Sharpe's Eagle

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 pla

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 ru

“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 De

De

“I will. Remember to keep moving!”

Harper was kneeling by Hagman, loading for him, and picking out ripe targets for the old poacher. Sharpe gave them his own rifle and left them to pick off the enemy officers. Knowles was sensibly watching the open end of the line, directing the fire of half a dozen men to stop the whitecoats outflanking the South Essex, and Sharpe was not needed there. He gri

But beyond the Voltigeurs, coming steadily, was the first column, the right-hand column of a series that filled the plain between the Cascajal and the town. The attack was only minutes away and when it came, Sharpe knew, the skirmish line would be thrown back. The whole horizon was hidden by the clouds of dust thrown up by the thousands of French infantry, their drumming and cheering rivalled the sound of the guns and exploding shells, and in the background was the sinister noise of the jangling chains which were part of the artillery harness. Sharpe had never seen an attack on this scale; the columns covered half a mile in the width of their attack, and behind them, hardly seen in the dust and smoke, was a second line, equally strong, that the French would throw in if the British checked the first Battalions. Sharpe looked behind. Simmerson had swung the Battalion and it was marching away from the great gap he had created in the line; Sharpe could see a horseman riding recklessly towards the single colour and he guessed that Hill or even Wellesley was dealing furiously with Simmerson, but for the moment the gap existed and the white-coated Dutchmen were marching straight for it.

He joined Harper. There were only seconds before the column would force them back, and he stared at its slow advance and at the Eagle which flashed tantalisingly from its centre. Beside it rode a horseman with a fringed and cockaded hat, and Sharpe tapped Hagman on the shoulder.

“Sir?” The Cheshire man gave a toothless grin. Sharpe shouted over the drumbeats and the crackle of musketry. “See the man with the fancy hat?”

Hagman looked. “Two hundred yards?” He took his own rifle and aimed carefully, ignoring the buzzing of the enemy bullets around them, let his breath out halfway and squeezed the trigger. The rifle slammed back into his shoulder, there was a billow of smoke, but Sharpe leapt to one side and saw the enemy Colonel fall into the mass of the column. He slapped Hagman on the back. “Well done!” He walked to the other Riflemen. “Aim at the artillery! The guns!” He was frightened of the horse artillery that the French were bringing with the columns; if the gu

He ran back to Harper, at the centre of the line, and retrieved his rifle. As the column was drummed closer the enemy Voltigeurs were plucking up courage and making short dashes towards the stream in an attempt to force the British skirmish line back. Sharpe could see half a dozen of his men lying dead or badly wounded, one of them in a green jacket, and he pointed at the man and raised his eyebrows to Harper.

„Pendleton, sir. Dead.“

Poor Pendleton, only seventeen, and so many pockets left to pick. The Voltigeurs were firing faster, not bothering to aim, just concentrating on saturating their enemy with musket fire, and Sharpe saw another man go down; Jedediah Horrell, whose new boots had given him blisters. It was time to retreat and Sharpe blew his whistle twice and watched as his men squeezed off a last shot before ru