Sharpe’s Fury: The Battle of Barrosa, March 1811. Bernard Cornwell
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and Bullen rode uphill with Lecroix. Meanwhile the light company of the 88th had arrived on the French side of the bridge that was now crowded with soldiers. Sharpe was worried. His own company was on the roadway, guarding Sturridge, and now the 88th’s light company had joined them, and they all made a prime target for the French company which was in a line of three ranks. Then there were the French gunners watching from the ramparts of Fort Josephine who doubtless had their barrels loaded with grapeshot. Moon had ordered the 88th down to the bridge, but now seemed to realize that they were an embarrassment rather than a reinforcement. ‘Take your men back to the other side,’ he called to their captain, then turned around because a single Frenchman was now riding towards the bridge. Gillespie and Bullen, meanwhile, were with the other French officers behind the enemy company.
The French officer curbed his horse twenty paces away and Sharpe assumed this was the renowned Colonel Vandal, the 8th’s commanding officer, for he had two heavy gold epaulettes on his blue coat and his cocked hat was crowned with a white pom-pom which seemed a frivolous decoration for a man who looked so baleful. He had a savagely unfriendly face with a narrow black moustache. He appeared to be about Sharpe’s age, in his middle thirties, and had a force that came from an arrogant confidence. He spoke good English in a clipped harsh voice. ‘You will withdraw to the far bank,’ he said without any preamble.
‘And who the devil are you?’ Moon demanded.
‘Colonel Henri Vandal,’ the Frenchman said, ‘and you will withdraw to the far bank and leave the bridge undamaged.’ He took a watch from his coat pocket, clicked open the lid and showed the face to the brigadier. ‘I shall give you one minute before I open fire.’
‘This is no way to behave,’ Moon said loftily. ‘If you wish to fight, Colonel, then you will have the courtesy to return my envoys first.’
‘Your envoys?’ Vandal seemed amused by the word. ‘I saw no flag of truce.’
‘Your fellow didn’t carry one either!’ Moon protested.
‘And Captain Lecroix reports that you brought your gunpowder with our women. I could not stop you, of course, without killing women. You risked the women’s lives, I did not, so I assume you have abandoned the rules of civilized warfare. I shall, however, return your officers when you withdraw from the undamaged bridge. You have one minute, monsieur.’ And with those words Vandal turned his horse and spurred it back up the track.
‘Are you holding my men prisoner?’ Moon shouted.
‘I am!’ Vandal called back carelessly.
‘There are rules of warfare!’ Moon shouted at the retreating colonel.
‘Rules?’ Vandal turned his horse and his handsome, arrogant face showed disdain. ‘You think there are rules in war? You think it is like your English game of cricket?’
‘Your fellow asked us to send an emissary,’ Moon said hotly. ‘We did. There are rules governing such matters. Even you French should know that.’
‘We French,’ Vandal said, amused. ‘I shall tell you the rules, monsieur. I have orders to cross the bridge with a battery of artillery. If there is no bridge, I cannot cross the river. So my rule is that I shall preserve the bridge. In short, monsieur, there is only one rule in warfare, and that is to win. Other than that, monsieur, we French have no rules.’ He turned his horse and spurred uphill. ‘You have one minute,’ he called back carelessly.
‘Good God incarnate,’ Moon said, staring after the Frenchman. The brigadier was plainly puzzled, even astonished by Vandal’s ruthlessness. ‘There are rules!’ he protested into thin air.
‘Blow the bridge, sir?’ Sharpe asked stolidly.
Moon was still gazing after Vandal. ‘They invited us to talk! The bloody man invited us to talk! They can’t do this. There are rules!’
‘You want us to blow the bridge, sir?’ Sharpe asked again.
Moon appeared not to hear. ‘He has to return Gillespie and your lieutenant,’ he said. ‘God damn it, there are rules!’
‘He’s not going to return them, sir,’ Sharpe said.
Moon frowned from the saddle. He appeared puzzled, as if he did not know how he was to deal with Vandal’s treachery. ‘He can’t keep them prisoner!’ he protested.
‘He’s going to keep them, sir, unless you tell me to leave the bridge intact.’
Moon hesitated, but then recalled that his future career, with all its dazzling rewards, depended on the bridge’s destruction. ‘Blow the bridge,’ he said harshly.
‘Back!’ Sharpe turned and shouted at his men. ‘Get back! Mister Sturridge! Light the fuse!’
‘Bloody hell!’ The brigadier suddenly realized he was on the wrong side of a bridge that was crowded with men, and that in about half a minute the French planned to open fire and so he turned his horse and spurred it back along the roadway. The riflemen and redcoats were running and Sharpe followed them, walking backwards, keeping his eye on the French, the rifle in his hands. He reckoned he was safe enough. The French company was a long musket shot away and so far they had made no attempt to close the range, but then Sharpe saw Vandal turn and wave to the fort.
‘Bloody hell,’ Sharpe echoed the brigadier, and then the world shook to the sound of six guns emptying their barrels of grapeshot. Dark smoke whipped the sky, the balls screamed around Sharpe, slapping onto the bridge and slashing into men and churning the river into foam. Sharpe heard a scream behind him, then saw the French company running towards the bridge. There was an odd silence after the guns fired. No muskets had been used yet. The river settled from the strike of the grapeshot and Sharpe heard another scream and snatched a look behind to see Moon’s stallion rearing, blood seething from its neck, and then the brigadier fell into a knot of men.
Sturridge was dead. Sharpe found him some twenty paces beyond the powder barrels. The engineer, struck in the head by a piece of grapeshot, was lying beside the slow match that had not been lit and now the French were almost at the bridge and Sharpe snatched up Sturridge’s tinderbox and ran towards the powder barrels. He shortened the slow match by tearing it apart just a couple of paces from the charge, then struck the flint on the steel. The spark flew and died. He struck again, and this time a scrap of dried linen caught the spark and he blew on it gently and the tinder flared up and he put the flame to the fuse and saw the powder begin to spark and fizz. The first Frenchmen were obstructed by the women’s abandoned luggage, but they kicked it aside and ran onto the bridge where they knelt and aimed their muskets. Sharpe watched the fuse. It was burning so damn slowly! He heard rifles fire, their sound crisper than muskets, and a Frenchman slowly toppled with a look of indignation on his face and a bright stab of blood on his white crossbelt, then the French pulled their triggers and the balls flew close around him. The damned fuse was slower than slow! The French were just yards away, then Sharpe heard more rifles firing, heard a French officer screaming at his men, and Sharpe tore the fuse again, much closer to the powder barrels, and he used the burning end to light the new stub. That new stub was just inches from the barrel and he blew on it to make sure it burned fiercely, then turned and ran towards the western bank.
Moon was wounded, but a pair of men from the 88th had picked the brigadier off the roadway and were carrying him. ‘Come on, sir!’ Harper shouted. Sharpe could hear the Frenchmen’s boots on the roadway, then Harper levelled the seven-barrel gun. It was a naval weapon, one that had never really worked well. It was supposed to be carried in the fighting tops where its seven bunched barrels could launch a small volley of half-inch balls at marksmen in the enemy rigging, but the recoil of the volley gun was so violent that few men were strong enough to wield it. Patrick Harper was strong enough. ‘Down, sir!’ he shouted, and Sharpe dropped flat as the sergeant pulled the trigger. The noise deafened Sharpe, and the leading rank of Frenchmen was blown apart by the seven balls, but one sergeant survived and he ran to where the fizzing fuse sparked and smoked at the barrel’s top. Sharpe was still sprawled on the roadway, but he wrenched the rifle clear of his body. He had no time to aim, just point