"Wait!" a sergeant bellowed. Some men had raised their muskets.

"Wait for the order!"

"Form on your right! On your right!"

It was a confusion of voices, of officers shouting from their horses, of sergeants reordering ranks tumbled by the chaotic rush through the trees. "Look at that, boys! Look at that! Joy in the morning!" Major Hugh Gough, mounted on a bay gelding from County Meath, rode behind his battalion of the 87th. "We've got target practice, my lovelies," he shouted. "Wait a while, though, wait a while."

The newly arrived battalions recovered their dressing. "Take them forward! Take them forward!" Wheatley's aides shouted, and the two-deep line paced onto the heath toward the dead and dying skirmishers. A French round shot skimmed through the 67th, cutting one man almost in half, spraying twelve others with the dead man's blood, and taking the arm of a man in the rear rank. "Close up! Close up!"

"Halt! Present!"

"Vive l'empereur!"

"Fire!"

The inexorable rules of mathematics now imposed themselves on the fight. The French outnumbered the British by two to one, yet the leading four French battalions were in columns of divisions, which meant that each battalion was arrayed in nine ranks and had, on average, about seventy-two men in a rank. Four battalions with leading ranks of seventy-two men made a frontage of fewer than three hundred muskets. True, the men in the second rank could fire over their comrades' shoulders, but even so, Leval's four thousand men could only use six hundred muskets against the British line in which every man could fire, and Wheatley's line was now fourteen hundred men strong. The skirmishers, who had done their job of delaying the French advance, ran to the flanks. Then Wheatley's line fired.

The musket b.a.l.l.s smacked into the heads of the French units. The redcoats were hidden by smoke behind which they reloaded. "Fire by platoons!" officers called, so now the rolling volleys would begin, half a company firing at once, then the next half, so that the bullets never stopped.

"Fire low!" an officer shouted.

Canister slashed through the smoke. A man reeled away, an eye gone, his face a mask of blood, but there was much more blood in the French battalions where the bullets were turning the front ranks into charnel rows.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Sharpe said. He had emerged from the wood at the right-hand side of the British line. Ahead of him, to his right, were Duncan's guns, each one bucking back three or more paces with every shot. Beside the guns were the remnants of the Portuguese skirmishers, still firing, and to his left was the redcoat line. Sharpe joined the brown-coated Portuguese. They looked haggard. Their faces were powder stained and eyes white. They were a new battalion and had never been in battle before, but they had done their job and now the redcoats were firing volleys, yet the Portuguese had suffered horribly and Sharpe could see too many brown-coated bodies lying in front of the French battalions. He could also see greenjackets there, all on the left of the British line.

The French battalions were spreading their fronts. They were not doing it well. Each man tried to find a place to fire his musket, or else tried to find shelter behind braver colleagues, and sergeants were pushing them out in any order. Canister howled around Sharpe and he instinctively looked behind to make sure none of his men was. .h.i.t. They were all safe, but a crouching Portuguese skirmisher close to Sharpe tipped onto his back with his throat torn open. "Didn't know you were with us!" a voice called, and Sharpe turned to see Major Duncan on horseback.

"I'm here," Sharpe said.

"Can your rifles discourage gunners?"

The six French cannon were to the front. Two were already out of action, struck by Duncan's round shot, but the others were flailing the left of the British line with their hated canister. The problem of shooting at cannon was the vast cloud of filthy smoke that lingered after every shot, and the problem was made worse by the distance. It was long range, even for a rifle, but Sharpe pulled his men forward to the Portuguese and told them to fire at the French artillerymen. "It's a safe job, Pat," he told Harper, "not really fighting at all."

"Always a pleasure to murder a gunner, sir," Harper said. "Isn't that right, Harris?"

Harris, who had been most vocal about not joining any fight, c.o.c.ked his rifle. "Always a pleasure, Sergeant."

"Then make yourself happy. Kill a b.l.o.o.d.y gunner."

Sharpe stared toward the French infantry, but could see little because the smoke of the muskets drifted across their front. He could see two eagles through the smoke, and beside them the small flags mounted on the halberds carried by the men charged with protecting the eagles. He could hear the drummer boys still beating the pas de charge pas de charge even though the French advance had stopped. The real noise was of musketry, the pounding cough of volley fire, the relentless noise, and if he listened hard he could hear the b.a.l.l.s striking on muskets and thumping into flesh. He could also hear the cries of the wounded and the screams of officers' horses put down by the b.a.l.l.s. And he was amazed, as he always was, by the courage of the French. They were being struck hard, yet they stayed. They stayed behind a straggling heap of dead men, they edged aside to let the wounded crawl behind, they reloaded and fired, and all the time the volleys kept coming. Sharpe could see no order among the enemy. The columns had long broken into a thick line that spread wider as men found s.p.a.ce to use their muskets, but even so the makeshift line was still thicker and shorter than the British line. Only the British and Portuguese fought in two ranks. The French were supposed to fight in three ranks when deployed in line, but this line was clumped together, six or seven men deep in some places. even though the French advance had stopped. The real noise was of musketry, the pounding cough of volley fire, the relentless noise, and if he listened hard he could hear the b.a.l.l.s striking on muskets and thumping into flesh. He could also hear the cries of the wounded and the screams of officers' horses put down by the b.a.l.l.s. And he was amazed, as he always was, by the courage of the French. They were being struck hard, yet they stayed. They stayed behind a straggling heap of dead men, they edged aside to let the wounded crawl behind, they reloaded and fired, and all the time the volleys kept coming. Sharpe could see no order among the enemy. The columns had long broken into a thick line that spread wider as men found s.p.a.ce to use their muskets, but even so the makeshift line was still thicker and shorter than the British line. Only the British and Portuguese fought in two ranks. The French were supposed to fight in three ranks when deployed in line, but this line was clumped together, six or seven men deep in some places.

A third French gun was struck. A round shot shattered a wheel and the gun tipped down as the gunners jumped out of the way. "Good shooting!" Duncan shouted. "An extra ration of rum for that crew!" He had no idea which of his guns had done the damage so he would give them all rum when the fighting was done. A gust of wind blew the smoke away from the French battery and Duncan saw a gunner rolling up a new wheel. Hagman, kneeling among the Portuguese, saw another gunner bring his linstock toward the closest French cannon, a howitzer. Hagman fired and the gunner vanished behind the short barrel.

The British had no music to inspire them. There had been no s.p.a.ce on the ships to bring instruments, but the bandsmen had come, armed with muskets, and now those men did their usual battle job of rescuing the wounded, taking them back to the trees, where the surgeons worked. The rest of the redcoats fought on. They did what they were trained to do, and what they did was fire a musket. Load and fire, load and fire. Take out a cartridge, bite off the top, prime the lock with a pinch of powder from the bitten end of the cartridge, close the frizzen to keep the pinch in place, drop the musket b.u.t.t to the ground, pour the rest of the powder down the hot barrel, thrust the paper on top as wadding, ram it down, and inside the paper was the ball. Bring the musket up, pull back the c.o.c.k, remember to aim low because the brute of a gun kicked like a mule, wait for the order, pull the trigger. "Misfire!" a man shouted, meaning his lock had sparked, but the charge in the barrel had not caught the fire. A corporal s.n.a.t.c.hed the musket away from him, gave him a dead man's gun, then laid the misfired musket on the gra.s.s behind. Other men had to pause to change flints, but the volleys never stopped.

The French were becoming more organized, but they would never fire as fast as the redcoats. The redcoats were professionals, while most of the French were conscripts. They had been summoned to their depots and given training, but were not permitted to practice with real gunpowder. For every three bullets the British fired in battle, the French fired two, so the rules of mathematics favored the redcoats again, but the French still outnumbered the British, and as their line spread, the G.o.ds of mathematics tipped the balance back toward the men in the blue coats. More and more of the emperor's soldiers brought muskets to bear, and more and more redcoats were carried back to the pinewood. On the left of the British line, where no artillery helped, the Silver Tails were being hit hard. Sergeants commanded companies now. They were opposed two to one, for Leval had sent one of his supporting battalions to add their fire and that new unit came into line and struck hard with fresh muskets. The fight now was like two boxers toeing the line and striking again and again, and every bare-knuckle blow started blood, and neither man moved, and it was a contest to see which could sustain the greatest pain.

"You, sir, you!" A voice snapped behind Sharpe and he turned, alarmed, to see a colonel on horseback, but the colonel was not looking at Sharpe. He was glaring at Captain Galiana. "Where the devil are your men? Do you speak English? For Christ's sake, someone ask where his men are."

"I have no men," Galiana admitted hastily in English.

"For G.o.d's sake, why doesn't General Lapena send us men?"

"I shall find him, senor," Galiana said and, with something useful to do, turned his horse toward the woods.

"Tell him I want them on my left," the colonel roared after him, "on my left!" The colonel was Wheatley, commanding the brigade, and he rode back to where the 28th, the Dandies, the Silver Tails, the Slashers, were being turned into dead and dying men. That suffering battalion was closest to the Spanish troops at Bermeja, but Bermeja was over a mile from the fighting. Lapena had nine thousand men there. They sat on the sand, muskets stacked, and ate the last of their rations. A thousand of the Spaniards watched the French across the Almanza Creek, but those French were not moving. Any battle beside the Rio Sancti Petri had long died and the herons, encouraged by the silence between the armies, had come back to hunt among the reeds.

Sharpe had taken out his telescope. His riflemen were still firing at the French gunners, but only one of the enemy cannon was still undamaged. That was the howitzer, and Duncan had shredded its crew with a finely judged burst of shrapnel. "Take these nearest b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Sharpe told his men, indicating the French line, and he now watched that line through the gla.s.s. The view was of smoke and blue coats. He lowered the telescope. He sensed that the battle had reached a pause. It was not that the killing had stopped, nor that the muskets had ceased firing, but that neither side was making a move to change the situation. They were thinking, waiting, killing while they waited, and it seemed to Sharpe that the French, despite being outfought by the musket fire of the redcoats, had gained the advantage. They had more men, so could afford to lose the musket duel, and their right and center were edging forward. It did not look like a deliberate move, but rather the result of pressure from the men in the rear ranks who were thrusting the French line toward the sea. The French left was stalled, for they were being flayed by Duncan's guns that had already knocked the French artillery out of the fight, but the French right and center were unaffected by the guns. They had already stepped over the line of dead men that was all that was left of their original front ranks and they were getting bolder. Their fire, inefficient though it was by redcoat standards, was taking its toll. With the widening of the French line and the commitment of one of their two reserve battalions, the laws of mathematics had tipped back to favor the French. They had taken the worst the British could give them, they had survived, and now they edged forward toward their weakened enemy.

Sharpe went back a few paces and looked behind the British line. No Spanish troops were in sight and he knew there were no British reserves. If the men on the heath could not do the job, then the French must win and the army would be turned into a rabble. He went back to his men who were now firing at the nearest French infantry. An eagle showed above them, and near the eagle was a group of hors.e.m.e.n. Sharpe leveled the gla.s.s again and, just before the musket smoke obscured the standard, he saw him.

Colonel Vandal. He was waving his hat, encouraging his men to advance. Sharpe could see the white pom-pom on the hat, could see the narrow black moustache, and he felt a surge of utter fury. "Pat!" he shouted.

"Sir?" Harper was alarmed by the tone of Sharpe's voice.

"Found the b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Sharpe said. He took the rifle from his shoulder. He had not fired it yet, but he c.o.c.ked it now.

And the French sensed victory. It would be a hard-won triumph, but their drummers found new energy and the line lurched forward again. "Vive l'empereur!"

AT LEAST thirty officers had ridden south from San Fernando. They had stayed on the Isla de Leon when Sir Thomas's forces had sailed, and this Tuesday morning they had been woken by the sound of gunfire. Because they were off duty, they had saddled their horses and ridden south to discover what happened beyond the Rio Sancti Petri. thirty officers had ridden south from San Fernando. They had stayed on the Isla de Leon when Sir Thomas's forces had sailed, and this Tuesday morning they had been woken by the sound of gunfire. Because they were off duty, they had saddled their horses and ridden south to discover what happened beyond the Rio Sancti Petri.

They went south along the Isla de Leon's long Atlantic beach, where they joined a crowd of curious hors.e.m.e.n from Cadiz who also rode to witness the fighting. There were even carriages being whipped along the sand. It was not every day that a battle was fought close to a city. The sound of gunfire rattling windows in Cadiz had prompted scores of spectators to head south along the isthmus.

The surly lieutenant guarding the pontoon bridge did his best to prevent those spectators from crossing the river, but he was effectively outgunned when a curricle was whipped along the track. Its driver was a British officer, his pa.s.senger a woman, and the officer threatened to use his whip on the lieutenant if the barricade was not removed. It was not so much the threat of the whip as the officer's lavish display of silver lace that persuaded the lieutenant to yield. He watched sourly as the curricle crossed the precarious bridge. He hoped a wheel would slip off the cresses and tip the pa.s.sengers into the river, but the two horses were in expert hands and the light vehicle crossed safely and accelerated along the far beach. The other carriages were too big to cross, but the crowd of hors.e.m.e.n followed the curricle and spurred after it.

What they saw when they pa.s.sed the makeshift Spanish fort guarding the pontoon bridge was a beach filled with resting Spanish soldiers. Cavalry horses were picketed while their riders rested with hats over their faces. Some played cards and cigar smoke drifted in the breeze. Far ahead was the hill above Barrosa and that was wreathed with a different smoke, and more smoke rose in a dirty plume above a pinewood to the east, but on the beach beside the river all was calm.

It was calm in Bermeja where General Lapena took a lunch of cold ham with his staff. He watched in surprise as the curricle dashed past, its two wheels throwing up great sprays of sand from the track leading past the village church and the watchtower. "A British officer," he observed, "going the wrong way!"

There was polite laughter. Some of the general's staff, though, were embarra.s.sed that they did nothing while the British fought, and that sentiment was felt most strongly by General Zayas, whose men had forced Villatte's division off the beach. Zayas had requested permission to take his troops farther south and join the fighting, a request that was strengthened when Captain Galiana arrived on a sweat-whitened horse with Colonel Wheatley's plea for help. Lapena had curtly refused the request. "Our allies," he declared grandly, "are merely fighting a rearguard action. If they had followed orders, of course, no fighting would have been necessary, but now we must remain here to make certain they have a position to which they can retreat in safety." He had stared belligerently at Galiana. "And what business do you have here?" he had demanded angrily. "Are you not posted to the city garrison?" Galiana, whose nervousness at approaching Lapena had made his request harsh, even peremptory, had not even deigned to answer. He just gave the general a look of utter scorn, then turned his tired horse and spurred back toward the pinewood. "His father was an insolent fool," Lapena said harshly, "and the son's the same. He needs lessons in discipline. He should be posted to South America, somewhere where there's yellow fever."

No one spoke for a moment. Lapena's chaplain poured wine, but General Zayas blocked his own gla.s.s by holding a hand over the rim. "At least let me attack across the creek." He pressed Lapena.

"What are your orders, General?"

"I'm asking for orders," Zayas insisted.

"Your orders," Lapena said, "are to guard the bridge, and that is your duty that you will do best by remaining in your present position."

So the Spanish troops stayed near the Rio Sancti Petri while the curricle sped southward. Its driver was Brigadier Moon who had hired the carriage from the posthouse stables just outside the city. He would have preferred to ride a horse, but his broken leg made that exquisitely painful. The curricle was only slightly more comfortable. Its springs were hard and, even though he had his broken leg propped on the dashboard that stopped most of the sand from the horses' hooves flying into his face, the mending bone still hurt. He saw a track slanting away from the beach into the pinewoods and he took it, hoping that the road would provide better footing for his horses. It did, and he bowled along smartly in the shade of the trees. His fiancee clung to the curricle's side and to the brigadier's arm. She called herself the Marquesa de San Augustin, the widowed Marquesa. "I won't take you where the bullets fly, my dear," Moon said.

"You disappoint me," she said. She wore a black hat from which a thin veil hung over her face.

"Battle's no place for a woman. Certainly no place for a beautiful woman."

She smiled. "I would like to see a battle."

"And so you shall, so you shall, but from a safe distance. I may limp up and lend a hand"-Moon slapped the crutches propped beside him-"but you're to stay with the curricle. Stay safe."

"I am safe with you," the Marquesa said. After marriage, the brigadier had told her, she would be Lady Moon. "La Dona Luna," she said, squeezing his elbow, "will always be safe with you." The brigadier responded to her affectionate gesture with a guffaw of laughter. "What is that for?" La Marquesa asked, offended.

"I was thinking of Henry Wellesley's face when I introduced you last night!" the brigadier said. "He looked like a full moon!"

"He seemed very nice," the Marquesa said.

"Jealous, he was! I could tell! I didn't know he liked women. I thought that was why his wife bolted, but it was plain as a pikestaff that he liked you. Maybe I've got the fellow wrong?"

"He was most polite."

"He's a b.l.o.o.d.y amba.s.sador, he b.l.o.o.d.y well ought to be polite. That's what he's for." The brigadier went silent. He had seen a track branching east through the wood and the turn was tight, but he could drive horses like a coachman and he took the bend in masterly fashion. The noise of battle was loud now, and not far ahead, so he gently pulled the reins to slow the horses. There were wounded men on either side of the track. "Don't look, my dear," he said. There was a man without trousers, writhing, his crotch a ma.s.s of blood. "Shouldn't have brought you," he said curtly.

"I want to know your world," she said, squeezing his elbow.

"Then you must forgive me its horrors," he said gallantly, and then pulled the reins again because he had emerged from the trees and the line of redcoats under their bullet-torn colors was only a hundred paces ahead. The ground between the curricle and the redcoats was a mess of dead men, injured men, discarded weapons, and scorched gra.s.s. "Far enough," the brigadier said.

The French had replaced the wheel of one twelve-pounder and now hauled the cannon back to its original position, but the battery commander knew he could not stay because the enemy guns had targeted him. He had been forced to abandon his one howitzer at the forward position, but he would not lose his last gun that was loaded with sh.e.l.l. He ordered the gun commander to fire the sh.e.l.l at the redcoats, then to retire smartly. The linstock touched the priming tube, the flame flashed to the breech, and the gun fired to leave a cloud of obscuring smoke behind which the battery commander could drag his last weapon to a safer position.

The sh.e.l.l crashed into the ranks of the 67th, where it disemboweled a corporal, took the left hand off a private, then fell to earth twenty paces behind the Hampshire men. The fuse smoked crazily as the sh.e.l.l spun on toward the pine trees. Moon saw it coming and urged the horses to their right, away from the missile. He put the reins into his right hand, which already held the whip, and placed his left arm around the Marquesa, sheltering her. Just then the sh.e.l.l exploded. Pieces of casing whipped over their heads, and one sc.r.a.p drove bloodily into the belly of the nearside horse that took off as though the devil himself was under its hooves. The offside horse caught the panic and they both bolted. The brigadier hauled on the reins, but the noise and the pain and the stink of smoke were too much for the horses that ran obliquely right, white-eyed and desperate. They saw a gap in the British line and took it in a frantic gallop. The light curricle bounced alarmingly so that both the brigadier and the marquesa had to hold on for dear life. They shot through the gap. Ahead were smoke and bodies and open air beyond the smoke. The brigadier hauled again, using all his strength; the offside wheel struck a corpse and the curricle tipped. They were notorious vehicles for accidents; the Marquesa was spilled onto the ground and the brigadier followed, screaming abruptly as his splinted leg was struck by the curricle's rear rail. His crutches flew as the horses bolted on to disappear in the heath with the curricle breaking apart behind them. Moon and the woman he hoped would become the Dona Luna were left on the ground close beside the abandoned howitzer on the flank of the French column.

Which lurched forward and shouted, "Vive l'empereur!"

CHAPTER 12.

S IR IR T THOMAS G GRAHAM BLAMED himself. If he had put three British battalions on the summit of the Cerro del Puerca, then it would never have fallen to the French. Now it had, and he had to trust Colonel Wheatley to hold the long line of the pinewood while Dilkes's men corrected Sir Thomas's mistake. If they failed, and if the French division came down the hill and swept northward, then they would be in Wheatley's rear and a ma.s.sacre would follow. The French had to be driven off the hill. himself. If he had put three British battalions on the summit of the Cerro del Puerca, then it would never have fallen to the French. Now it had, and he had to trust Colonel Wheatley to hold the long line of the pinewood while Dilkes's men corrected Sir Thomas's mistake. If they failed, and if the French division came down the hill and swept northward, then they would be in Wheatley's rear and a ma.s.sacre would follow. The French had to be driven off the hill.

General Ruffin had four battalions at the crest of the hill and held two specialist battalions of grenadiers in reserve. Those men no longer carried grenades; instead they were among the biggest men in the infantry and renowned for their fighting savagery. Marshal Victor, who knew as well as Sir Thomas Graham that the hill was the key to victory, had ridden to join Ruffin; from the summit, beside the ruined chapel, Victor could see Leval's division edging forward toward the pinewood. Good. He would let them fight on their own and bring Ruffin's men down to help them. The beach was mostly empty. A brigade of Spanish infantry was resting not far from the village, but for some reason, they were taking no part in the fight while the rest of the Spanish army was a long way to the north and, as far as the marshal could see through his telescope, not bothering to stir themselves.

Ruffin's front line of four battalions numbered just over two thousand men. Like the Frenchmen on the heath they were in columns of divisions while beneath them on the hill were hundreds of bodies, the remnants of Major Browne's battalion. Beyond those corpses were redcoats who had evidently come to retake the Cerro del Puerco. "Fifteen hundred G.o.dd.a.m.ns?" Victor estimated the newcomers.

"I reckon so, yes," Ruffin said. He was a huge man, well over six feet tall.

"I do believe those are the English guards," Victor said. He was gazing at Dilkes's brigade through his telescope and could clearly see the blue regimental color of the First Foot Guards. "They're sacrificing their best," the marshal added cheerfully, "so let's oblige them. We'll sweep the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds away!"

The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had begun to climb the hill. There were fourteen hundred of them, mostly guardsmen, but with half of the 67th on the right and, beyond the Hampshire men and closest to the sea, two companies of riflemen. They came slowly. Some had marched at the double for more than a mile to reach the hill's foot and, after a sleepless night on the move, were tired. They did not follow Major Browne's route to the top, but climbed closer to the beach where the hill was much steeper and the French cannons could not depress sufficiently to fire at them, at least not while they were on the lower slope. They came in a line, but this part of the hill was broken by trees and rough ground, and the line quickly lost its formation so that the British appeared to come in a formless straggle stretched about the hill's northwestern quadrant.

Marshal Victor accepted a drink of wine from an aide's canteen. "Let them get almost to the top," he suggested to Ruffin, "because the cannon can shred them there. Give them a gift of canister, a volley of musketry, then advance on them."

Ruffin nodded. It was exactly what he had planned to do. The hill was steep and the British would be breathless by the time they had climbed three-quarters of its flank, and that was when he would hit them with cannons and muskets. He would blast holes in their ranks, then release the four battalions of infantry down the hill with bayonets. The British would be swept away, and their fugitives would be in chaos by the time they reached the hill's foot, and then the infantry and dragoons could hunt them down the beach and through the pinewood. The grenadiers, he thought, could then be sent to a.s.sault the southern flank of the other British brigade.

The redcoats clambered upward. Sergeants made efforts to keep the line straight, but it was hopeless on such broken ground. French voltigeurs, the skirmishers, had come a small way down the hill and were firing at the attackers. "Don't return their fire!" Sir Thomas shouted. "Save your lead! We'll give them a volley when we reach the top! Hold your fire!" A voltigeur's bullet s.n.a.t.c.hed Sir Thomas's hat clean off without touching his white hair. He kicked his horse on. "Brave boys!" he shouted. "Up we go!" He was riding among the rearmost men of the Third Foot Guards, his beloved Scotsmen. "This is our land, boys. Let's clear the rascals away!"

Major Browne's men, those who survived, were still on the hill and still firing upward. "Here come the Guards, boys!" Browne shouted. "Now I'll insure all your lives for half a dollar!" He had lost two-thirds of his officers and over half his men, but he shouted at the survivors to close up and join the flank of the First Foot Guards.

"They're fools," Marshal Victor said, more in puzzlement than in scorn. Fifteen hundred men hoped to take a two-hundred-foot hill garrisoned by artillery and by close to three thousand infantry? Well, their foolishness was his opportunity. "Give them your volley as soon as the artillery has fired," he told Ruffin. "Then run them down the slope with bayonets." He spurred across to the battery. "Wait till they're at half-pistol shot," he told the battery commander. At that range none of the guns could miss. It would be slaughter. "What are you loaded with?"

"Canister."

"Good man," Victor said. He was gazing at the lavish regimental colors of the First Foot Guards, and he was imagining those two flags being paraded through Paris. The emperor would be pleased! To have the flags of the king of England's own guards! The emperor, he thought, would probably use the flags as tablecloths, or perhaps as sheets on which to bounce his new Austrian bride, and that thought made him laugh out loud.

The voltigeurs were scrambling uphill now because the British line was getting closer. Very nearly there, Victor thought. He would let them come almost to the top of the hill because that would bring the line right into the face of his six guns. He took a last glance north at Leval's men and saw they were pressing closer to the pinewood. In half an hour, he thought, this small British army would have collapsed. It would take at least another hour to re-form the troops, then they would a.s.sault the Spanish at the beach's end. How many flags would they send to Paris? A dozen? Twenty? Maybe enough to furnish all the emperor's beds.

"Now, sir?" The battery commander asked.

"Wait, wait," Victor said, and, knowing victory was his, turned and waved at the two grenadier battalions that he had held in reserve. "Forward!" he shouted to their general, Rousseau. This was no time to keep troops in reserve. Now was the moment to throw all his men, all three thousand of them, at fewer than half their number. He plucked an aide's elbow. "Tell the bandmaster I want to hear the 'Ma.r.s.eillaise'!" He grinned. The Emperor had banned the 'Ma.r.s.eillaise,' disliking its revolutionary sentiments, but Victor knew the song had retained its popularity and would inspire his soldiers to the slaughter of their enemies. He sang a line to himself, "Le jour de gloire est arrive," then laughed aloud. The battery commander looked up at him with surprise. "Now," Victor said, "now!"

"Tirez!"

The guns fired, obliterating the view of the beach, of the sea, and of the distant white city in a bellying cloud of smoke.

"Now!" General Ruffin called to his battalion commanders.

Muskets hammered back into French shoulders. More smoke filled the sky.

"Fix bayonets!" the marshal shouted, and waved his white-plumed hat toward the cannon smoke. "And forward, mes braves! mes braves! Forward!" Forward!"

The band played, the drummers beat, and the French went to finish their job. The day of glory had arrived.

COLONEL V VANDAL was some way north of Sharpe. The colonel was in the center of his battalion, which formed the left flank of the French line, and Sharpe, out by Duncan's guns, was at the right flank of the British line, which still overlapped the thicker, larger French formation. "This way," he shouted to his riflemen and ran behind the two companies of the 47th who were now down to one large company, and then behind the half battalion of the 67th until he was opposite Vandal. was some way north of Sharpe. The colonel was in the center of his battalion, which formed the left flank of the French line, and Sharpe, out by Duncan's guns, was at the right flank of the British line, which still overlapped the thicker, larger French formation. "This way," he shouted to his riflemen and ran behind the two companies of the 47th who were now down to one large company, and then behind the half battalion of the 67th until he was opposite Vandal.

"It's grim work!" Colonel Wheatley had again ridden up behind Sharpe. This time he was talking to Major Gough, who commanded the 87th that was now on Sharpe's left. "And no d.a.m.ned dons to help us," Wheatley went on. "How are your fellows, Gough?"

"My men are staunch, sir," Gough said, "but I need more of them. Need more men." He had to shout over the din of the volleys. The 87th had lost four officers and over a hundred men. The wounded were in the pines, and more were joining them as the French musket b.a.l.l.s slammed home. The file-closers were shouting at men to close on the center and so the 87th shrank. They still fired back, but their muskets were being fouled with powder residue and every cartridge was harder to load.

"There are no more men," Wheatley said, "unless the Spanish come." He glanced along the enemy line. The problem was simple enough. The French had too many men and so they could replace their casualties while he could not. He could outfight them man to man, but the French advantage in numbers was starting to matter. He could wait in hope that Lapena would send reinforcements, but if none came then he must inevitably be whittled down, a process that would go faster and faster as his line shrank.

"Sir!" an aide shouted, and Wheatley looked to see that the Spanish officer who had ridden to summon reinforcements was returning.

Galiana curbed his horse by Wheatley and, for a heartbeat, looked too upset to talk. Then he blurted out his news. "General Lapena refuses to move," he said. "I'm sorry, sir."

Wheatley stared at the Spaniard. "Good G.o.d," he said in a surprisingly mild tone, then looked back to Gough. "I think, Gough," he said, "that we have to give them steel."

Gough looked at the throng of Frenchmen through the smoke. The 87th's colors just above the colonel's head were twitching as the bullets struck them. "Steel?" he asked.

"We have to do something, Gough. Can't just stand here and die."