CHAPTER 21

The battle had flared briefly then died into silence and, as the sun climbed higher and the smoke drifted into nothingness, the Portina valley filled with men, British and French, who came to rescue the wounded and bury the dead. Men who an hour before had struggled desperately to kill each other now chatted and exchanged tobacco for food, and wine for brandy. Sharpe took a dozen men down to the stream to find four men of the Light Company who were missing. They had not died in the skirmish; all had been killed as they climbed back up the slope with their prisoners. The French guns had opened fire but this time with their barrels depressed, and the shells blew apart in the loose ranks of the British trudging up the hill. The men began to run, the French prisoners turned and sprinted for their own lines, but there was no cover from the shelling. Sharpe had watched one iron ball strike a rabbit hole and bounce into the air with smoke spiralling crazily from its fuse. The shell, small enough to pick up with one hand, landed by Gataker. The Rifleman had bent down to pinch out the fuse but he was too late; it exploded, spitting him with its fractured casing and belching smoke and flame as it hurled his corpse backwards. Sharpe had knelt beside him but Gataker was dead; the first of Sharpe’s Riflemen to die since the fighting in the northern mountains of the last winter.

When the guns stopped they were ordered back to bury the dead quickly, and the men scraped shallow holes in the soft earth beside the stream. The French came as well. For a few minutes the troops avoided each other but soon someone made a joke, held out a hand, and within minutes the enemies shook hands, tried on each other’s shakoes, shared the meagre scraps of food and treated each other like long-lost friends rather than sworn enemies. The valley was littered with the remains of battle: unexploded shells, weapons, looted packs, the usual garbage of defeat.

“Sharpe! Captain!” Sharpe turned to see Hogan picking his way through the dead and the wounded. “I’ve been looking for you!” The Engineer slid from his horse and looked around. “Are you all right?”

“I’m all right.” Sharpe accepted Hogan’s offered water-bottle. “How’s Josefina?”

Hogan smiled. “She slept.”

Sharpe looked at the dark rings under the Irishman’s eyes. “But you didn’t?”

Hogan shook his head and then indicated the bodies. “One sleepless night isn’t much to complain about.”

“And Josefina?”

“I think she’s all right. Really, Richard.” Hogan shook his head. “She’s subdued, unhappy. But what would you expect after last night?”

Last night, thought Sharpe. Good God, it was only last night. He turned away and looked at the bloodied water of the Portina stream and at the Frenchmen on the far bank who were excavating a wide shallow hole into which their stripped dead were being thrown. He turned back to Hogan. “What’s happening in town?”

“In the town? Oh, you’re worried about her safety?” Sharpe nodded. Hogan took out his snuff box. “Everything’s quiet. They rounded up most of the Spanish and they’re back in their lines. There’s a guard in the town to stop any more looting.”

“So she’s safe?”

Hogan looked at Sharpe’s red-rimmed eyes, at the deep shadows on the face, and nodded. “She’s safe, Richard.” Hogan said no more. Sharpe’s face scared him; a grim face, he thought, like the face of a desperate adventurer who would risk everything on the single fall of a pair of dice. The two men began walking beside the stream, between the bodies, and Hogan thought of the Prince of Wales Dragoon, a Captain with a broken arm, who had called at the house early in the morning. Josefina had been surprised to see him, but pleased, and told Hogan that she had met the cavalry officer in the town the day before. The Dragoon had taken over Hogan’s vigil but this, the Engineer thought, was no time to tell Sharpe about Captain Claud Hardy. Hogan had liked the man, had taken immediately to Hardy’s laughing description of how he had fallen from his horse, and the Irishman could see how relieved Josefina was to have someone sitting beside her who told her jokes, talked blithely of balls and banquets, hunting and horses, but who shrewdly understood whatever horrors still lurked in her memories of the night before. Hardy was good for Josefina, Hogan knew, but this was not the time to tell that to Sharpe.

“Richard?”

“Yes?”

“Have you done anything about…?” Hogan broke off.

“Gibbons and Berry?”

“Yes.” Hogan stepped aside and led his horse away from a Frenchman dragging a naked corpse over the grass. Sharpe waited until the man had gone.

“Why?”

Hogan shrugged. “I was thinking.” He spoke hesitantly. “I was hoping that after a night to think about it you would be careful. It could destroy your career. A duel, a fight. Be careful.” Hogan was virtually pleading. Sharpe stopped and turned to him.

“I promise you one thing. I will do nothing to Lieutenant Berry.”

Hogan thought for a moment. Sharpe’s face was unreadable but finally the Irishman nodded slowly. “I suppose that’s a good thing. But you’re still determined about Gibbons?”

Sharpe smiled. “Lieutenant Gibbons will soon join Lieutenant Berry.” He turned away and began walking up the slope. Hogan ran after him.

“You mean?”

“Yes. Berry’s dead. Tell Josefina that, will you?”

Hogan felt an immense sadness, not for Berry, who had probably deserved whatever Sharpe had done to him, but for Sharpe, who saw all of life as one immense battle and had equipped himself to fight it with an unparalleled ferocity. “Be careful, Richard.”

“I will. I promise.”

“When will we see you?” Hogan dreaded that Sharpe would walk into Josefina’s room and find Hardy there.

“I don’t know.” Sharpe indicated the waiting French army. “There’s a hell of a fight still to come and I suspect we’ll all have to stay on the field till one side goes home. Maybe tonight. Probably tomorrow. I don’t know.”

Bugles split the valley, calling the troops back to their positions, and Hogan gathered his reins in his hand. The two men watched as British and French soldiers shook hands and slapped each other’s backs before the killing restarted. Hogan heaved himself into the saddle. “I’ll tell her about Berry, Richard. Be careful, we don’t want to lose you.” He put spurs to his horse and cantered beside the stream, back towards Talavera.

Sharpe walked up the slope of the Medellin with his men as they counted the spoils they had collected from the dead. He himself had found nothing but as he walked up the hill he knew that there would be richer pickings on the field before the sun fell; there was an Eagle to be plucked.

The morning crept on. The two armies faced each other, the cavalry chafing that there were no broken infantry to slaughter, the artillery piling their ammunition to break the infantry, while the infantry sat on the grass and made up their ammunition and cleaned the locks of their muskets. No-one seemed to be in a hurry. The first attack had been repulsed, and now the French were doubly determined to break the small British army in front of them. Through his telescope Sharpe watched the blue Battalions moving sluggishly into place, Regiment after Regiment, Brigade after Brigade, until between the Pajar and the Cascajal he could see more than thirty Eagles gathering for the attack. Forrest joined him and smiled nervously as he took the proffered telescope.

“Are they getting ready, Sharpe?”

Forrest scanned the French line. It was obvious what was about to happen. On the Cascajal the gunners were levering the pieces round so that they could fire at the troops to the right of the South Essex, at the Legion and at the Guards. Opposite those Regiments was gathering a vast horde of enemy Battalions. The French had failed to take the Medellin, by night or day, so now they were planning a hammer blow of such weight that no troops in the world could withstand the fury and intensity of their attack. Behind the French infantry Sharpe could see impatient cavalry waiting to pour through the gap and slaughter the defeated British. The day was gathering its strength, pausing before the carnage, readying itself for the emphatic demonstration of French superiority that would destroy Britain’s army, swat it contemptuously aside, and to that end, at one o’clock, the French guns opened fire again.