at the old bridge’s fort, wondering how he was to take it even with the help of El Sacerdote’s guerrilleros. ‘I need a pair of nine-pounders,’ he grunted to Harper.
‘Aye that would be a treat. How many of the buggers are down there?’
‘I’m guessing a full company of infantry, and a few engineers.’
‘Gunners too,’ Harper had borrowed Sharpe’s telescope.
‘We attack at night?’ Teresa asked.
‘If General Hill allows it, yes.’
‘Why would he not?’ she asked.
‘Because he wants the assault on Fort Napoleon to be a dawn surprise. If we massacre those bastards down there tonight, they’ll be wide awake in the forts.’
Harper spat over the parapet. ‘They’ll be wide awake anyway. Must be pissing themselves already. They must know Daddy is almost here.’
‘So General Hill has nothing to lose by letting us attack tonight,’ Teresa said.
‘I’m thinking you and your men should stay up here,’ Sharpe said.
‘I shall stay with you,’ Teresa protested.
‘You’re going to be my artillery,’ he told her. A wicked idea had hatched in his mind and he smiled wolfishly as he pointed to the stacks of masonry which had made his Fort Sharpe possible. ‘I don’t have nine-pounders, but we do have those,’ he pointed to the remaining pile of stone blocks. ‘Drop those on the bastards’ heads and it will scare them witless.’
Harper chuckled, ‘he’s right, Miss Teresa.’
‘And whoever is up here,’ Sharpe went on, ‘has to be clever enough to know when to stop hurling rocks at the bastards. Someone I can trust.’
‘Why would you stop?’ Teresa asked.
‘Because we’ll be among them,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I don’t want my skull crushed by a bloody great lump of stone.’
Teresa looked stubborn, but evidently relented and called to one of her men to bring a block of masonry that formed one of the crenellations of Fort Sharpe. ‘Tíralo a los bastardos,’ she ordered him, gesturing over the parapet. The man hurled the heavy block as far from the bridge parapet as he could and they all leaned over to watch it fall. The Frenchmen beneath saw the stone coming and scattered, then the block crashed into one of the pontoon carriages and splinters flew.
‘Mary, Mother of God!’ Harper said. ‘It put a hole straight through that wagon bed!’ The noise had been awesome, and the blow prompted some of the enemy to snatch up muskets and aim at the faces peering over the parapet.
‘Get back,’ Sharpe said, amused.
‘That’s as good as a nine-pounder any day,’ Harper said.
‘And as inaccurate, but you can rain stones down on the buggers.’
‘If you hit one, Miss Teresa, there’ll be nothing left of the bastard,’ Harper said.
‘And try to hit the men manning the four-pounders pointing uphill,’ Sharpe said. ‘You could shatter a gun wheel with one of those stones.’
Teresa, imagining the terror and destruction that the masonry could cause, was now enthusiastic for the task and ordered her men to start piling the blocks beside the parapet above the guns that commanded the southern approach.
‘And that’s where we’ll attack?’ Harper asked.
‘Better to assault a pair of four-pounders than five,’ Sharpe said.
‘True enough, sir,’ Harper said.
Sharpe drew the tall Irishman aside. ‘I’m going to meet Daddy Hill and leaving you in charge, Pat.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘I doubt the bastards will try and dislodge you, but don’t provoke them. If you start tossing stones on them, they might call for help from the forts.’
‘I’ll leave them sleeping, sir, so I will.’
