Sharpes Eagle   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

CHAPTER 23

Sharpe’s view of the battle was blocked by the Battalion of Dutch troops and by the smoke which drifted like strange fog patches in the burning Spanish heat. With the retreat of the first line of French columns the Dutchmen had become a target for the British guns and, sensibly enough, the white-coated troops had deployed from column into line. They now stood like a dirty white wall at right angles to the stream and faced the fleeing remnants of the King’s German Legion who ran across their front. Sharpe could see the Dutchmen ramming and firing their muskets at the broken Battalions, but they made no move to advance and finish off the survivors, and Sharpe guessed that, with their Colonel shot by Hagman, the Battalion was uncertain what to do and was waiting for the second French attack to catch up with them.

“Sir! Sir!” Ensign Denny tugged Sharpe’s jacket and pointed. Through the hanging smoke from the Medellin guns Sharpe saw a British Battalion marching down the hill. “It’s ours, sir! Ours!” Denny was excited, jumping up and down as the single standard cleaved the smoke and came into full sight on the hillside. They were still a quarter of a mile away, and behind them, dimly glimpsed through the smoke, Sharpe could see another Battalion marching for the gap to put itself in front of this second, larger French attack. He could hear the drums again, as persistent as ever, and he sensed that the crisis of the battle was coming and, as if in confirmation, the French guns started again and from their searing hot barrels threw shell after shell into the British Battalions that were racing to form a new line to meet the next attack. Victory was so close for the French, they had only to break through the scratch defence that was scrappily forming, and the day was theirs.

Sharpe’s men were forgotten. They were a small band in the bottom of a shallow valley on the edge of a great fight. Battalions had been broken on both sides, there were hundreds of dead, the brook was running with blood and now, in the smoke and noise, thousands of Frenchmen marched at the splintered British line. At any moment the attack would strike stunningly home and the British reserves would crumble or hold, and Sharpe stood, sword in hand, uncertain what to do. Harper tapped his arm and pointed to a horseman who was coming slowly towards them from the Medellin. “Lieutenant Gibbons, sir!”

Sharpe turned back to the fight. Presumably Gibbons was coming with orders from Simmerson, but Sharpe had no confidence in the Colonel and was not particularly interested in whatever message Gibbons was bringing.