They had pride.
And they had the precious ability to fire platoon volleys. They could fire those half-company volleys faster than any other army in the world. Stand in front of these redcoats and the balls came thick as hail. It was death to be in their way and seven French battalions were now in death’s forecourt and the South Essex was tearing them to ribbons. One battalion against seven, but the French had never properly deployed into line and now the outside men tried to get back into the column’s protection and so the French formation became tighter and the balls struck it relentlessly, and more men, Portuguese and British, had extended the South Essex line, and then the 88th, the Connaught Rangers, came from the north and the Frenchmen who had gained the ridge were being assailed on two sides by enemies who knew how to fire their muskets. Who had practised musketry until they could do it blindfold, drunk or mad. They were the red-coated killers and they were good.
‘Can you see anything, Richard?’ Lawford shouted over the sound of the volleys.
‘They won’t hold, sir.’ Thanks to a vagary of the wind, a small gust that had moved the sluggish smoke a few yards, he had a better view than the Colonel.
‘Bayonet?’
‘Not yet.’ Sharpe could see the French were being hit brutally. The South Essex alone was shooting close to fifteen hundred musket balls every minute and they were now one of four or five battalions who had closed on the two French columns. Smoke thickened above the ridge, ringing the Frenchmen who stubbornly stayed on the summit. As ever, Sharpe was astonished by the amount of punishment a column could endure. It seemed to shudder under the blows, yet it did not retreat, it just shrank as the outer ranks and files died, and die they did under the terrible flail of the British and Portuguese musketry.
A big man, dressed in a shabby black coat, with a stub of dead cigar between yellowed teeth and a grubby tasselled nightcap on his head, rode up behind the South Essex. He was followed by a half-dozen aides, the only sign that the big, dishevelled man in civilian dress might be someone of importance. He watched the French die, watched the South Essex platoon fire, took the cigar from between his teeth, looked at it morosely and spat out a shred of tobacco. ‘You must have Welshmen in your bloody battalion, Lawford,’ he growled.
Lawford, surprised by the man’s voice, turned and threw a hasty salute. ‘Sir!’
‘Well, man? Do you have bloody Welshmen?’
‘I’m sure we have some, sir.’
‘They’re good!’ the man in the nightcap said. He gestured at the ranks with his dead cigar. ‘Too good to be English, Lawford. Maybe there’s a Welsh settlement in Essex?’
‘I’m sure there is, sir.’
‘You’re sure of nothing of the bloody sort,’ the big man said. His name was Sir Thomas Picton and he was the General commanding this portion of the ridge. ‘I saw what you did, Lawford,’ he went on, ‘and I thought you’d lost your bloody mind! About turn and right wheel, eh? In the middle of a bloody battle? Gone soft in the head, I thought, but you did well, man, bloody well. Proud of you. You must have Welsh blood. Do you have any fresh cigars, Lawford?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not much bloody use, are you?’ Picton nodded curtly and rode off, followed by his aides who were as well uniformed as their master was ill clothed. Lawford preened, looked back to the French and saw they were crumbling.
Major Leroy had listened to the General, now he rode to Sharpe. ‘We’ve pleased Picton,’ he said, drawing his pistol, ‘pleased him so much that he reckons Lawford must have Welsh blood.’ Sharpe laughed. Leroy aimed the pistol and fired into the remnants of the nearest French column. ‘When I was a youngster, Sharpe,’ Leroy said, ‘I used to shoot raccoons.’
Sharpe saw a musket fail to fire in four company. Shattered flint, he suspected, and he pulled a spare one from his pocket and shouted the man’s name. ‘Catch it!’ he bellowed, and tossed the flint over the rear rank before looking at Leroy. ‘What’s a raccoon?’
‘A useless damn animal, Sharpe, that God put on earth to improve a boy’s marksmanship. Why don’t the bastards move?’
‘They will.’
‘Then they might take your company with them,’ Leroy said, and jerked his head towards the slope as if advising Sharpe to go and see for himself.
Sharpe rode to the flank of the line and saw that Slingsby had taken the company down the slope and to the north from where, in skirmish line, they were shooting uphill at the French left flank while a handful of his men were shooting downhill to prevent a scatter of hesitant Frenchmen from reinforcing the column. Did Slingsby want to be a hero? Did he think that the company could cut off the French column by itself? In a moment, Sharpe knew, the French would break and close to six thousand men would spill over the crest and rush down the hill to escape the slaughter and they would sweep the light company away like so much chaff. That moment came even closer when he heard the crack of a cannon from the far side of the fight. It was canister, the tin can that splintered apart at the cannon’s mouth and spread its charge of musket balls like a blast from the devil’s shotgun. Sharpe did not have a moment, he had seconds, and so he kicked the horse down the hill. ‘Back to the line!’ he shouted at his men. ‘Back! Fast!’
Slingsby gave him an indignant look. ‘We’re holding them,’ he protested, ‘can’t go back now!’
Sharpe dropped from the horse and gave its reins to Slingsby. ‘Back to battalion, Slingsby, that’s an order! Now!’
‘But…’
‘Do it!’ Sharpe bellowed like a sergeant.
Slingsby reluctantly mounted and Sharpe shouted at his men. ‘Form on the battalion!’
And just then the French broke.
They had lasted longer than any general could ask. They had gained the hilltop and for a splendid moment it seemed as if victory had to be theirs, but they had not received the massive reinforcement they needed and the British and Portuguese battalions had reformed, outflanked them and then dosed them with rolling volleys. No army in the world could have stood against those volleys, but the French had endured them until bravery alone would not suffice and their only impulse left was to survive and Sharpe saw the blue uniforms come like a breaking wave across the skyline. He and his men ran. Slingsby was well clear, kicking his horse up towards James Hooper’s company, and the men who had been on the left of the skirmish line were safe enough, but most of the skirmishers could not escape the rush.
‘Form on me!’ Sharpe bellowed. ‘Rally square!’
It was a desperate manoeuvre, one that broken infantry used in their dying moments against rampaging cavalry, but it served. Thirty or forty men ran to Sharpe, faced outwards and fixed bayonets. ‘Edge south lads,’ Sharpe said calmly, ‘away from them.’
Harper had unslung his volley gun. The tide of Frenchmen parted to avoid the clump of redcoats and riflemen, streaming to either side, but Sharpe kept the men moving, a yard at a time, trying to escape the torrent. One Frenchman did not see Sharpe’s men and ran onto Perkins’s sword bayonet and stayed there until the boy pulled the trigger to blow the man off the long blade with a gout of blood. ‘Go slow,’ Sharpe said quietly, ‘go slow,’ and just then the General on the white horse, his sword drawn and gold braid bright, came straight at the rally square and he seemed astonished to find an enemy in front of him and he instinctively lowered his sword to make the straight-armed lunge and Harper pulled his trigger, as did four or five other men, and the horse’s head and the man behind vanished in a cockade of blood. Both went down, the horse sliding down the hill, hooves flailing, and Sharpe bellowed at his men to hurry