"Then we must make them welcome," Browne said, and did a smart about-face and paced back toward the ruined chapel. In front of him now was a battery of five cannon and four thousand Spanish and British muskets. More than enough, he reckoned, to hold the hill.

A flurry of hooves to the south gave him a moment's alarm. Then he saw that allied cavalry had come to the hilltop. There were three squadrons of Spanish dragoons and two of the King's German Legion hussars, all under the command of General Whittingham, an Englishman in Spanish service. Whittingham rode to Browne who was still dismounted. "Time to go, Major," Whittingham said curtly.

"Go?" Browne thought he had misheard. "I'm ordered to hold this hill! And there are two hundred and fifty c.r.a.paud dragoons down there," Browne said, pointing northeast.

"Seen them," Whittingham said. His face was deep-lined, shadowed by his c.o.c.ked hat, beneath which he smoked a thin cigar that he kept tapping even though there was no ash to fall from its tip. "Time to withdraw," he said.

"I'm ordered to hold the hill," Browne insisted, "until Sir Thomas has reached the next village. And he hasn't."

"They're gone!" Whittingham pointed to the beach where the last of the baggage train was plodding well north of the Cerro del Puerco.

"We hold the hill!" Browne insisted. "d.a.m.n it, those are my orders!"

A cannon, not fifty paces off to Browne's right, suddenly fired, and Whittingham's horse skittered sideways and tossed its head frantically. Whittingham calmed the beast and moved it back to Browne's side. He dragged on his cigar and watched the dragoons who had appeared on the eastern skyline, or at least the helmeted heads of the leading squadron had shown over the crest and the Spanish artillerymen had greeted them with a round shot that screamed off into the eastern sky. A trumpeter sounded a call from the French ranks, but the man was so surprised or else so nervous that the fine notes cracked and he had to begin again. The trumpet did not prompt any extraordinary activity from the dragoons who, evidently surprised to see such a large force waiting for them, stayed just beneath the eastern crest. Two of the Spanish battalions put their skirmishers forward and those light infantrymen started a sporadic musket fire. "Range is much too long," Browne said scathingly, then frowned up at Whittingham. "Why don't you charge the b.u.g.g.e.rs?" he asked. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" Whittingham had five squadrons while the French had only three.

"Stand here, Browne, and you'll be cut off," Whittingham said, tapping the cigar. "Cut off, that's what you'll be. Our orders are clear. Wait till the army's gone past, then follow."

"My orders are clear," Browne insisted. "I hold the hill!"

More Spanish skirmishers were sent forward. The apparent inactivity of the dragoons was encouraging the light companies. The French hors.e.m.e.n, Browne thought, must surely withdraw for they must realize they had no hope of chasing a whole brigade off a hilltop, especially when that brigade was reinforced by its own artillery and cavalry. Then some of the enemy hors.e.m.e.n cantered northward and drew carbines from their saddle holsters. "b.u.g.g.e.rs want to make a fight of it," Browne said. "By G.o.d, I don't mind! Your horse is p.i.s.sing on my boots."

"Sorry," Whittingham said, kicking the horse a pace forward. He watched the Spanish light companies. Their musket fire was doing no evident damage. "Got orders to retreat," he said obstinately, "as soon as the army's pa.s.sed the hill and that's what they've done, they've pa.s.sed the hill." He sucked on the cigar.

"See that? The b.u.g.g.e.rs want to skirmish," Browne said. He was looking past Whittingham to where at least thirty of the helmeted Frenchmen had dismounted and were advancing in a skirmish line to oppose the Spaniards. "Don't see that much, do you?" Browne asked, sounding as carefree as a man noticing some phenomenon on a country walk. "I know dragoons are supposed to be mounted infantry, but they mostly stay in the saddle, don't you find?"

"No such thing as mounted infantry, not these days," Whittingham said, ignoring the fact that the dragoons were disproving his point. "It doesn't work. Neither fish nor fowl. You can't stay here, Browne," he went on. He tapped again and at last some cigar ash dropped onto his boot. "Our orders are to follow the army north, not stand around here."

The Spanish gun that had fired was now reloaded with canister and its team trained the weapon around to face the dismounted dragoons who were advancing in skirmish order across the hilltop. The artillerymen dared not fire yet because their own skirmishers were in the way. The sound of the muskets was desultory. Browne could see two of the Spanish skirmishers laughing. "What they should do," he said, "is close on the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, hurt them, and provoke a charge. Then we could kill the whole d.a.m.ned lot."

The dismounted dragoons opened fire. It was only a smattering of musket b.a.l.l.s that flicked across the hilltop and none of them did any damage, but their effect was extraordinary. Suddenly the five Spanish battalions were loud with orders. The light companies were called back, the gun teams were hurried forward, and, to Major Browne's utter astonishment, the guns and the five battalions simply fled. If he had been kind he might have called it a precipitate retreat, but he was in no mood to be kind. They ran. They went as fast as they could, tumbling down the seaward slope, skirting the hovels of Barrosa and heading north. "Good G.o.d," he said, "good G.o.d!" The enemy dragoons looked as astonished as Major Browne at the effect of their puny volley, but then the dismounted men ran back to their horses.

"Form square!" Major Browne shouted, knowing that a single battalion in a line of two ranks would make a tempting target for three squadrons of dragoons. The long, heavy, straight-bladed swords would already be whispering out of their scabbards. "Form square!"

"You mustn't stay here, Browne!" Whittingham shouted after the major. His cavalry had followed the Spaniards and the general now spurred after them.

"Got my orders! Got my orders! Form square, boys!" The Gibraltar Flankers formed square. They were a small battalion, numbering just over five hundred muskets, but in square they were safe enough from the dragoons. "Pull up your breeches lads," Browne shouted, "and fix bayonets!"

The dragoons, all mounted again, came over the crest. Their swords were drawn. Their guidons, small triangular flags, were embroidered with a golden N N for Napoleon. Their helmets were polished. "Fine looking beggars, aren't they, Blakeney?" Browne said as he hauled himself back into his saddle. General Whittingham had disappeared, Browne did not see where, and it seemed the Flankers were alone on the Cerro del Puerco. The front rank of the square knelt. The dragoons had formed three lines. They were watching the square, knowing its first volley would cut down their leading rank, but wondering whether they could break the redcoats apart anyway. "They want to die, boys," Browne shouted, "so we shall oblige them. It is our G.o.d-given duty." for Napoleon. Their helmets were polished. "Fine looking beggars, aren't they, Blakeney?" Browne said as he hauled himself back into his saddle. General Whittingham had disappeared, Browne did not see where, and it seemed the Flankers were alone on the Cerro del Puerco. The front rank of the square knelt. The dragoons had formed three lines. They were watching the square, knowing its first volley would cut down their leading rank, but wondering whether they could break the redcoats apart anyway. "They want to die, boys," Browne shouted, "so we shall oblige them. It is our G.o.d-given duty."

Then, from behind the ruined chapel, came a single squadron of King's German Legion hussars. They rode in two ranks, wore gray overalls, blue coats, and polished helmets, and carried sabers. They rode tight, boot to boot, and as they pa.s.sed the corner of Browne's square the front rank spurred into the gallop. They were outnumbered by the dragoons, but they charged home and Browne heard the clangor of saber against sword. The dragoons, who had not started their advance, were pushed back. A horse fell, a dragoon spurred out of the fight with a face cut to the skull, and a hussar rode back toward the square with a sword piercing his belly. He fell from his saddle fifty yards from Browne's front rank and his horse immediately turned back to the fight that was a confusion of men, horses, and dust. The hussars, having hurled the first line of dragoons back, turned away and the French came after them, but then the trumpet threw the second line of Germans against the French and the dragoons were pounded back a second time. The first troop re-formed, the riderless horse taking its place in the rank. A sergeant and two men of the Holy Boys had fetched the wounded hussar into the square. The man was plainly dying. He stared up at Browne, muttering in German. "Pull the d.a.m.ned sword out!" Browne snapped to the battalion's surgeon.

"It will kill him, sir."

"What if it stays in?"

"He'll die."

"Then pray for the poor b.u.g.g.e.r's soul, man!" Browne said.

The hussars had come back now. The dragoons had retreated, leaving six bodies on the hill. They might have outnumbered the single squadron of Germans, but so long as the Germans stayed near the redcoated infantry, the dragoons were vulnerable to volley fire and so their commander took them down the hill's slope to wait for reinforcements.

Browne waited. He could hear musketry far to the north. It was volley fire, but it was someone else's fight so he ignored the sound. He was commanded to hold the hill and he was a stubborn man, so he stayed under the pale sky in which the wind brought the smell of the sea. The leader of the hussar squadron, a captain, politely requested to enter the square and touched the brim of his helmet to Browne. "The dragoons, I think, will not bother you now," he said.

"Obliged to you, Captain, obliged I'm sure."

"I am Captain Dettmer," the captain said.

"Sorry about this fellow," Browne said as he nodded at the dying hussar.

Dettmer stared at the hussar. "I know his mother," he said sadly, then looked back to Browne. "There is infantry coming to the hill," he went on. "I saw it when we were fighting."

"Infantry?"

"Too many," Dettmer said.

"Let's look," Browne said, and he ordered two files to leave the square, then led Captain Dettmer through the gap. The two men trotted to the hill's eastern edge and Browne stared down at approaching disaster. "Dear G.o.d," he said, "that's not pretty."

When he had last looked the heath was a wilderness of sand, gra.s.s, pines, and thickets. He had seen infantry in the distance, but now the whole heath was covered in blue. The whole wide world was a ma.s.s of blue coats and white crossbelts. He could see battalion after battalion of Frenchmen, their eagles shining in the morning sun as their army advanced on the sea. "Dear G.o.d," Browne said again.

Because only half the French army was marching on the pinewood that hid them from the sea. The other half was coming for Browne and his five hundred and thirty-six muskets.

Coming straight for him. Thousands.

SHARPE CLIMBED the tallest sand dune in sight and leveled his telescope across the Rio Sancti Petri. He could see the backs of the Frenchmen on the beach and the musket smoke dark around their heads, but the image wavered because the gla.s.s was unsteady. "Perkins!" the tallest sand dune in sight and leveled his telescope across the Rio Sancti Petri. He could see the backs of the Frenchmen on the beach and the musket smoke dark around their heads, but the image wavered because the gla.s.s was unsteady. "Perkins!"

"Sir?"

"Bring your shoulder here. Be useful."

Perkins served as a telescope rest. Sharpe stooped to the eyepiece. Even with the telescope held steady it was hard to tell what was happening because the French were in a line of three ranks and their powder smoke concealed everything beyond them. They were firing continually. He could not see all the French line, for dunes hid their left flank, but he was watching at least a thousand men. He could see two eagles and suspected there were at least two more battalions hidden by the dunes.

"They're slow, sir." Harper had come to stand behind him.

"They're slow," Sharpe agreed. The French were firing as battalions, which meant that the slowest men dictated the rate of fire. He guessed they were not even managing three shots a minute, but that seemed sufficient because the French were taking very few casualties. He edged the telescope very slowly along their line and saw that only six bodies had been dragged behind the ranks to where the officers rode up and down. He could hear, but not see, the Spanish muskets and once or twice, as the smoke thinned, he had a glimpse of the Spanish in their lighter blue, and he reckoned their line was a good three hundred paces from the French. Might as well spit at that distance. "They're not close enough," Sharpe muttered.

"Can I look, sir?" Harper asked.

Sharpe bit back a sour comment to the effect that this was not Harper's fight, and instead yielded his place at Perkins's shoulder. He turned and looked out to sea where the waves fretted about a small island crowned by the ancient ruins of a fort. A dozen fishing boats were just beyond the line of surf that ran toward the beach. The fishermen were watching the fight, and more spectators, attracted by the crackle of musketry, were riding from San Fernando. No doubt there would soon be curious folk arriving from Cadiz.

Sharpe took the telescope back from Harper. He collapsed it, his fingers running over the small bra.s.s plate let into the largest barrel that was sheathed in walnut. IN GRAt.i.tUDE, AW, SEPTEMBER IN GRAt.i.tUDE, AW, SEPTEMBER 23 23RD, 1803, the plate said, and Sharpe remembered Henry Wellesley's flippant line that the telescope, which was a fine instrument made by Matthew Berge of London, was not the generous gift Sharpe had always supposed it to be, but instead a spare gla.s.s that Lord Wellington had not wanted. Not that it mattered. 1803, he thought. That long ago! He tried to remember that day when Lord Wellington, Sir Arthur Wellesley back then, had been dazed and Sharpe had protected him. He thought he had killed five men in the fight, but he was not sure. 1803, the plate said, and Sharpe remembered Henry Wellesley's flippant line that the telescope, which was a fine instrument made by Matthew Berge of London, was not the generous gift Sharpe had always supposed it to be, but instead a spare gla.s.s that Lord Wellington had not wanted. Not that it mattered. 1803, he thought. That long ago! He tried to remember that day when Lord Wellington, Sir Arthur Wellesley back then, had been dazed and Sharpe had protected him. He thought he had killed five men in the fight, but he was not sure.

The Spanish engineers were laying the chesses over the last thirty feet of the pontoon bridge. Those planks, which formed the roadway, were kept on the Cadiz bank to stop any unauthorized crossing of the bridge, but evidently General Zayas now wanted the bridge open and Sharpe saw, with approval, that three Spanish battalions were being readied to cross the bridge. Zayas had evidently decided to attack the French from their rear. "We'll be going soon," he said to Harper.

"Perkins," Harper growled, "join the others."

"Can't I look through the telescope, Sergeant?" Perkins pleaded.

"You're not old enough. Move."

It took a long time for the three battalions to cross. The bridge, constructed from longboats rather than pontoons, was narrow and it rocked alarmingly. By the time Sharpe and his men had joined Captain Galiana, there were almost a hundred curious onlookers arrived from San Fernando or Cadiz and some were trying to persuade the sentries to let them cross the bridge. Others climbed the dunes and trained telescopes on the distant French. "They're stopping everyone crossing the bridge," Galiana said nervously.

"They're not going to let civilians across, are they?" Sharpe said. "But tell me something, what are you going to do on the other side?"

"Do?" Galiana said, and plainly did not know the answer. "Make myself useful," he suggested. "It's better than doing nothing, isn't it?" The last Spanish battalion had crossed now and Galiana spurred forward. He dismounted well short of the bridge, preparing to lead his horse over the uncertain footing of the chesses, but before he reached the roadway a squad of Spanish soldiers pulled a makeshift barricade across the approach. A lieutenant held a warning hand toward Galiana.

"He's with me," Sharpe said before Galiana could speak. The lieutenant, a tall man with a burly, unshaven chin, looked at him pugnaciously. It was plain he did not understand English, but he was not going to back down. "I said he's with me," Sharpe said.

Galiana spoke in rapid Spanish, gesturing at Sharpe. "You have your orders?" he switched to English, looking at Sharpe.

Sharpe had no orders. Galiana spoke again, explaining that Sharpe was charged with delivering a message to Lieutenant General Sir Thomas Graham, and the orders were in English, which, of course, the lieutenant spoke? Galiana himself, the Spanish captain explained, was Sharpe's liaison officer. By now Sharpe had produced his ration authorization, permitting him to draw beef, bread, and rum for five riflemen from the headquarters stores at San Fernando. He thrust the paper at the lieutenant who, faced with hostile riflemen and the emollient Galiana, decided to yield. He ordered the hurdles pulled aside.

"I did need you after all," Galiana said. He held the reins very close to the mare's head and continually patted her neck as she made her cautious way across the plank roadway. The bridge, much less robust than the one Sharpe had destroyed on the Guadiana, quivered underfoot and bowed upstream under the pressure of the flooding tide. Once safe on the far bank, Galiana mounted and led Sharpe southward past the sandy ramparts of the temporary fort made to protect the pontoons.

General Zayas had formed his three battalions in a line across the beach where they were now marching slowly forward. The right-hand files were having their boots sporadically washed by the incoming surf. Sergeants bellowed at men to keep their dressing. The Spanish colors were bright against the pale sky. From far off came the report of a cannon, a deeper sound than musketry, a pounding in the air. It died away, but over the constant snap of the nearer muskets Sharpe thought he could hear other muskets firing, but much farther off. "You can go back now," he told Harper.

"Let's just see what these lads do first," Harper said, nodding at the three Spanish battalions.

The lads needed to do nothing except appear. General Villatte, seeing that his men were about to be a.s.sailed from the rear, ordered them to withdraw east across the Almanza Creek. They carried their wounded away. The Spaniards, seeing them go, gave a cheer of victory, then wheeled up the dunes to harry the retreating French who were now outnumbered almost two to one. Galiana, standing in his stirrups, was exultant. Surely the combined Spanish forces, joining from north and south, could now pursue the French across the creek and drive them far back along the tracks to Chiclana, but just then artillery opened fire from the Almanza's far bank. A battery of twelve-pounders had been placed on the firm ground to the east and their first salvo was of common sh.e.l.l that exploded in gouts of sand and smoke. The Spanish advance checked as men took cover behind dunes. The guns fired a second time and round shot slashed through files slow to find shelter. The last of the French infantry had waded the creek now and were making a new line to face the Spaniards across the incoming tide. The guns went silent as their smoke drifted across the slowly rising water. The French were content to wait now. Their force that had blocked the allied army's retreat had been thrust aside, but their guns could still hurl sh.e.l.l and round shot at any force marching toward the bridge. They brought up a second battery and waited for the rout to begin from the south while the Spanish battalions, content to have cleared the enemy off the beach, settled among the dunes.

Galiana, disappointed that the pursuit had not been pressed across the Almanza, had ridden to a group of Spanish officers and now came back to Sharpe. "General Graham is to the south," he said, "with orders to bring the rear guard here."

Sharpe could see a mist of musket smoke drifting away from a hill two or more miles southward. "He's not coming yet," he said, "so I might go and meet him. You can go back now, Pat."

Harper thought about it. "So what are you doing, sir?"

"I'm just taking a walk on the beach."

Harper looked at the other riflemen. "Does anyone here want to take a walk on a beach with me and Mister Sharpe? Or do they want to go back and talk their way past that nasty lieutenant on the bridge?"

The riflemen said nothing until another cannon sounded far to the south. Then Harris frowned. "What's happening down there?" he asked.

"Nothing to do with us," Sharpe said.

Harris could be a barrack room lawyer at times, and he was about to protest that the fight was none of their business. Then he caught Harper's eye and decided to say nothing. "We're just taking a walk on the beach," Harper said, "and it's a nice day for a walk." He saw Sharpe's quizzical look. "I was thinking of the Faughs, sir. They're up there, they are, all those poor wee boys from Dublin, and I thought they might like to see a proper Irishman."

"But we're not going to fight?" Harris demanded.

"What do you think you are, Harris? A b.l.o.o.d.y soldier?" Harper asked caustically. He took care not to catch Sharpe's eye. "Of course we're not going to fight. You heard Mister Sharpe. We're going for a walk on the beach, that's all we're b.l.o.o.d.y doing."

So they did. They went for a walk on the beach.

SIR T THOMAS, certain that his rear was well protected by the brigade posted on the Cerro del Puerco, was encouraging his troops along the road that led through the long pinewood edging the beach. "Not far, boys!" Sir Thomas called as he rode down the line. "We've not far to go! Cheer up now!" He glanced to his right every few seconds, half expecting the appearance of a cavalryman bringing news of an enemy advance. Whittingham had undertaken to post vedettes on the inland edge of the wood, but none of those men appeared and Sir Thomas supposed the French were content to let the allied army retreat ignominiously into Cadiz. The firing ahead had stopped. A French force had evidently blocked the beach, but had now been chased away, while the firing from the south had also died. Sir Thomas reckoned that had been mere bickering, probably a cavalry patrol coming too close to the big Spanish brigade on the summit of the Cerro del Puerco. certain that his rear was well protected by the brigade posted on the Cerro del Puerco, was encouraging his troops along the road that led through the long pinewood edging the beach. "Not far, boys!" Sir Thomas called as he rode down the line. "We've not far to go! Cheer up now!" He glanced to his right every few seconds, half expecting the appearance of a cavalryman bringing news of an enemy advance. Whittingham had undertaken to post vedettes on the inland edge of the wood, but none of those men appeared and Sir Thomas supposed the French were content to let the allied army retreat ignominiously into Cadiz. The firing ahead had stopped. A French force had evidently blocked the beach, but had now been chased away, while the firing from the south had also died. Sir Thomas reckoned that had been mere bickering, probably a cavalry patrol coming too close to the big Spanish brigade on the summit of the Cerro del Puerco.

He paused to watch the redcoats march past and he noted how the tired men straightened their backs when they saw him. "Not far, boys," he told them. He thought how much he loved these men. "G.o.d bless you, boys," he called, "and it's not far now." Not far to what, he wondered sourly. These bone-weary soldiers had been marching all night, laden with packs and haversacks and weapons and rations, and it was all for nothing, all for a scuttling retreat back to the Isla de Leon.

There was a flurry of shouts to the north. A man called a challenge and Sir Thomas stared down the track, but saw nothing and heard no shots. A moment later a mounted officer of the Silver Tails came pounding back down the track with two hors.e.m.e.n close behind. They were civilians armed with muskets, sabers, pistols, and knives. Partisans, Sir Thomas thought, two of the men who made life such h.e.l.l for the French armies occupying Spain. "They want to talk to you, sir," the Silver Tail officer said.

The two partisans spoke at once. They spoke fast, excitedly, and Sir Thomas calmed them. "My Spanish is slow," he told them, "so speak to me slowly."

"The French," one of them said and pointed eastward.

"Where have you come from?" Sir Thomas asked. One of the men explained that they had been part of a larger group that had shadowed the French for the last three days. Six men had ridden from Medina Sidonia and these two were the only ones left alive because some dragoons had caught them soon after dawn. The two had been chased toward the sea and they had just ridden across the heath. "Which is full of Frenchmen," the second man said earnestly.

"Coming this way," the first man added.

"How many French?" Sir Thomas asked.

"All of them," the two men said together.

"Then let us look," Sir Thomas said, and he led the two men and his aides inland through the pines. He had to duck under the branches. The wood was wide and deep, thick and shadowed. Pine needles overlay the sandy soil, m.u.f.fling the sound of the horses' hooves.

The wood ended abruptly, giving way to the undulating heath that stretched away under the morning sun. And there, filling the wide world, were white crossbelts against blue coats.

"Senor?" one of the partisans said, gesturing at the French as though he had produced them himself.

"Dear G.o.d," Sir Thomas said softly. Then he said nothing more for a while, but just stared at the approaching enemy. The two partisans thought the general was too shocked to speak. He was, after all, watching disaster approach.

But Sir Thomas was thinking. He was noticing that the French marched with muskets slung. They could not see enemy troops to their front and so, instead of marching into battle, they were marching to battle. There was a difference. Men marching to battle might have loaded muskets, but the muskets would not be c.o.c.ked. Their artillery was unde-ployed, and it took time for the French to deploy guns because the cannons' heavy barrels had to be lifted from the travel position to the firing position. In short, Sir Thomas thought, these Frenchmen were not ready for a fight. They were expecting a fight, but not yet. Doubtless they believed they must first pa.s.s the pinewood, and only then would they expect the killing to begin.

"We should follow General Lapena," the liaison officer said nervously.

Sir Thomas ignored the man. He was thinking still, his fingers tapping the saddle pommel. If he continued north, then the French would cut off the brigade on the hill above Barrosa. They would wheel right and attack up the beach, and Sir Thomas would be forced to try a makeshift defense with his left flank open to attack. No, he thought, better to fight the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds here. It would not be an easy fight, it would be a d.a.m.ned scramble, but better that than continuing north and turning the sea's edge red with his blood.

"My lord"-he was uncharacteristically formal as he glanced at Lord William Russell-"my compliments to Colonel Wheatley, and he is to bring his brigade here and face down these fellows. Tell him to send his skirmishers as fast as he can! I want the enemy engaged by the light bobs while the rest of his brigade comes up. Guns are to come here. Right here," he stabbed a hand at the ground on which his horse stood. "Hurry now, no time to lose!" He beckoned to another aide, a young captain in the blue-faced red coat of the First Foot Guards. "James, compliments to General Dilkes, and I want his brigade here," he gestured to the right. "He's to take position between the guns and the hill. Order him to send his skirmishers first! Quick now! Quick as he can!"

The two aides vanished into the trees. Sir Thomas lingered a moment, watching the approaching French who were now less than half a mile off. He was taking a vast gamble. He wanted to hit them while they were unprepared, but he knew it would take time to bring his battalions through the thick trees, which is why he had asked for the light companies to come first. They could make a skirmish line on the heath, they could begin to kill the French, and Sir Thomas could only hope that the skirmishers would hold the French long enough for the rest of the battalions to arrive and begin their deadly volley fire. He looked at the liaison officer. "Be so good," he said, "as to ride to General Lapena and tell him the French are moving on the pinewood and that it is my intention to engage them and would be honored"-he was choosing his words carefully-"if the general could lead men onto the right flank of the enemy."

The Spaniard rode away and Sir Thomas looked back east. The French were coming in two huge columns. He planned to face the northern column with Wheatley's brigade, while General Dilkes and his guardsmen would confront the column closest to the Cerro del Puerco. And that made him think of the Spaniards on the hill. The French would surely send their southern column to take that hill and they must not be allowed to do so, or else they could sweep down from its summit to attack the right flank of his hasty defense. He turned south, leading his remaining aides toward the Cerro del Puerco.

That hill, he thought as he rode back into the pines, was his one advantage. There were Spanish cannons on the summit, and those guns could fire down on the French. The hill was a fortress protecting his vulnerable right flank, and if the French could be held on the plain then the brigade on the hill could be used to make an attack on the enemy's flank. Thank G.o.d, he was thinking as he rode out of the trees, that the hill was his.

Except it was not. The Cerro del Puerco had been abandoned and, even as Sir Thomas had ridden south, the first French battalions were climbing the hill's eastern slopes. The enemy now held the Cerro del Puerco and the only allied troops in sight were the five hundred men of the Gibraltar Flankers. Instead of holding the high ground, they were forming into a column of march at the hill's foot. "Browne! Browne!" Sir Thomas shouted as he cantered toward the column. "Why are you here? Why?"

"Because I've got half the French army climbing the d.a.m.ned hill, Sir Thomas."

"Where are the Spaniards?"

"They ran."

Sir Thomas stared at Browne for a heartbeat. "Well, it's a bad business, Browne," he said, "but you must instantly turn around again and attack."