Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Good God,” Sharpe said.

  “No, no, it’s only me.” Jorge Vicente, whom Sharpe had last seen in the wild country north east of Oporto, held out his hand. “Mister Sharpe,” he said.

  “Jorge!”

  “Capitão Vicente now.” Vicente clasped Sharpe and then, to the rifleman’s embarrassment, gave his friend a kiss on both cheeks. “And you, Richard, a major by now, I expect?”

  “Bloody hell, no, Jorge. They don’t promote the likes of me. It might spoil the army’s reputation. How are you?”

  “I am—how do you say?—flourishing. But you?” Vicente frowned at Sharpe’s bruised face. “You are wounded?”

  “Fell down some steps,” Sharpe said.

  “You must be careful,” Vicente said solemnly, then smiled. “Sergeant Harper! It is good to see you.”

  “No kissing, sir, I’m Irish.”

  Vicente greeted the other men he had known in the wild pursuit of Soult’s army across the northern frontier, then turned back to Sharpe. “I’ve orders to knock those things out of the rocks.” He gestured towards the French.

  “It’s a good idea,” Sharpe said, “but there aren’t enough of you.”

  “Two Portuguese are equal to one Frenchman,” Vicente said airily, “and you might do the honor of helping us?”

  “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, then evaded an answer by nodding at the Baker rifle on Vicente’s shoulder. “And what are you doing carrying a rifle?”

  “Imitating you,” Vicente said frankly, “and besides, I am now the captain of a atirador company, the how do you say? marksmen. We carry rifles, the other companies have muskets. I transferred from the 18th when we raised the cazador battalions. So, shall we attack?”

  “What do you think?” Sharpe countered.

  Vicente smiled uncertainly. He had been a soldier for less than two years; before that he had been a lawyer and when Sharpe first met him the young Portuguese had been a stickler for the supposed rules of warfare. That might or might not have changed, but Sharpe suspected Vicente was a natural soldier, brave and decisive, no fool, yet he was still nervous of showing his skills to Sharpe who had taught him most of what he knew about fighting. He glanced at Sharpe, then shadowed his eyes to stare at the French. “They won’t stand,” he suggested.

  “They might,” Sharpe said, “and there are at least a hundred of the bastards. How many are we? A hundred and thirty? If it was up to me, Jorge, I’d send in your whole battalion.”

  “My Colonel ordered me to do it.”

  “Does he know what he’s doing?”

  “He’s English,” Vicente said dryly. The Portuguese army had been reorganized and trained in the last eighteen months and huge numbers of British officers had volunteered into its ranks for the reward of a promotion.

  “I’d still send in more men,” Sharpe said.

  Vicente had no chance to answer because there was the sudden thump of hooves on the springy turf and a stentorian voice shouting at him. “Don’t hang about, Vicente! There are Frogs to kill! Get on with it, Captain, get on with it! Who the devil are you?” This last question was directed at Sharpe and came from a horseman who had trouble curbing his gelding as he tried to rein in beside the two officers. The rider’s voice betrayed he was English, though he was wearing Portuguese brown to which he had added a black cocked hat that sported a pair of golden tassels. One tassel shadowed his face that looked to be red and glistening.

  “Sharpe, sir,” Sharpe answered the man’s bad-tempered question.

  “95th?”

  “South Essex, sir.”

  “That bloody mob of yokels,” the officer said. “Lost a color a couple of years back, didn’t you?”

  “We took one back at Talavera,” Sharpe said harshly.

  “Did you now?” The horseman did not seem particularly interested. He took out a small telescope and stared at the rocky knoll, ignoring some musket balls which, fired at extreme range, fluttered impotently by.

  “Allow me to name Colonel Rogers-Jones,” Vicente said, “my Colonel.”

  “And the man, Vicente,” Rogers-Jones said, “who ordered you to turf those buggers out of the rocks. I didn’t tell you to stand here and chatter, did I?”

  “I was seeking Captain Sharpe’s advice, sir,” Vicente said.

  “Reckon he’s got any to offer?” The Colonel sounded amused.

  “He took a French Eagle,” Vicente pointed out.

  “Not by standing around talking, he didn’t,” Rogers-Jones said. He collapsed his telescope. “I’ll tell the gunners to open fire,” he went on, “and you advance, Vicente. You’ll help him, Sharpe.” He added the order carelessly. “Winkle them out, Vicente, then stay there to make sure the bastards don’t come back.” He turned his horse and spurred away.

  “Jesus bloody wept,” Sharpe said. “Does he know how many of them there are?”

  “I still have my orders,” Vicente said bleakly.

  Sharpe took the rifle off his shoulder and loaded it. “You want advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Send our rifles up the middle,” Sharpe said, “in skirmish order. They’re to keep firing, hard and fast, no patches, just keeping the bastards’ heads down. The rest of our lads will come up behind in line. Bayonets fixed. Straightforward battalion attack, Jorge, with three companies, and hope your bastard Colonel is satisfied.”

  “Our lads?” Vicente picked those two words out of Sharpe’s advice.

  “Not going to let you die alone, Jorge,” Sharpe said. “You’d probably get lost trying to find the pearly gates.” He glanced northwards and saw the cannon smoke thickening as the French attack closed on the village beneath the ridge’s summit, then the first of the guns close to the knoll fired and a shell banged smoke and casing scraps just beyond the rocky knoll. “So let’s do it,” Sharpe said.

  It was not wise, he thought, but it was war. He cocked the rifle and shouted at his men to close up. Time to fight.

  Chapter 5

  THE VILLAGE OF SULA, which was perched on the eastward slope of the ridge very close to where the northernmost road crossed the summit, was a small and unremarkable place. The houses were cramped, the dung heaps large, and for a long time the village had not even possessed a church, which had meant that a priest must be fetched from Moura, at the ridge’s foot, or else a friar summoned from the monastery, to give extreme unction to the dying, but the sacraments had usually arrived too late and so the dead of Sula had gone to their long darkness unshriven, which was why the local people liked to claim that the tiny hamlet was haunted by specters.

  On Thursday, 27th September 1810, the village was haunted by skirmishers. The whole first battalion of the 95th Rifles were in and around the hamlet, and with them were the 3rd Cazadores, many of whom were also armed with the Baker rifle, which meant that more than a thousand skirmishers in green and brown opened fire on the two advancing French columns, which had deployed almost as many skirmishers themselves, but the French had muskets and were opposed by rifles, and so the voltigeurs were the first to die in the small walled paddocks and terraced vineyards beneath the village. The sound of the fight was like dry brush burning, an unending crackle of muskets and rifles, which was augmented by the bass notes of the artillery on the crest that fired shell and shrapnel over the Portuguese and British skirmishers to tear great holes in the two columns struggling up the slope behind the voltigeurs.

  To the French officers in the column, scanning the ridge above, it seemed they were opposed only by skirmishers and artillery. The artillery had been placed on a ledge beyond the village and just below the skyline, and near the guns was a scatter of horsemen who watched from beside the white-painted stump of the windmill’s tower. The artillery was hurting the columns, smashing round shot through tight ranks and exploding shells above the files, but two batteries could never stop these great columns. The horsemen by the mill were no danger. There were only four or five riders visible when the cannon smoke thinned, and all wore coc
ked hats, which meant they were not cavalrymen, so it seemed that the British and Portuguese skirmishers, supported by cannon, were supposed to defeat the attack. Which meant the French must win, for there were no redcoats in sight, no damned lines to envelop a column with volley fire. The drummers beat the pas de charge and the men gave their war cry, “Vive l’Empereur!” One of the two columns divided into two smaller units to negotiate an outcrop of rock, then rejoined on the road as two shells exploded right over their front ranks. A dozen men were thrown down, the dusty road was suddenly red and sergeants dragged the dead and wounded aside so that the ranks behind would not be obstructed. Ahead of the column the sound of the skirmishing grew in intensity as the voltigeurs closed the range and opened on the riflemen with their muskets. There were so many skirmishers now that the noise of their battle was a continuous crackling. Smoke drifted off the hillside. “Vive l’Empereur!” the French shouted and the first riflemen began picking at the columns’ front ranks. A bullet smacked an Eagle, ripping off the tip of a wing, and an officer went down in the front rank, gasping with pain as the files tramped round him. The voltigeurs, outranged by the rifles, were being driven back onto the columns and so Marshal Ney, who commanded this attack, ordered that more companies were to deploy as skirmishers to drive the riflemen and cazadores back up the slope.

  The drummers kept up their monotonous rhythm. A round of shrapnel, designed to burst in the air and slam its load of bullets down and forward, exploded above the right-hand column and the drums momentarily ceased as a dozen boys went down and the men behind were spattered with their blood. “Close up!” a sergeant shouted and a shell banged behind him and a hat went spiraling up in the air and fell on the road with a heavy thump because half the man’s head was still inside. A drummer boy, both legs broken and his belly slit by shell fragments, sat and kept up his drumming as the files went past him. The men patted his head for luck, leaving him to die among the vines.

  Ahead of the columns the new French skirmishers deployed and their officers shouted them up the hill to close the range and so swamp the hated greenjackets with musket fire. The Baker rifle was a killer, but a slow one. To fire it accurately a man was supposed to wrap each ball in a greased leather patch, then ram it down on the charge, and ramming a patched bullet was hard work and made a rifle slow to load. A man could shoot a musket three times while a rifleman reloaded. Time could be saved by forgetting the patch, but then the ball did not grip the seven lands and grooves spiraling inside the barrel and the weapon became little more accurate than a musket. The reinforced voltigeurs climbed and the sheer weight of their fire forced the riflemen and cazadores back, then more Portuguese skirmishers joined the fight, the whole of the 1st cazadores, but the French countered with three more companies of blue-jacketed troops who ran out of the columns and broke down the vines to climb up to where the powder smoke dotted the hillside. Their muskets added more smoke and their bullets pressed the brown- and green-jacketed men back. A rifleman, shot in the lungs, was draped over one of the chestnut stakes holding the vines and a voltigeur drew his bayonet and stabbed the wounded man until he stopped twitching, then searched his pockets for coins or plunder. A sergeant pushed the voltigeur away from the corpse. “Kill the others first!” he shouted. “Get uphill!” The French fire was overwhelming now, a drenching of lead, and the cazadores and riflemen scrambled up to the village itself where they took cover behind low stone walls or in the windows of the small cottages from which shards of broken tiles cascaded as the roofs were spattered by French musketry and by the fragments of shell casing fired by the French guns in the valley. The voltigeurs were shouting, encouraging each other, advancing in rushes, pointing out targets. “Sauterelle! Sauterelle!” a sergeant shouted, pointing at a rifleman of the 95th. The shout meant “grasshopper,” the French nickname for the green pests who dodged and shot, moved and reloaded, shot and moved again. A dozen muskets fired at the man who vanished in an alley as the tile pieces clattered behind him.

  The French skirmishers were all about the village’s eastern margin, enveloping it in musketry, and small groups ran up to the houses and fired at shadows in the smoke. The road was blocked with handcarts where it entered the village, but a company of French troops charged the makeshift barricade which spat smoke and flame as rifles fired from behind the carts. Three Frenchmen went down, but the rest reached the obstacle and fired at the greenjackets. A shell exploded overhead, driving down two more Frenchmen and shattering tiles on a roof. The first handcart was pulled away and the French poured through the gap. Rifles and muskets spat at them from windows and doors. More voltigeurs climbed garden walls or charged into alleyways and over dung heaps. British, Portuguese and French shells were exploding among the houses, smashing walls and filling the narrow lanes with smoke and with shrieking shards of metal and broken tile, but the voltigeurs outnumbered the riflemen and the cazadores and, because they were inside the village, the rifles lost the advantage of long-range accuracy, and the blue-coated men pushed forward, advancing group by group, clearing houses and gardens. The road was cleared as the last carts were dragged away. The column was close to the village now and the voltigeurs were hunting the last cazadores and riflemen from the upper houses. One cazador, trapped in an alley, swung his unloaded musket like a club and put down two Frenchmen before a third lunged a bayonet into his belly. The village had been abandoned by its inhabitants and the voltigeurs plundered the small houses, taking whatever small possessions the villagers had left in their haste to leave. One man fought another for possession of a wooden bucket, a thing not worth a sou, and both died when cazadores shot them through a window.

  The smoke from the British guns made leprous clouds on the ridge top as the columns reached the village. The shells banged at the columns, but the files closed up and the men marched on and the drummers worked their sticks, pausing only so that the shout of “Vive l’Empereur” could tell Marshal Masséna, down in the valley where the French gunners hammered their own shells up towards the ridge’s crest, that the attack continued.

  The windmill on the ledge below the crest lay a third of a mile from the village. The voltigeurs cleared the last enemy skirmishers from Sula’s western edge, sending them scurrying up the more open ground that lay between the village and the mill. One column skirted the village, pushing down fences and clambering over two stone walls, but the other marched right through Sula’s center. At least half a dozen roofs were burning, their rafters set alight by shells. Another shell exploded in the heart of the main street, flinging aside half a dozen infantrymen in smoke, blood and flame, and smearing the whitewashed walls of the houses with spatters of blood. “Close up!” the sergeants shouted. “Close up!” The drums echoed from the bloodied walls, while up on the ridge the British officers heard the rousing cheer, “Vive l’Empereur!” The voltigeurs were climbing ever closer, and were now so thick on the ground that their musketry was almost as dense as volley fire. The British and Portuguese skirmishers had vanished, gone northwards into some trees that crowned the northern crest, and all that seemed to be ahead of the French was the ledge where the horsemen stood close to the mill. Bullets began smacking against the mill’s white-painted stones. One of the artillery batteries was near the mill and its smoke helped to hide the horsemen, among whom was a small, scowling, black-haired, dark-faced man who was perched atop an oversize saddle on a horse that seemed much too big for him. He stared indignantly at the French as if their very presence offended him. Musket balls hummed past him, but he ignored them. An aide, worried by the intensity of the voltigeurs’ fire, considered suggesting that the small man should ride back a few paces, but checked himself from speaking. Such advice to Black Bob Craufurd, commander of the Light Division, would be construed as arrant weakness.

  The columns were in the open ground beneath the mill now and the voltigeurs were being whipped by blasts of canister that flattened the grass as if a sudden gale gusted from the west. More canisters were fired, each taking its hand
ful of casualties, and the voltigeur officers ordered their men back to the columns. Their job was done. The British and Portuguese skirmishers had been driven back and victory waited at the ridge top, and that victory was close, so very close, because the ridge was empty except for the two batteries of guns and the handful of horsemen.

  Or so the French thought. But behind the ledge, where a path ran parallel to the ridge’s top, was dead ground, invisible from below, and in the concealment, lying down to protect themselves from the French artillery, were the 43rd and the 52nd. They were two light infantry battalions, the 43rd from Monmouthshire and the 52nd from Oxfordshire, and they reckoned themselves the best of the best. They had a right to that opinion, for they had been drilled to a savage hardness by the small, black-jowled man who scowled at the French from beside the mill. A gunner spun back from the muzzle of his nine-pounder, struck in the ribs by a French musket ball. He spat up blood, then his Sergeant dragged him away from the gun’s high wheel and rammed a canister home. “Fire!” the gun Captain shouted, and the huge weapon slammed back, bucking up on its trail to spew a thundercloud of smoke in which the canister was torn apart to loose its load of musket balls into the French ranks. “Close up,” the French sergeants shouted, and wounded men, leaving snails’ traces of blood, crawled back to the village where the stone walls would protect them from the gut-slitting blasts of canister. Yet there was not enough canister to finish the columns. They were too big. The outer ranks soaked up the punishment, left their dead and dying, while the ranks behind stepped over the corpses. The hidden redcoats could hear the drums getting closer, could hear the shouts of the infantry and the sound of the musket balls whickering close overhead. They waited, understanding from the swelling noise that Black Bob was letting the enemy get close, very close. This was not to be a firefight at extreme musket range, but a sudden, astonishing slaughter, and then they saw the gunners of one British battery, who were taking a drenching of musketry from the front rank of the left-hand column, abandon their pieces and run back to safety. There was an odd silence then. Not a real silence, of course, for the drums were still beating and the blue-coated French were shouting their war cry, but one British battery was deserted, its guns left to the enemy, and the other was reloading and so for a moment it seemed strangely quiet.