Chapter Two: The Command

The parade square echoed with the sound of boots on the cobbles. Sergeants and officers shouted orders as close to three thousand men marched steadily into the square, forming into four long lines along one side of the snow-lined parade ground.

Despite having seen such displays countless times before, Sharpe still felt a frission of excitement as the marching men paraded in front of him. This was his brigade, men he would command and take into battle against the French. He had told himself it would not be much different from commanding his battalion the South Essex, but the sight of the thousands of men still filled him with a heady feeling.

The four Colonels trotted their horses towards him, the sound of their hooves on the cobbles ringing through the quiet square. Sharpe stared at them as they approached, thinking how he should speak to them. Should he try to make the four men like him, or should he be the harsh disciplinarian they all expected him to be? He tempted himself with the idea that if he was friendly and approachable they would submit to his command more willingly, but he suspected some of them would not like being commanded by a man who had come up from the ranks and knew he would have to be harsh.

They four of them stopped a pace from him. On Sharpe's left was Lieutenant Colonel Gough, commander of the 87th regiment of the line, an Irish battalion. Next to him was Lieutenant Colonel Kinney, a tall, broad man who commanded a battalion of Fusilers. On his left was Lieutenant Colonel Leroy of the South Essex, grinning at Sharpe over the inevitable cheroot stuck between his lips, and on the right was Lieutenant Colonel Chalmers, a mild-looking Scotsman who commanded the 74th, a highland battalion. All four regiments were veterans of the Peninsula War, immune to French drums, French cheers and just about anything else the French could throw at them.

"Pleasure to serve under you, Sharpe," Kinney spoke first, nodding warmly at the green-jacketed Rifleman.

Sharpe smiled briefly as the other three Colonels introduced themselves, shaking their preoffered hands.

"Brigade ready for inspection, sir." Leroy said after they had finished, sounding amused.

The other officers looked nervous, and no wonder. Few men in the army had not heard of Sharpe's reputation, and all three Colonels were in awe of the silent, dark-haired man who stood before them. This was the man who had come up from the ranks, the man who had captured a French eagle at Talavera and who looked as if he did it every day before breakfast was served.

"Stand the men at ease, gentlemen," Sharpe said, his tone mild.

The Colonels nodded, and Gough turned his horse around to face the lines of men.

"Brigade!" he bellowed across the square. "At...ease!"

There was a faint whispering sound as the men relaxed.

"Do you know our orders?" Sharpe asked.

"We march to Barca de Alva, sir," Kinney said. "And hope the Froggies haven't gotten there first."

"Do you know when we march?"

"This afternoon, sir." Gough answered.

"What's your strength?"

"Seven hundred, sir," Chalmers, who had been sitting quietly on his horse, answered first.

"About the same," Leroy said.

The other two Colonels gave similar answers.

"Ammunition and rations?"

"Double ammunition, sir. And rations for a whole week." Gough answered for all of them. "On ox carts by the road."

Sharpe nodded his assent, thoroughly pleased with the preparations Hogan had made for him. Most battalions were usually around half strength due to the casualties they picked up in battles, but somehow the Irish Major had managed to organise drafts of reinforcements for these four regiments to get them up to strength. The new men might not have the skill and experience as the battle-hardened veterans, but they would learn quickly and the extra firepower would bolster the fighting strength of the regiments. With luck, Sharpe thought, they might even get to the town before the French. He hitched up his rifle and told the Colonels to organise the march.

The two companies of Riflemen met them on the road to Barca de Alva, arriving just as the brigade was about to begin their march. Sharpe, striding back towards the leading battalion from the rear where he had been inspecting the ox carts of ammunition, hurried towards the front to meet them.

The two Captains saluted as he came near, slamming to attention as Sharpe drew abreast of them.

"Captain Frederickson, sir." the first one said.

The Rifle Captain looked positively villainous. His left eye was gone, a black leather eyepatch covering the socket where the eyeball had used to be. Most of his left ear was gone, along with his two front teeth that had been replaced by ill-made fakes. The wounds had all been taken on the battlefield.

The second captain, shorter and burlier, smiled as he saluted.

"Captain Cross, sir."

"What are you smiling about, Captain?"

"Sir?" Cross looked uncertain for a moment. His smile faded.

"Nothing, sir."

"What's your state?" Sharpe asked them.

"Seventy-nine men, sir." Frederickson spoke first.

"Ammunition?" Sharpe interrupted before the one-eyed Captain could go into specifics.

"Double, sir. Hundred and sixty rounds."

Sharpe turned to Cross.

"Captain?"

"Seventy-six, sir. Double ammunition."

"Good," Sharpe said. "You know where we're going?"

"Barca de Alva, sir," Cross replied.

"Your companies will march at the head of my brigade, Captains, behind the cavalry vanguard."

The two men nodded.

"Very good, sir." Cross said.

Sharpe saw him grimace as he turned away. He shook his head, amused, then shouted at the men to pick up their muskets.

It was going to be a long march.

They marched the rest of the afternoon before bivouacking in a field several hours after dusk. The men were tired. Most of them had marched to Frenada all the way from the Coa and had been looking forward to a warm billet inside the town more than anything else, but instead they had been ordered to march the rest of the day and they cursed the dark-haired Rifleman as they trudged through the cold and dust north and east towards Barca de Alva.

Twenty miles to the northeast, the first French battalions descended on the Gateway of God, screaming their war cries as they charged into the castle with bayonet-tipped muskets. The small Spanish garrison, outnumbered a hundred to one, was quickly and efficiently massacred, then the slaughter spread to the village where the French drove the inhabitants out, killing men who tried to resist and grabbing women and pulling them to the ground. Some women, those too old or diseased, were shoved out of the way, or killed by the long bayonets. Small children were trampled underfoot, their cries mingling with the women's screams as the French battalions continued their advance.

The French General, mounted on a fine black horse, calmly watched as his soldiers destroyed the village of Adrados. He nodded in approval as his aides galloped back to him with reports that the pass had been taken, then turned and beckoned to the waiting officers. The infantry battalions marched through the bloodstained streets and past the crumbling castle, grinning as French soldiers waved at them from the ancient ramparts. Half a mile behind them, the first of the supply carts lurched into motion as the French Corps began the long march through the pass and down into Portugal. The invasion had begun.