Chapter Four: The First Assault

The French General arrived with his first brigade of infantry. He reined in fifty paces ahead of the bridge, swearing as he saw the hundreds of dead Voltigeurs sprawled on the other side of the river. All chance of a swift advance into Portugal had been destroyed by the presence of these British who had mercilessly decimated the fine battalion of Frenchmen that had been his vanguard. He should have sent cavalry instead of a skirmisher battalion, but some fool had delivered the wrong orders and the regiment of hussars had ridden a half-dozen miles in the opposite direction before the General had realised the mistake. He had thought of waiting for them to arrive, but had deemed the need for speed above safety and now the Voltigeurs had paid the price for his decision.

The one thing the General worried about now was the number of enemy troops in the town. The speed of his advance was crucial to its success. The whole operation depended on marching deep into Allied territory before the British and Portugese forces could respond. His first thought was to order an all-out assault on the town, but his instinct for caution had made him pause. If the enemy were few enough he could easily overrun them with a full brigade assault, thus maintaining the momentum of the advance, but if the town proved to be heavily garrisoned he would be committing his men to slaughter like Voltigeurs before them. He had seen the company of cavalry reforming after their charge, and he had glimpsed companies of redcoats and Riflemen marching into the town, but even with the aid of his telescope he could not tell how many men the enemy had. Were these men all that were garrisoning the town, or were they part of a larger force that he had not seen?

Colonel L'hiver, the commander of the Voltigeur battalion, had reported no more than five hundred men in the enemy force. The French officer had wept as he spoke, devastated by the loss of his men and suffering terribly from two sword wounds, but he had managed to confirm that there were two companies of Riflemen, along with close to three hundred redcoat skirmishers.

"But what if there are more?" the General asked.

"If they had more, sir," an aide replied. "They would have used them."

"True," the General acknowledged.

"And we know they weren't expecting us."

"True."

He convinced himself that his worries were false. So what if the British had managed to get troops into Barca de Alva? His own force outnumbered them no less than eight to one, and even if there were more troops hidden in the town, how many could there be? A thousand? Two? In his brigade he had four thousand men, and as many again would arrive within several hours to support his force.

The order was given to attack two hours later, several minutes after a regiment of lancers had reached the bridge. They would make sure the damned cavalry stayed out of the way while his infantry marched across the vulnerable stretch of field between the bridge and the town.

The French formed into a broad column of ten ranks. Four hundred men marched in each rank. The General reckoned the British would not have enough men to defend the whole town, so he would envelop them in a crescent of bayonets and the two wings could swing in to surround the enemy in the front. His heart thudded with grim anticipation as the drums sounded and the massive column started forward. A single push to shatter the rag-taggle force of British that opposed him, and then the advance would sweep into Portugal and send the Allied forces into a panic. He imagined half-formed enemy battalions being smashed apart by the massive French columns, and his heart leapt as he fantasised they might even capture a few colours. Marshal Massena would promote him for sure, then. No man could deny promotion to a General who had captured enemy colours.

In Barca de Alva Brigadier General Sharpe rested his telescope on a window frame, training it on the advancing column that was slowly threading its way across the bridge. He watched as the regiment of lancers form up on either side of the town, then collapsed the telescope and ran down the stairs.

He had not been idle in the two hours it had taken the French to organise their attack. The house was crowded with redcoats and Riflemen that would be the first to engage the enemy. Frederickson and Cross, along with the four light companies, would garrison the front of the town. Immediately behind them were mixed forces of more redcoats and grenadier companies of the four battalions. Sharpe knew the attack would surge into the town like a torrent of water, so he would barricade every door and drown the streets in musket fire and grenades. The rest of his brigade was positioned inside every house in the town, apart for eight companies, two from each battalion, that would be held in the town centre as his reserve to reinforce whichever part of the defences that needed help the most. He ducked out into the street, cursing as his rifle caught on the doorframe and unbalanced him. Three men of the Fusilers' light company hurried past him, each one carrying two wooden chairs stacked on top of each other. In the opposite house, two Riflemen swore as they manhandled a heavy table out through the doorway. The men were carrying the furniture to the end of the street that opened up out of the town where they were making a makeshift barricade to stall the French advance. More Riflemen were standing beside the half-completed barricade, loading their rifles with the finely-mealed gunpowder from their horns. Their first volleys would be murderously precise, then the leather patches and fine powder that gave the rifles their lethal accuracy would be forgotten as every man sacrificed care for speed.

Sharpe wondered how Patrick Harper was doing. The big Irishman would be in the houses facing the left half of the column, along with the rest of the South Essex light company. Harper would probably be whistling as he stacked furniture onto the barricades, Sharpe thought, exchanging jokes with the other South Essex men and Frederickson's Riflemen who shared the same houses with them. He would probably have heard of Sharpe's promotion, and Sharpe knew Harper would be as approving as the rest of the South Essex of his new command.

He turned to the other end of the street where two dozen Ensigns mounted on horses waited for him. The Ensigns were from the the four battalions of his brigade, and he had designated them to be his messengers to relay his orders through the town. They were all sensible boys, and would probably grow up to become decent officers, provided they were not first spitted on a French bayonet from this massive force that was about to assault them.

He selected two from the 87th and told them to inform the light companies and Riflemen to fall back as they wished, trusting the experienced Captains to judge the moment for themselves. He sent two more to order four of his reserve companies to form four ranks in the streets close behind the barricades. They would cover the retreat of the light men when the French broke through.

"And make sure the doors are barricaded!" he called after them, then turned to another.

"My compliments to Captain Derritt," he said. "And he is not to engage the enemy lancers. Tell him to guard the artillery."

His battery of four nine-pounders and two five-and-a-half inch howitzers had arrived and he would deploy them on the left of the town to rake the approaching column from the side.

"The artillery are free to open fire," he said to a sixth Ensign.

The boy, scarcely out of his childhood, nodded nervously at the tall, scarred General, then turned his horse and galloped up the streets.

Sharpe's stomach churned with anticipation as he waited. Had he thought of everything? His hand gripped and re-gripped his sword hilt, his palm slippery under the brass wire. He wiped it on the side of his overalls, then his heart skipped a beat as a single sound rose above all else. The drums started, the massive, irresistable drums that had driven the French columns from Paris to Moscow, the drums that would now drive this winter assault against Barca de Alva in the hope of smashing its defences and clearing the way into Portugal. The drums intensified, the French column lurched into motion, and the assault began.

Captain Plummer, the man in charge of Sharpe's artillery, wheeled his guns forward as soon as the drums began. He fished a battered telescope out of his pocket and stared hard at the column for a few moments, then grunted in satisfaction and collapsed the glass.

"Unlimber here!" he called to his gunners, spurring ahead to mark the spot where the guns would begin their firing. "Don't know why the bloody French insist on using damned columns," he grumbled to himself. "No bloody use, so they are."

"Indeed," Captain Derritt had walked his horse towards Plummer and offered him a cigar as they stared at the enemy formation. "Not much good against cavalry, either. In fact, if not for those lancers, I'd have a good mind to fillet them."

Plummer gave a short bark of laughter.

"We'll send them packing in a few moments! The daft buggers don't even know we're here!"

The French lancers, who were advancing three hundred yards away parallel to the infantry's march, seemed to have taken no notice of the impending threat.

"Here!" Plummer waved at the ground beside him, shouting to his men. "Over here!"

The four nine-pounders deployed in a line just beside the edge of the town, while the two howitzers unlimbered a little distance behind them.

"Double shot!" Plummer ordered. "Let's give these bastards a good winter hammering!"

The defenders in the town cheered as the first nine-pounder opened fire, the canister shot throwing back a dozen lancers like toy soldiers swept apart by a petulant child. The iron cannonball slashed through the double line of horses in a spray of blood, then bounced once before slaughtering a score of men in the heart of the French column. The lancers froze for a moment, then wheeled to face the half-dozen guns, but Derritt's troop spurred forward, swords raised, and the lancers instinctively checked before galloping out of range just as the other cannons opened fire on the massive French column. Roundshot seared into the enemy ranks. Case shot cracked apart to send showers of death into the heart of the column, but there was too few artillery to stop the French advance. The column seemed to quiver with each impact it took, but when the gunners finished reloading the column had closed ranks and marched on almost as if no men had died.

The Riflemen in the town opened fire. The crackling sound of their volley echoed through the air as men in the front ranks of the column were hit by the spinning bullets, twisting around suddenly as if they had been shoved. The files rippled as men stepped past the fallen, but like the guns before them there were not enough Rifles to stop the column.

A second artillery salvo slashed into the massed ranks, a third, then the French let out a massive cheer as they were released into the charge, a dark tide of men surging towards the town like a tsunami wave.

"Fire!" the shout rang out from Barca de Alva.

The town exploded with musket smoke. The massive volley crashed down onto the French attack, hurling men backwards like rag dolls. Most of the leading Frenchmen were battered down by the hail of musket balls, then a second wave of gunfire slashed out from the town as every musket that had fired was replaced by another loaded weapon. Every house, wall and rooftop along the perimeter of the town and major streets had been garrisoned. Men had been crammed into the houses and rooms, so that every loophole and firing position was manned by two or three men.

The crackling of the musket fire was incessant, drowning the roar from Plummer's guns as they fired one last time. The French were firing back, adding to the cacophony of musket discharges, but the redcoats were safe behind walls and windows so most of the musket balls smacked harmlessly into masonry.

The road from the bridge led to a broad, wide street that ran straight into the middle of Barca de Alva. The street had been blocked with furniture stolen from the nearby houses that was piled higher than a man's head, but the sheer weight of the French assault was causing the barricade to scrape backwards. The redcoats fired through and over the barricade, but the French were doing the same and more than a few British had slumped onto the ground, their blood soaking into the snow to stain it a dark red. Their captain ordered a half-dozen men to pile the bodies in a line across the street which he hoped would trip the French.

More redcoats fell back, their bodies slumping against the barricade, then the officer ordered the men away from the collapsing defence.

"Back!" he shouted. "Back!"

A half-company of men from the 87th stood in two ranks halfway down the street. They opened files to let the retreating skirmishers through, then closed up as the barricade began to shudder like a woman in labour.

"Load!" the skirmisher captain ordered his men.

"Fix bayonets!" a young lieutenant commanding the half-company said. "Kneel!"

His men obediently knelt and the skirmishers behind them closed into another two ranks so that the street was now barred by a four-rank line that bristled with bayonets.

"Steady, lads, steady," the lieutenant said, drawing a pistol from his belt and thumbing back the cock.

The barricade fell with a crash that made the lieutenant wince, then there was a cheer as the French poured into the street.

"Wait, boys, wait!" the captain shouted.

Redcoats appeared in the windows and balconies above. They levelled their muskets, then fired just as the leading Frenchmen burst through the shattered remains of the barricade.

Smoke blotted the street. Frenchmen screamed as the bullets tore into the advancing mass. Some were hit by the musket fire, some tripped on the pile of bodies, but others scrambled through the remains of the front ranks to come howling down the street.

More muskets fired from above, replacing the men who had already fired. The redcoats thrust their weapons at the street and pulled the triggers without bothering to aim. The street was filled with powder smoke as bullets slashed left and right into the mass of French, yet still they came, howling like banshees, their bayonets on their muskets shining amidst the fog of powder smoke.

"Doors!" a French officers shouted. "Doors!"

The French pounded on the doors with their rifle butts, stabbed at it with their bayonets, even fired at them, but they had been blocked solid by furniture and the French might as well have been banging on stone for all the damage they did. Some of them fired blindly up at their attackers, but their assailants were hidden by the dense cloud of powder smoke and the bullets whizzed harmlessly past. Other Frenchmen stabbed blindly into windows at street level, but all the windows on the left suddenly crashed flame and smoke to fill the street with more bullets and death.

Still the French came on, staggering through the maelstrom of bullets and flames. The lieutentant waited for the first Frenchmen to stumble into view, then ordered his first rank to make ready.

"Fire!"

The volley whipped into the street to send more Frenchmen collapsing onto the cobbles, their white crossbelts dark and dripping.

"Second rank!" the captain shouted. "Fire!"

Another volley crashed out to pile a barrier of bodies on the street.

"Fire!" The third rank pulled their triggers as the first and second ranks reloaded frantically, skinning their knuckles on their bayonets as they rammed the bullets down.

All along the perimeter of the town the French cheered as they broke through barricades, the cheers turning to screams as the streets turned into deathtraps. The French General, watching with a telescope from across the river, saw the growing cloud of smoke and the crackling of musket fire and swore because he knew something had gone horribly wrong.

"Sir!"

Back in the main street, a private pointed frantically at an alley. The captain followed his gaze and saw, through the alley, a mix of greenjackets and redcoats retreating haphazardly up a side street. Their ragged retreat suggested the French were not far behind them and in a moment or two, his company might be cut off.

"Back!" he yelled at his men. "Back to the square!"

The company turned and ran towards the town centre, a few men stumbling with injuries. The windows and balconies exploded with fire behind them, covering their retreat as they fled towards safety.

More British forces had similarly retreated from the French assault, running into the town square where Brigadier-General Sharpe held the four companies of his reserve. The scattered companies formed ranks alongside the fresh men, hurriedly reloading as the sounds of the French advanced drew ever closer.

More men came out from the south of the town, reinforcing the force that would soon be hurled at the attackers. Scotsmen and Fusilers stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Irishmen and Englishmen, all readying themselves for the countercharge that would drive the French out of the town. Riflemen, some of them with bloodied bayonets, pushed into the ranks, charging their barrels with powder from their horns as they waited for their officers to give orders.

The French burst from the alleys and streets in a dozen dark streams of screaming men, skidding to a halt as they caught sight of the tightly-packed line of bayonets. For a few moments the two sides simply stared at each other, then the redcoats roared a challenge, howling at the dark-coated men who had driven their comrades from the north of the town.

"Forward! Forward! Forward!" a French Colonel shouted. "Vive l'Empereur!"

"Front rank! Make ready!" Sharpe cried.

Officers and sergeants echoed the order and the entire mass of French twitched as they realised what was about to happen.

"Charge!" the French Colonel ordered.

The French surged forward, screaming to cover their fear. The redcoats watched them come, waited, then, at last, the order came.

"Fire!"

The muskets crashed flame and smoke. The front ranks of the French jerked backwards as the massive volley struck home. Other French stumbled over the bodies of the dead and dying, but more redcoats appeared in windows and balconies facing the town square, fresh men who had been posted to guard against such a charge and now levelled their muskets at the unsuspecting enemy.

"Fire!" the order rang out from one of the houses.

The houses and balconies erupted with smoke. Hundreds of muskets flamed as the massive fusillade crashed into the attacking horde. Frenchmen went down, screaming in terror as bullets hissed and cracked all around them. Some were unwounded, tripping over their comrades, but were trampled in the confusion and died as boots thudded into their heads and spines.

"Fire!" the redcoat line volleyed again, cutting the French down in a swath of death.

The French charge halted in the face of the relentless musketry. To their front was the British line, a bayonet-tipped clockwork machine that was spitting out eight volleys a minute. More redcoats were deploying to the left and right of the line, reinforcements coming out of the houses and alleys to add their fire to the beleaguered enemy, and on all four sides muskets and rifles cracked from the rooftops and balconies as the battalions poured their murderous fire down.

The French brigade could not advance into the blistering volleys, nor could they retreat because their comrades were pressing up from the rear, they could only stand stock still and be mauled by the relentless fire.

In a house on the streets, Colonel Thomas Leroy heard the sudden explosion of musket fire and grinned. He pushed his way to a window, waited for the redcoat in front of him to fire, then cupped his hands and leaned into the street.

"Grenades!" he called. "Toss grenades!"

In the houses to the north, where Sharpe knew the attack would strike first, he had stationed the grenadiers from his four battalions. Each man was six feet tall, armed with the black iron grenades with long fuses. They stepped to the windows and balconies as the order rang out, then lit the deadly weapons and tossed them into the streets.

The French attack halted then as the first grenades bounced onto the cobbles, then exploded in an eruption of flame and smoke Men screamed as they were flensed by the metal fragments. Some managed to extiguish the grenades, knocking the fuses from the metal balls before they could explode, but more grenades dropped from above, more explosions filled the streets with shrapnel and death and suddenly the French were running, all thought forgotten except to escape this charnel house of flame and death. A few officers shouted orders, but most saw that the rout could not be controlled and joined the mass of panicked troops in an attempt to get away before the redcoats came out with swords and bayonets.

In the town square the French ranks buckled as if a great pressure had been removed, streaming back through the streets they had come from to escape the devastating musketry. Brigadier General Sharpe, who had climbed the bell tower of a chapel in the centre of the town to judge the progress of the fighting, saw the Frenchmen melting into the streets and decided it was time for the charge.

"Forward!" he bellowed.

The British gave a great cheer as they started across the square, slowly at first, then faster and faster, then they slammed into the mass of enemy and the killing resumed. Musket flames seared into bodies. Bayonets scythed forward and came back red. Frenchmen fell and were immediately trampled by the press of men.

Like a last exhausted wave that had failed to breach a sea wall, the defeated French flowed out of the town, pursued by the vengeful redcoats with bloodstained faces and bayonets as red as their jackets.

Eventually the British stopped their pursuit, checked by the piles of corpses and terrified men. Some of the French were taken prisoner, but most streamed out of the town towards the bridge, their retreat guarded by the two companies of lancers that had watched helplessly as the attack had first been stopped, then destroyed. The redcoats in the northern houses opened fire again as the defeated enemy streamed into their line of fire, adding to the sprawl of bodies that cooled in the snow. Plummer's guns, who had pounded the right company of lancers throughout the whole attack, levelled their barrels and blasted roundshot across the mass of French. The howitzers lobbed case shot onto the press of men clustered around the head of the bridge, but then a dozen French twelve-pounders across the river opened fire and the iron balls scythed through Derritt's company of horsemen, raging all around the battery of guns. Two gunners were struck down in gouts of blood, then Plummer shouted at his men to retreat. The guns were latched onto their limbers and the horse teams galloped away from the artillery fire that rained down on them. The lancers gave a cheer as their tormentors were driven away, then withdrew over the bridge, covering the infantry's retreat.

Across the Douro, the French brigade was being reorganised, parading beside the guns as officers tallied the dead. Close to four thousand men had attacked Barca de Alva. Close to two thousand of them were dead or prisoners. The exhausted men threw their muskets down and dropped to the ground, some of them shaking at the sheer horror of what they had gone through in the streets.

The French General looked at his defeated men and swore at the town that was wreathed in smoke. He saw the British coming out of the town to plunder the dead, flashes of fire from windows as they fired at the retreating men, and knew there would be no easy way around this enemy force. He swore again as he turned away and began issuing orders. A brigade might have been turned, but within a day at most three more would arrive. The British, he promised, would pay dearly for the loss of his men.