Sharpe's Eagle

by Bernard Cornwell

“Talion! Shoulder arms!”

  The three movements were perfectly timed. There was only the sound of six-hundred palms slapping six hundred muskets in unison.

  “Talion will make the General Salute!” There was a General present. “Present arms!”

  Sharpe swept his sword into the salute. Behind him the companies slammed the ground with their feet, the muskets dipped in glorious precision, the parade quivered with pride. ’Daddy‘ Hill saluted back. The Sergeant Major shouldered the Battalion’s arms, ordered them, and stood the men at ease. Sharpe watched Forrest ride his horse to Simmerson and salute. He could see gesticulations but could hear nothing. Hill seemed to be asking the questions and Sharpe saw Forrest turn in his saddle and point in the direction of the Light Company. The pointed arm turned into a beckoning one. ”Captain Sharpe!“

  Sharpe marched across the parade ground as though he were the Regimental Sergeant Major on a Royal parade. Damn Simmerson. He might as well have his face rubbed in the dirt. He cracked to a halt, saluted, and waited. Hill looked down on him, his round face shadowed by his large cocked hat.

  “Captain Sharpe?”

  “Sir!”

  “You paraded the Battalion? Is that correct?”

  “Sir!” Sharpe had learned as a Sergeant that repeating the word ‘sir’ with enough force and precision could get a man through most meetings with senior officers. Hill realised it too. He looked at his watch and then back at Sharpe. “The parade is thirty minutes early. Why?”

  “The men seemed bored, sir. I thought some drill would do them good, so Captain Leroy and myself brought them out.”

  Hill smiled; he liked the answer. He looked at the ranks standing immobile in the sunlight. “Tell me, Captain, did anyone refuse to parade?”

  “Refuse, sir?” Sharpe sounded surprised. “No, sir.”

  Hill looked at him keenly. “Not one man, Captain?”

  “No, sir. Not one man.” Sharpe dared not look at Simmerson. Once more the Colonel was looking foolish. He had cried ‘mutiny’ to a General of Division only to find that a junior Captain had paraded the men. Sharpe sensed

  Simmerson shifting uneasily on his saddle as Hill looked down shrewdly. “You surprise me, Captain.”

  “Surprise, sir?”

  Hill smiled. He had dealt with enough Sergeants in his life to know the game Sharpe was playing. “Yes, Captain. You see your Colonel received a letter saying that the men were refusing to parade. That’s called mutiny.”

  Sharpe turned innocent eyes on Simmerson. “A letter, sir? Refusing to parade?” Simmerson glared at him; he would have killed Sharpe on the spot if he had dared. Sharpe looked back to Hill and let his expression change from innocent surprise to slow dawning of awareness. “I think that must be a prank, sir. You know how playful the lads get when they’re ready for battle.”

  Hill laughed. He’d been beaten by enough Sergeants to know when to stop playing the game. “Good! Well, what a to-do about nothing! Today seems to be the South Essex’s day! This is the second parade I’ve attended in twelve hours. I think it’s time I inspected your men, Sir Henry.” Simmerson said nothing. Hill turned back to Sharpe. “Thank you, Captain. 95th, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve heard of you, haven’t I? Sharpe. Let me think.” He peered down at the Rifleman then snapped his fingers. “Of course! I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Sharpe! Did you know the Rifles are on their way back?”

  Sharpe felt his heart leap in excitement. “Here, sir?”

  “They might even be in Lisbon by now. Can’t manage without the Rifles, eh, Simmerson?” There was no reply. “Which Battalion are you, Sharpe?”

  “Second, sir.”

  “You’ll be disappointed, then. The first are coming. Still, it’ll be good to see old friends again, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hill seemed genuinely happy to be chatting away. Over the General’s shoulder Sharpe caught a glimpse of Gib­bons sitting disconsolate on his horse. The General slapped away a fly. “What do they say about the Rifles, eh. Captain?”

  “First on the field and last off it, sir.”

  Hill nodded. “That’s the spirit! So you’re attached to the South Essex, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re in my division, Sharpe, very glad. Carry on!”

  “Thank you, sir.” He saluted, about turned, and marched back towards the Light Company. As he went he heard Hill call out to the cavalry’s commanding officer. “You can go home! No business today!”

  The General walked his horse down the ranks of the Battalion and talked affably with the men. Sharpe had heard much about ‘Daddy’ Hill and understood now why he had been given the nickname. The General had the knack of making every man think that he was cared for, seemed genuinely concerned about them, wanted them to be happy. There was no way in which he could not have seen the state of the Battalion. Even allowing for three weeks’ marching and the fight at the bridge, the men looked hastily turned out and sloppily dressed, but Hill turned a blind eye. When he reached the Light Company he nodded familiarly to Sharpe, joked about Harper’s height, made the men laugh. He left the company grin­ning and rode with Simmerson and his entourage to the centre of the parade ground.

  “You’ve been bad lads! I was disappointed in you this morning!” He spoke slowly and distinctly so that-the flank companies, like Sharpe’s, could hear him clearly. “You deserve the punishment that Sir Henry ordered!” He paused. “But really you’ve done very well this afternoon! Early on parade!” There was a rustle of laughter in the ranks. “You seem very keen to get your punishment!” The laughter died. “Well, you’re going to be disappointed. Because of your behaviour this afternoon Sir Henry has asked me to cancel the punishment parade. I don’t think I agree with him but I’m going to let him have his way. So there will be no floggings.” There was a sigh of relief. Hill took another deep breath. “Tomorrow we march with our Spanish allies towards the French! We’re going to Talavera and there’s going to be a battle! I’m proud to have you in my division. Together we’re going to show the French just what being a soldier means!” He waved a benign hand at them. “Good luck, lads, good luck!”

  They cheered him till they were hoarse, took off their shakoes and waved them at«the General, who beamed back at them like an indulgent parent. When the noise died down he turned to Simmerson.

  “Dismiss them, Colonel, dismiss them. They’ve done well!”

  Simmerson had no alternative but to obey. The parade was dismissed; the men streamed off the field in a buzz of talk and laughter. Hill trotted back towards the castle and Sharpe watched Simmerson and his group of officers ride after him. The man had been made to look foolish and he, Sharpe, would be blamed. The tall Rifleman walked slowly back towards the town, head down to discourage conversa­tion. It was true that he had enjoyed discomfiting Simmerson, but the Colonel had asked for the treatment; he had not even bothered to check whether the men would refuse an order, he had simply screamed for the cavalry. Sharpe knew he had heaped too many insults on the Colonel and his nephew. Sharpe doubted now that Simmerson would be content with the letter that would be in Lisbon by now, waiting for a ship and a fair wind to carry the mail to London. The letter would blight Sharpe’s career, and unless he could perform a miracle in the battle that was coming nearer by the hour, then Simmerson would have the satisfaction of seeing Sharpe broken. But there was more to it now. There was honour and pride and a woman. He doubted if Gibbons would seek an honourable solu­tion, he doubted if the Lieutenant would be satisfied by the letter his uncle had written, and he felt a shiver of apprehension at what might happen. The girl would be Gibbons’ target.

  A man ran up behind him. “Sir?”

  Sharpe turned. It was the burly man who had tried to stop the Battalion parading in the timber yard. “Yes?”

  “I wanted to thank you, sir.”

  “Thank me? For what?” Sharpe spoke harshly. The man was embarrassed
. “We would have been shot, sir.”

  “I would happily have given the order myself.”

  “Then thank you, sir.”

  Sharpe was impressed. The man could have kept silent. “What’s your name?”

  “Huckfield, sir.” He was educated, and Sharpe was curious.

  “Where did you get your education, Huckfield?”

  “I was a clerk, sir, in a foundry.”

  “A foundry?”

  “Yes, sir. In Shropshire. We made iron, sir, all day and night. It was a valley of fire and smoke. I thought this might-be more interesting.”

  “You volunteered!” Sharpe’s astonishment showed in his voice.

  Huckfield grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “The air’s cleaner, sir.” Sharpe stared at him. He had heard men talk of the new ‘industry’ that was springing up in Britain. They had described, like Huckfield, whole landscapes that were bricked over and dotted with the giant furnaces producing iron and steel. He had heard stories of bridges thrown over rivers, bridges made entire­ly of metal, of boats and engines that worked from steam, but he had seen none of these things. One night, round a camp fire, someone had said that it was the future and that the days of men on foot and on horseback were numbered. That was fantasy, of course, but here was Huckfield who had seen these things and the image of a country given over to great black machines with bellies of fire made Sharpe feel uncertain. He nodded to the man.

  “Forget this afternoon, Huckfield. Nothing happened.”

  He ignored the man’s thanks. Being uncertain of the future was the price a soldier paid. Sharpe could not imagine being in an army that was not at war; he could not imagine what he might do if there was suddenly a peace and he had no job. But before then there was a battle to fight and an Eagle to win and a girl to fight for. He climbed up into the streets of Oropesa.

  Chapter 17

  In sixteen years’ soldiering Sharpe had rarely felt such certainty that battle was about to be joined. The Spanish and British armies had combined at Oropesa and marched on to Talavera, twenty-one thousand British and thirty-four thousand Spanish, a vast army swollen by mules, servants, wives, children, priests, pouring eastwards to where the mountains almost met the River Tagus and the vast arid plain ended at the town of Talavera. The wheels of one hundred and ten field guns ground the white roads to fine dust, the hooves of over six thousand cavalry stirred the powder into the air where it clung to the infantry who trudged through the heat and listened to the far-off crackle as the leading Spanish skirmishers pushed aside the screen of French light troops. To left and right Sharpe could see other plumes of dust where cavalry patrols rode parallel to the line of march; closer by, in the fields, the Battalion saw small groups of Spanish soldiers who had fallen out of the march and now lay, apparently uncon­cerned, chatting with their women, smoking, watching the long columns of British infantry file past.

  The men were hungry. Hard as Wellesley tried, thor­ough as the Commissary could be, nevertheless there was simply not enough food for the whole army. The area between Oropesa and Talavera had already been scoured by the French, now it was searched by Spanish and British, and the Battalion had only eaten ‘Tommies’, pancakes made from flour and water, since they left Oropesa the day before. It was a time for tightening belts, but the prospects of action had raised men’s spirits, and when the Battalion marched past the bodies of three French skirmishers they forgot their hunger at their first sight of French infantry.

  Sharpe told his Light Company that the dead men with their fringed epaulettes were the famous French Volti­geurs, the skirmishers, the men with whom the Light Company would fight their own private battle between the lines before the big Battalions clashed. The men of the South Essex, who had not seen enemy infantry before, stared curiously at the blue-jacketed bodies that had been thrown down beside a church wall. Dark stains marked the uniforms, their heads were bent back in the strange attitude of the dead, one man had a finger missing where Sharpe supposed it had been hacked off to get at a valuable ring. Ensign Denny stared at them with fascination: these were the famous French infantry that had marched the length and breadth of Europe; he looked at the moustached faces and wondered how he would feel when he saw similar faces, but animated, staring at him over the browned barrel of the French musket.

  The French made no resistance to the west of Talavera or in the town itself. The armies marched through or past the town and on a mile until they stopped at dusk on the banks of a small river that flowed into the Tagus. The Battalion marched to the north of the town, and Sharpe wondered how Josefina would find a room there. Hogan had promised to look after her, and Sharpe stared at the crowds pressing into the narrow streets as though he might catch a glimpse of her. The men grumbled. They were tired and hungry and they resented being denied the pleasures of the town. They could see officers on horse­back riding towards the old walls, their wives and children walked there, but the troops went on to the Alberche and camped in the cork groves that sloped down to the shallow river. Tomorrow they must fight. If they survived tomor­row then would come the time to buy drink in Talavera, but first they must cross the River Alberche and defeat the army of Marshal Victor. Fires were lit throughout the trees, the Battalions swiftly settling in for the night, glancing apprehensively at the far river-bank where hundreds of smoke plumes mingled and shivered over the French camp. The armies had finally been brought together, British, Spanish and French, and tomorrow they must fight, and Sharpe’s company squatted by their fires and wondered about the men just across the river who sat by similar fires and made the same jokes in a different language.

  Sharpe and Harper strolled to the river’s edge where the Battalion’s leading picquets were settling for a night’s guard duty. Two men of the Light Company, dressed in greatcoats, nodded at Sharpe and jerked their thumbs across the river. A French picquet stood watching them, three men smoking pipes, while another Frenchman filled his canteen at the water’s edge. The man looked up, saw the Riflemen, and raised a hand. He shouted something but they did not understand him. Sharpe shivered slightly. The sun had lost its heat, was reddening in the west, and the chill of the night was already making itself felt. He waved back at the Frenchman and turned back towards the cork grove.

  Now was the time for the rituals before battle. Sharpe walked through the trees and chatted with men who prepared themselves with the obsessions for detail that all men thought might protect them in the chaos of the fight. The Riflemen had stripped their locks, pinned the massive rifle main springs with nails, and brushed every scrap of dirt from the machinery. Men put new flints in their muskets or rifles, unscrewed them and put them in again, looking for the perfect fit that would never come loose, turn sideways, or shatter in the pan. Pots of boiling water were carried carefully from the fires and poured into the barrels of the guns to flush out every last powder deposit, because tomorrow a man’s life might depend on how fast he could reload his musket. Joining the noise of the insects were the sounds of hundreds of stones rubbing endlessly on bayonets, the countrymen sharpening the blades as they used to sharpen reaping hooks or wide-bladed scythes. Men repaired uniforms, sewed on buttons, made new laces, as though to be comfortable was to be safer. Sharpe had been through the ritual a hundred times; he would go through it again tonight the way that a knight in times far past must have strapped every piece of armour, tightened each piece, delayed the next until the first was secure. Some Riflemen emptied all the fine powder from their horns and spread the black grains on clean white cloth to ensure there were no damp lumps that could clog the measuring spout in battle. There were the same jokes: „Don’t wear your hat tomorrow, Sarge, the French might see your face and die laughing.“ That one always worked as long as the Sergeant did not see which man had shouted from the shadows; other men were asked to go and sleep with the French so their snoring would keep the enemy awake; the stale jokes were as much a part of the battle as the bullets which would begin to
fly at first light.

  Sharpe walked past the fires, swapping jokes, accepting tots of hoarded spirits, feeling the edges of bayonets, telling the men that the next day would not be bad. Nor should it be. The combined British and Spanish far outnumbered the French; the allies had the initiative, the battle should be short, swift, and victory almost a certainty. He listened to men boasting of the deeds they would perform next day and knew that the words covered their fear; it was right that they should. Other men, more quietly, asked him what it would be like. He smiled and told them they would see in the morning, but it would not be as bad as they feared, and shrugged away his knowledge of the chaos they would all have to surmount when the attacking infantry walked into the storm of canister and musket shot. He left the fires behind, skirted the bigger blaze where the officers’ servants prepared the thin stew of salt beef that was the last of the hoarded supplies, and out of the trees altogether. In the last light of dusk he could see a farmhouse five hundred yards away where earlier he had seen the sixteenth Light Dragoons go with their horses. He crossed the fields and went into the yard. A line of troopers in blue and scarlet uniforms waited by the armourer. Sharpe waited for them to finish and then unsheathed the huge sword and carried it to the wheel. This was part of his ritual, to have the sword sharpened by a cavalry armourer because they made a finer edge, and the armourer looked at his Rifleman’s uniform and grinned. He was an old soldier, too old to ride into battle, but he had seen it all, done it all himself. He took the blade from Sharpe, tested it with a broad thumb, and then pressed it onto the pedalled stone. The sparks flowed off the wheel, the blade sang; the man swept it lovingly up and down the edge and then sharpened the top six inches of the back blade. He wiped the sword with an oily piece of leather.

  “Get yourself a German one, Captain.” It was an old argument, whether the Kligenthal blades were better than the British. Sharpe shook his head. “I’ve eaten German swords with this one.”