“Then she’s more sensible than I thought.”
The afternoon passed slowly. Sharpe thought of the girl, bored in her room, and watched the Spanish soldiers chop at the beeches and oaks to build their evening fires. Then, with a suddenness that Sharpe had been waiting for, there were flashes of light far away in the hazy trees and bushes that edged the plain to the east. It was the sun, he knew, reflecting from muskets and breastplates. Sharpe nudged Hogan and pointed. “The French.”
Hogan stood up and stared at them. “My God.” He spoke quietly. “There’s a good few of them.”
The infantry marched onto the far plain like a spreading dark stain on the grass. Sharpe and Hogan watched Battalion after Battalion march into the pale fields, squadron after squadron of cavalry, the small squat shapes of guns scattered in the formations, the largest army Sharpe had ever seen in the field. The galloping figures of staff officers could be seen as they directed the columns to their places ready for the next morning’s advance and battle. Sharpe looked left to the British lines that waited beside the Portina. The smoke from hundreds of camp fires wound into the early evening air; crowds of men clustered by the stream and on the Medellin for a far glimpse of their enemy, but the British force looked woefully small beside the massive tide of men, horses and guns that filled the plain to the east and grew by the minute. Napoleon’s brother was there, King Joseph, and with him two full Marshals of France, Victor and Jourdan. They were leading sixty-five Battalions of infantry, a massive force of the men who had made Europe into Napoleon’s property, and they had come to swat this small British army and send it reeling to the sea. They planned to break it for ever to ensure that Britain never again dared to challenge the Eagles on land.
Hogan whistled softly. “Will they attack this evening?”
“No.” Sharpe scanned the far lines. “They’ll wait for their artillery.”
Hogan pointed into the darkening east. “They’ve got guns. Look, you can see them.”
Sharpe shook his head. “Those are just the small ones they attach to each infantry Battalion. No, the big bastards will be back on the road somewhere. They’ll come in the night.”
And in the morning, he thought, the French will open with one of their favourite cannonades, the massed artillery hurling its iron shot at the enemy lines before the dense, drummed columns follow the Eagles across the stream. French tactics were hardly subtle. Not for them the clever manoeuvrings of turning an enemy’s flank. Instead, again and again, they massed the guns and the men and they hurled a terrifying hammer blow at the enemy line and, again and again, it worked. He shrugged to himself. Who needed to be subtle? The guns and men of France had broken every army sent against them.
There were shouts from behind him and he crossed the battlement and peered down at the gate where Harper and his men were on guard. Lieutenant Gibbons was there with Berry, both mounted, both shouting at Harper. Sharpe leaned over the parapet.
“What’s the problem?”
Gibbons turned round slowly. It dawned on Sharpe that the Lieutenant was slightly drunk and was having some difficulty in staying on his horse. Gibbons saluted Sharpe with his usual irony.
“I didn’t see you there, sir. So sorry.” He bowed. Lieutenant Berry giggled. Gibbons straightened up. “I was just telling your Sergeant here that you can go back to the Battalion now, all right?”
“But you stopped on the way for refreshment?”
Berry giggled loudly. Gibbons looked at him and burst into a laugh himself. He bowed again. “You could say so, sir.”
The two Lieutenants urged their horses under the gateway and started up the road to the British lines to the north. Sharpe watched them go.
“Bastards.”
“Do they give you problems?” Hogan was sitting on the parapet again.
Sharpe shook his head. “No. Just insolence, remarks in the mess, you know.” He wondered about Josefina. Hogan seemed to read his thoughts. “You’re thinking about the girl?”
Sharpe nodded. “Yes. But she should be all right.” He was thinking out loud. “She keeps the door locked. We’re on the top floor and I can’t see how they’d find us.” He turned to Hogan and grinned. “Stop worrying about it. They’ve done nothing so far; they’re cowards. They’ve given up!”
Hogan shook his head. “They would kill you, Richard, with as little regret as putting down a lame horse. Less regret. And as for the girl? They’ll try to hurt her, too.”
Sharpe turned back to the spectacle on the plain. He knew Hogan was right, knew that too much was unsettled, but the game was not in his hands; everything must wait for the battle. The French troops had flooded the end of the plain, they flowed round woods, trees, farms, coming ever forward towards the stream and the Medellin Hill. They darkened the plain, filled it with a tide of men flecked with steel, and still they came; Hussars, Dragoons, Lancers, Chasseurs, Grenadiers and Voltigeurs, the followers of the Eagles, the men who had made an Empire, the old enemy.
“Hot work tomorrow.” Hogan shook his head as he watched the French.
“It will be.” Sharpe turned and called to Harper. “Come here!” The big Irish Sergeant scrambled up the broken wall and stood beside the two officers. The first of thousands of fires sparkled in the French lines. Harper shook his massive head.
“Perhaps they’ll forget to wake up tomorrow.”
Sharpe laughed. “It’s the next morning they have to worry about.”
Hogan shaded his eyes. “I wonder how many more armies like that we’ll have to meet before it’s done.”
The two Riflemen said nothing. They had been with Wellesley the year before when he defeated the French at Rolica and Vimeiro, yet this army was ten times bigger than the French force at Rolica, three times larger than Junot’s army at Vimeiro, and twice the size of the force they had thrown out of Portugal in the spring. It went on like the dragon’s teeth. For every Frenchman killed another two or three marched from the depots, and when you killed them then a dozen more came, and so it went on. Harper grinned. “There’s no point in worrying our-selves by looking at them. The man knows what he’s doing.”
Sharpe nodded. Wellesley would not be waiting behind the Portina stream if he thought the next day could bring defeat. Of all the British Generals he was the only one trusted by the men who carried the guns; they knew he understood how to fight the French and, most important, when not to fight them. Hogan pointed.
“What’s that?”
Three-quarters of a mile away French horsemen were firing their carbines. Sharpe could see no target. He watched the puffs of smoke and listened to the faint crackle.
“Dragoons.”
“I know that!“ Hogan said. ”But what are they firing at?“
“Snakes?” During his walks up the Portina Sharpe had noticed small black snakes that wriggled mysteriously in the dank grass by the stream. He had avoided them but he supposed it was possible they lived out on the plain as well, and the horsemen were merely amusing themselves with target practice. It was evening and the flames from the carbine muzzles sparkled brightly in the dusk. It was strange, Sharpe thought, how often war could look pretty.
“Hello.” Harper pointed down. “They’ve woken up our brave allies. Looks like a bloody ants’ nest.”
Below the wall the Spanish infantry had become excited. Men left the fires and lined themselves behind the earth and stone walls and laid muskets over the felled and piled trunks Hogan had placed in the gateways. Officers stood on the wall, their swords drawn, there was shouting and jostling, men pointing at the distant Dragoons and their twinkling muskets.
Hogan laughed. “It’s so good to have allies.”
The Dragoons, too far away to be seen clearly, went on firing at their unseen targets. Sharpe guessed it was just horseplay. The French were oblivious of the panic they were causing in the Spanish ranks. Every Spanish infantryman had crowded to the breastworks, their backsides illuminated by the fires, and their muskets bristled towards the empty field. The officers barked out commands and to Sharpe’s horror he watched as the hundreds of muskets were loaded.