“We can manage them, sir,” Hagman said. “Probably just a patrol. Harris! Watch left! You hurry on, sir.” He spoke to Bullen again. “We know what we’re doing and that pistol ain’t much use.” Bullen had been unaware of even drawing the pistol that had been a gift from his father. He fired it anyway and fancied that the small bullet struck a Frenchman, though it was far more likely the man had been thrown backwards by a shot from one of the riflemen. Another rifle fired. The greenjackets were going backwards, one man retreating while his partner kept watch. The French were firing back, but at too long a range. Their musket smoke made thicker patches of mist. By a miracle the voltigeurs were not following hard on Bullen’s footsteps. They had expected to trap the picquet in the ruined barn and no one had given them orders to divert the attack eastwards, and that delay gave Bullen precious minutes. He realized that Hagman was right and that the riflemen did not need his orders so he ran past them to the bridge where Sergeant Read was waiting with the redcoats. Captain Slingsby was drinking from a canteen, but at least he was causing no trouble. The rifles fired from the mist and Bullen wondered if he should strike directly south, following the marshes by the stream, then he saw there were Frenchmen out in that open space and he ordered the redcoats across the bridge and back to the farm. The riflemen were hurrying back now, threatened by a new skirmish chain of voltigeurs who had come from the mist. Dear God, Bullen thought, but the Crapauds were everywhere!
“Into the farm!” he shouted at the redcoats. The farmhouse was a sturdy building that had been built on the western face of a small rise so that its front door was approached by stone steps and its windows were eight feet above the ground. A perfect refuge, Bullen thought, so long as the French did not bring artillery. Two redcoats hauled Captain Slingsby up the steps and Bullen followed into a long room, parlor and kitchen united in one, with the door and the two high windows facing down the track leading to the bridge. Bullen could not see the bridge in the mist, but he could see the riflemen retreating fast down the track and he knew the French could not be far behind. “In here!” he shouted at the greenjackets, then explored the rest of his makeshift fort. A second door and a single window faced the back where a yard was edged with other low-tiled buildings, while, at one end of the room, a ladder led to an attic where there were three bedrooms. Bullen split the men into six squads, one for each window facing the track, one for the door, and one each for the small rooms upstairs. He posted a single sentry at the back door, hoping the French would not reach the yard. “Break through the roof,” he told the men he posted upstairs. The first voltigeurs were on the track now and their musket balls rattled on the farm’s stone walls.
“There are men in the yard, sir,” the sentry at the back door said.
Bullen thought he meant Frenchmen and snatched open the back door, but saw that one of the strangers was in the uniform of a Portuguese major and the others were all civilians, one of whom was the biggest man Bullen had ever seen. The Portuguese Major stared wide-eyed at Bullen, apparently as astonished to see Bullen as Bullen was to see him, then the Major recovered. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Lieutenant Bullen, sir.”
“There are enemy over there,” the Major said, pointing east, and Bullen cursed, for he had been thinking that perhaps his men could wade towards the river and so put themselves under the protection of the British gunboat that he had heard firing in the dawn. Now, it seemed, he was surrounded, so he had no choice but to make the best defense he could. “We will join you,” the Major announced, and the five men came into the farmhouse where Bullen, on the Major’s advice, put a handful of men in the eastern window to keep a look out for the enemy the Major had seen in the direction of the river. There was a clatter as shattered tiles cascaded from the roof where men broke through from the attic, then a bellow of gunfire as the Portuguese civilians fired at men coming from the east. Bullen turned to see what they were shooting at, and just then a volley crackled from the west and glass shattered in the windows and a redcoat spun back, a bullet in his lung. He began coughing up frothy blood. “Fire!” Bullen shouted.
Another man was hit, this time in the farm’s doorway. Bullen went to a window, peered over the shoulder of a redcoat and saw Frenchmen running to the left, more going right and still more coming up the track. Muskets and rifles fired from the roof, but he did not see a single Frenchman fall. The long, low room echoed with the bangs of the guns, filled with smoke, and then the British and Portuguese cannon on the ridge added their own noise. The men in the back windows were firing as hard as the men in the front.
“They’re working their way around the sides, sir,” Read said, meaning that the French were going to the flanks of the farmhouse where no windows pointed.
“Kill them, boys!” Slingsby suddenly shouted. “And God save King George.”
“Bugger King George,” a redcoat muttered, then cursed because he had been struck by a splinter of wood driven from the window frame by a musket ball. “ ’Ware left, ’ware left!” a man shouted and three muskets banged together. Bullen dashed to the back door, peered through and saw powder smoke at the far end of the farmyard where cottages and cattle sheds huddled together. What the hell was happening? He had somehow hoped the French would stay on the track, attacking only from the west, but he realized now that had been a stupid hope. The voltigeurs were surrounding the farm and hammering it with musket fire. Bullen could sense panic in himself. He was twenty years old and over fifty men were looking to him for leadership, and so far he had given it, but he was being assailed by the sound of enemy musketry, the unending rattle of balls against the stone walls and by Captain Slingsby who was now on his feet and shouting at the men to look for the whites of the enemies’ eyes.
Then the Portuguese Major solved some of his problems. “I’ll look after this side,” he told Bullen, pointing east. Bullen suspected there were fewer enemy out there, but he was grateful that he could forget them now. He looked back to the west which was taking the brunt of the fire, though most of it was being wasted on the stone walls. The problem, Bullen saw, lay north and south, for once the French realized that he had no guns covering the flanks of the building, they were bound to concentrate there.
“Loopholes in the gable ends, sir,” Hagman suggested, intuitively understanding Bullen’s problem, and he did not wait for the Lieutenant’s answer, but went up the ladder to try and prise out the masonry at the gable ends of the roof. Bullen could hear the French shouting to each other now and, for want of anything better to do, fired his pistol through the open door, and then another gust of wind swirled more mist away and he saw, to his astonishment, that the whole valley beyond the bridge was filled with Frenchmen. Most were going away from him, advancing in a huge skirmish line towards the forts, and the gunners were firing at them from the hilltops and their shells exploded above the grassland, thickening the mist with their smoke and adding to the noise.
A redcoat fell back from a window, his skull spurting blood. Another was hit in the arm and dropped his musket which fired and the bullet hit a rifleman in the ankle. The noise outside was unceasing, the sound of the balls hitting the stone walls a devil’s drumbeat, and Bullen could see the fear on the men’s faces, and it was not helped by the fact that Slingsby had now drawn his sword and was shouting at the men to fire faster. The front of Slingsby’s red coat was spattered with dribble and he was staggering slightly. “Fire!” he bellowed. “Fire! Give them hell!” He had an open canteen in his left hand and Bullen, suddenly angry, pushed the Captain aside so that Slingsby staggered and sat down. Another man was hit in the doorway, this one wounded in the arm by a splinter from a musket stock that had been struck by a bullet. Some men were refusing to go to the door now, and there was more than just fear on their faces, there was sheer terror. The sound of the guns was magnified by the room, the French shouts seemed horribly close, there were the incessant, deeper bangs of the big guns on the ridge, while in the farmhouse there was smoke and fresh blood and th
e beginnings of panic.
Then the bugle sounded. It was a strange call, one that Bullen had never heard, and slowly the musket fire died away as the bugle called again, and one of the redcoats guarding a west-facing window called that a Frenchman was waving a white rag on the end of a sword. “Hold your fire!” Bullen shouted. “Hold your fire!” He stepped cautiously to the doorway and saw a tall man in a French coat, white breeches and riding boots approaching up the track. Bullen decided he did not want the men to hear the parley and so he stepped outside, taking off his hat. He was not quite sure why he did that, but he had no white cloth and taking off his shako seemed the next best thing.
The two men met twenty paces from the farm. The Frenchman bowed, swept off his cocked hat, put it back on, then took the handkerchief from the tip of his sword. “I am Captain Jules Derain,” he announced in impeccable English, “and I have the honor to be an aide to General Sarrut.” He put the handkerchief in his breast pocket, then sheathed the sword so hard that the hilt clashed against the scabbard throat. It was an ominous noise.
“Lieutenant Jack Bullen,” Bullen said.
Derain waited. “You have a regiment, Lieutenant?” he asked after the pause.
“The South Essex,” Bullen said.
“Ah,” Derain said, a response that delicately implied he had never heard of the unit. “My General,” he went on, “salutes your bravery, Lieutenant, but wishes you to understand that any farther defense is tantamount to suicide. You might like to avail yourself of this opportunity to surrender?”
“No, sir,” Bullen said instinctively. He had not been brought up to give in so easily.
“I congratulate you on a fine sentiment, Lieutenant,” Derain said, then drew a watch from his pocket. He clicked open the watch’s lid. “In five minutes, Lieutenant, we shall have a cannon by the bridge.” He gestured down the track that was misted and so crowded with voltigeurs that Bullen had no chance to see if Derain told the truth. “Three or four shots should persuade you,” Derain went on, “but if you yield first then you shall of course live. If you force me to use the cannon then I shall not offer you another chance to surrender, nor will I be responsible for my men’s behavior.”
“In my army,” Bullen said, “officers are held responsible.”
“I daily thank my God that I am not in your army,” Derain said smoothly, then took off his hat and bowed again. “Five minutes, Lieutenant. I wish you good day.” He turned and walked away. A mass of voltigeurs and chasseurs were on the track, but, worse, Bullen could see more on either side of the farmhouse. If the farm was a virtual island in the marshes then it already belonged more to the French than to him. He pulled on his shako and walked back to the farmhouse, watched by the French soldiers.
“What did they want, Lieutenant?” It was the Portuguese officer who asked the question.
“Our surrender, sir.”
“And your reply?”
“No,” Bullen said, and heard the men murmuring, though whether they agreed with him or were grieved by his decision, he could not tell.
“My name is Major Ferreira,” Ferreira said, drawing Bullen towards the hearth where they were assured of a little privacy, “and I am on the Portuguese staff. It is important, Lieutenant, that I reach our lines. What I wish you to do, and I know it will be hard for you, is to bargain with the French. Tell them you will surrender,” he held up his hand to still Bullen’s protest, “but tell them, too, that you have five civilians here and your condition for surrender is that the civilians go free.”
“Five civilians?” Bullen managed to interrupt with the question.
“I shall pretend to be one,” Ferreira said airily, “and once we have passed the French lines you will then yield, and I assure you that Lord Wellington will be told of your sacrifice. I also have no doubt you will be exchanged very soon.”
“My men won’t be,” Bullen said belligerently.
Ferreira smiled. “I am giving you an order, Lieutenant.” He paused to take off his uniform coat, evidently deciding the lack of it would disguise his military status. The big civilian with the frightening face came to stand beside him, using his bulk as an added persuasion, and the other civilians stood close behind, carrying their guns and their heavy bags.
“I recognize you!” Slingsby said suddenly from the hearth. He blinked at Ferragus. “Sharpe hit you.”
“Who are you?” Ferreira demanded coldly.
“I command here,” Slingsby said, and tried to salute with his sword, but only succeeded in striking the heavy wooden mantel. “Captain Slingsby,” he said.
“Until Captain Slingsby recovers,” Bullen said, ashamed to be admitting to a foreigner that his commanding officer was drunk, “I command.”
“Then go, Lieutenant.” Ferreira pointed to the door.
“Do as he says,” Slingsby said, though in truth he had not understood the conversation.
“Best to do what he says, sir,” Sergeant Read muttered. The Sergeant was no coward, but he reckoned staying where they were was to invite death. “Frogs will look after us.”
“You can’t give me orders,” Bullen challenged Ferreira.
The Major restrained the big man, who had growled and started forward. “That is true,” Ferreira said to Bullen, “but if you do not surrender, Lieutenant, and we are captured then eventually we shall be exchanged and I shall have things to tell Lord Wellington. Things, Lieutenant, that will not improve your chances of advancement.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “This is important, Lieutenant.”
“Important!” Slingsby echoed.
“On my honor,” Ferreira said solemnly, “I have to reach Lord Wellington. It is a sacrifice I ask of you, Lieutenant, indeed I beg it of you, but by making it you will serve your country well.”
“God save the gracious King,” Slingsby said.
“On your honor?” Bullen asked Ferreira.
“Upon my most sacred honor,” the Major replied.
So Bullen turned to the door. The light company would surrender.
COLONEL LAWFORD STARED INTO THE VALLEY. The mist was fast disappearing now, showing the whole area covered in French skirmishers. Hundreds of skirmishers! They were spread out so that the British and Portuguese guns were having little or no effect. The shells exploded, shrapnel burst in the air with black puffs of smoke, but Lawford could see no French casualties.
Nor could he see his light company. “Damn,” he said quietly, then stooped to the telescope on its tripod and stared at the ruined barn that was half shrouded in the remaining mist, and though he could see men moving close to the broken walls he was fairly sure they wore neither green nor red coats. “Damn,” he said again.
“What the devil are the benighted buggers doing? Morning, Lawford. What the devil do the bloody bastards think they’re doing?” It was General Picton, dressed in a shabby black coat, who bounded up the steps and scowled down at the enemy. He was wearing the same tasseled nightcap he had worn during the battle on Bussaco’s ridge. “Bloody silly maneuver,” he said, “whatever it is.” His aides, out of breath, followed him onto the bastion where a twelve-pounder fired, deafening everyone and shrouding the air with smoke. “Stop your damned firing!” Picton bellowed. “So, Lawford, what the devil are they doing?”
“They’ve sent out a brigade of skirmishers, sir,” Lawford said, which was not a particularly helpful answer, but all he could think of saying.
“They’ve sent out skirmishers?” Picton asked. “But nothing heavy? Just out for a bloody stroll, are they?”
Musket fire crackled in the valley. It seemed to come from the big abandoned farm that was hidden by the mist, which lay thicker above the swampy ground, yet it was plain something was happening there, for three or four hundred of the French skirmishers, instead of advancing across the valley, were crossing the bridge and moving towards the farm. The floods were receding with the ebbing tide, showing the big curve of the stream that cradled the farm.
“They’re there,” Major Le
roy announced. He had his own telescope propped on the parapet and was staring into the shredding mist. He could only see the farm’s rooftops and there was no sign of the missing light company, but Leroy could see dozens of voltigeurs firing at the buildings. He pointed down into the valley. “They must be at the farm, sir.”
“Who’s at the farm?” Picton demanded. “What farm? Who the devil are you talking about?”
That was the question Lawford had dreaded, but he had no choice but to confess what he had done. “I put our light company out as a picquet, sir,” he said.
“You did what?” Picton asked, his tone dangerous.
“They were in the barn,” Lawford said, pointing at the ruined building. He could hardly explain that he had put them there as an opportunity for his brother-in-law to get a grip on the light company, and that he had supposed that even Slingsby would have the wit to retreat the moment he was faced with overwhelming force.
“Just the barn?” Picton asked.
“They were ordered to patrol,” Lawford replied.
“God damn it, man,” Picton exploded. “God damn it! One picquet’s about as much use as a tit on a broomstick! Chain of picquets, man, chain of picquets! One bloody picquet? The bloody French quickstepped round them, didn’t they? You might as well have ordered the poor devils to line up and shoot themselves in the head. It would have been a quicker end. So where the hell are they now?”
“There’s a farm,” Leroy said, pointing, and just then the mist cleared enough to show the western face of the farm from which musket smoke spurted.
“Sweet Jesus bloody Christ,” Picton grumbled. “You don’t want to lose them, do you, Lawford? Looks bad in His Majesty’s bloody army when you lose a whole light company. It reeks of carelessness. I suppose we’d best rescue them.” The last words, spoken in an exaggerated Welsh accent, were scornful.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle Page 36
