Captain d’Alembord never knew who first shouted for the line to retreat. The panic seemed to spread from the centre of the line, he heard an officer shout for the men to stand, to fire, to attack again, but the shouting was no good. The smoke isolated the men, they could not see the Colours, then came the news that the Colonel was dead, and suddenly the South Essex was running back through the smoke and the French cheered and sent them on their way with another volley of bullets.
D’Alembord ran with them, out of the smoke, running across the village meadow and into the wheatfield. He knew this was wrong, he knew that he should form the men into a skirmish line, or into close order, and he saw Harper bellowing at the Light Company and.he knew he should do the same, then, suddenly, another voice was shouting on the battlefield, a voice forged long ago on forgotten parade grounds, and d’Alembord, looking left in the tangling smoke, saw a ghost.
A ghost who swore at them, who threatened them with his sword, who bellowed at officers, and promised to cut down the next man who went backwards.
They stared at him in shock. The big black horse carried a dead man among them, an unshaven ghost they thought dead and buried. A ghost whose anger was livid, whose voice flayed them into ranks and made them lie down so that the French bullets went high. ‘Captain d’Alembord!’
‘Sir?
‘Skirmish line forward. Edge of the smoke! Lie down. Keep the bastards busy! Move!’ Sharpe saw the shock on d’Alembord’s face. ‘I said move!’ He turned back to the other companies.
He would form them into a column. He would attack in the French manner. God alone knew why they had not attacked in column in the first place. He shouted the orders, ignoring the bullets that flickered out of the smoke.
Patrick Harper had tears in his eyes. If anyone had dared ask him why he would have said that the musket smoke was irritating him. He had known, he had always known, but he had not truly believed that Sharpe was alive.
‘Sergeant Major!’
MacLaird gaped at Sharpe, then managed to speak. ‘Sir?’
‘Where’s the Colonel?’
‘Dead, sir.’
Christ! Sharpe stared at the staring RSM, then the flutter of a bullet snapped him to his duty. ‘Take six men from Two Company. Stay at the back. You shoot any man who falls out. Talion! Move! Colours to me!’
To his right Sharpe could see that the other two Battalions were checked at the village’s edge. They formed a ragged line about the houses, a line held by the French volleys. But a line would not pierce defences like this. It would take a column, and the column must go like a battering ram at the village, must take its losses at its head and then carry the bayonets into the streets.
He formed them into a column of four ranks. Some men were laughing like madmen. Others simply stared at a man come back from the grave. Collip, the Quartermaster, was shaking with fear.
The bullets still plucked about them, but Sharpe had formed the column a hundred yards from the village, far enough to take the sting from the French marksmen.
He rode down the column, telling them what to do, and he suddenly had to shout because the fools were cheering him, and he had to turn his face away and pretend to stare at the other two Battalions. He knew he should stop them cheering, but he could not. He thought how stupid it was to cheer a man who would lead them back to death, and how splendid it was, and he laughed because the Battalion was suddenly cheering in unison and he knew the cheer would carry them to victory.
The Grenadier Company was at the front. Sharpe picked ten men whose job was to fire a volley at point blank range when they reached the barricade. He would lead them, following a track of beaten earth that disappeared in the smoke but which, he knew, must lead to one of the barricaded alleys.
‘Raise the Colours!’
There was a cheer as the flags were hoisted by two Sergeants. Sharpe stood in his stirrups. He would dismount for the attack, but for this moment, as the French bullets hummed about his ears, he wanted the South Essex to see him.
He raised the sword, there was silence, and he could see that they were straining to get the attack done. He smiled villainously. ‘You’re going to fight the bastards! What are you going to do?’
‘Fight!’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Fight!’
He beckoned at a man and ordered to him to hold Carbine till the fight was done, then Sharpe dismounted, turned, and stared at. the village. It was time to go, time to fight, and he thought suddenly of the golden-haired woman who waited beyond the enemy lines, and he knew there was only one way that he would ever reach her. He hefted his sword and gave the command. ‘Forward!’
CHAPTER 24
It was odd, Sharpe thought, but at that moment, as he led the Battalion forward, he wished La Marquesa could see him.
He was not in love with her. He might be jealous of her, he might seek her company, but he did not love her. He had said so, on that morning when he thought he went to death at El Matarife’s hand, but he knew it was not true. He wanted her. He flickered about her as a moth flew about a bright flame, but to love someone was to know them, and he did not know her. He wondered if anyone knew her.
She had said she loved him, but he knew she did not. She had wanted him to break his honour for her, and she had thought the word love would make him do it. He knew she would use him and discard him, but nevertheless he now walked, sword in hand, towards the waiting muskets and he did it for her.
The sword felt heavy in his hand. He wondered why every new battle was harder than the last. Luck had to stop somewhere, he supposed, and why not here where the French had already broken one attack and waited for the next? He thought, as he shouted the column forward, that he lived on borrowed time. He wondered, if he died, whether Helene would hear that he had lived a few more days for her, and that he had died in the stupid, vain, selfish hope of seeing her again.
His boots swished in the meadow grass. Bees were busy at the clover. He saw a snail with a black and white shell that had been crushed by an infantryman’s boot. The grass was littered with cartridges, spent musket balls, discarded ramrods, and fallen shakos.
He looked up at the village. The Light Company was provoking the musket fire, keeping the acrid smoke thick. Behind him the column marched in good, tight order. He took a deep breath. ‘Talion! Double!’
The bullets plucked the air about him. He heard a scream behind him, a curse, and he was running fast now, the village close, and, through the smoke, he could at last see the alley’s mouth. It was blocked with a cart, with furniture, and flames stabbed from the barricade and he shouted for the firing party to break to one side.
He heard their volley. He saw a Frenchman go backwards from the barricade’s top and then there were only a few yards to go, more bullets flamed from the village, but instead of a thin line attacking it was a column thick enough to soak up the French fire. Sharpe gathered himself for the jump. He would not wait to pull the barricade down. ‘Jump!’
The air was filled with the hammering of muskets. Sharpe jumped onto the cart, swept down with his sword at a stabbing bayonet, while about him the British were clawing up the barricade, dragging the furniture down, trying to scramble over the heaped timber and screaming at the enemy. A musket fired beside his ear, deafening him, a bayonet tore at his sleeve as more men pushed behind, forcing him over, and he fell, flailing with the sword, rolling down the French side of the barricade as the enemy bayonets reached for him.
He twisted sideways and suddenly men of the South Essex were jumping over him, driving the French back, and he scrambled up, went on, and shouted at the men to watch the rooftops. No one heard him. They were mad with the battle-lust of fear, wanting to kill before they were killed, and it was that spirit that had driven them over the barricade and which drove them now into the tight, small streets of Gamarra Mayor.