Chapter Five: The Night
A truce was called for the rest of the day. The French were allowed into the town to retrieve their wounded and bury their dead. A line of ox carts moved to and fro across the bridge, ferrying wounded men back to their camp where the surgeons waited with their saws and probes. Some Frenchmen were well enough to walk, but most lay motionless in the streets washed with their blood. Many of the rescuers were too late.
Captain Peter d'Alembord found Sharpe sitting at a table the town square with a dozen officers, eating lunch as he planned their next move. All around them the air was filled with moans and screams as wounded Frenchmen were dragged out of the town to the waiting carts.
"Peter," Sharpe greeted him cheerfully. "Join us!" He gestured to the table.
d'Alembord shook his head.
"Got my own lunch, sir," he said. "Was just going to give Colonel Leroy the butcher's bill." He held up the piece of paper.
"Bad?" Sharpe asked.
He did not think the South Essex had suffered many casualties. They had all been safe in the houses, protected by their own powder smoke as they rained death onto the French in the streets.
"Dozen dead and twenty others injured," d'Alembord replied. "Not much."
"About the same for the rest," Colonel Leroy said, nodding. "Come the four corners of the world in arms, Captain, and we shall shock them."
"Indeed," The Rifle Captain, Frederickson, pounded his fist onto the table in agreement. "We'll fill the streets with damned Frenchmen and when we're out of ammunition we can throw furniture on them." He filled his mouth with bread and pork, his missing teeth showing as he grinned cheerfully.
"Aye," Sharpe was not as confident as the rest. "How's Harper?" he asked, trying to change the subject before the others could notice.
"Good," d'Alembord smiled. "The lads have all heard of your promotion. They're glad."
Colonel Gough chuckled.
"Your former battalion has been boasting to mine about how the greatest heroes come from the South Essex. They'll be saying they each took a French eagle next."
"You never know," Leroy wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "The way things are going, we'll all have a half-dozen eagles before spring arrives." He gestured at the piles of French corpses.
"They don't bring the eagles into the streets, though," Colonel Chalmers pointed out.
"Then we'll just have to go out and get them!" Colonel Kinney said, giving the cork of his wine bottle an emphatic tug as he spoke.
The cork came free with a satisfying pop and he took a long drink before handing it to Leroy.
"But we are expecting another assault?" Captain Cross, the most junior officer at the table, asked.
"Of course we are!" Gough said. "The bloody crapauds never know when they're beaten. They'll just keep attacking until the last of them drops into the river."
"That reminds me," Frederickson, who had been surprisingly quiet, now spoke. "I'd like permission to take some of my men down tonight, sir. A lad of mine says he can see a ford a few hundred yards down and I fancy he's right. We can give the frogs a nice midnight visit, sir, if you see what I mean."
Sharpe, ever uncomfortable with small talk, took the excuse to end the conversation.
"All right, Captain. I'll come with you to see if he's right." Sharpe pushed his chair back. "And we have a lot to do, so I think we should all return to our duties, gentlemen."
The officers all stood.
"May God grant us victory," Leroy said, raising the bottle of wine.
"And death to the French!" Kinney added, grabbing his own bottle.
"Amen to that," Gough held up his canteen of rum.
The rest of the officers joined in the toast and they all drank, and none of them saw the shadow that crossed Sharpe's face.
Frederickson had indeed found a ford. Sharpe, training his telescope on the half-frozen bank of the Douro, saw small rocks showing over the surface of the water several metres from either bank and guessed the river went only up to the waist at the deepest point.
"Midnight, sir?" Frederickson grinned at him, one of his false teeth slightly crooked.
Sharpe nodded.
"Midnight, Captain."
At midnight, Frederickson and Cross would lead their companies across the ford. The French army might outnumber them more than two to one, but he could still surprise them and this night he would show them how British Generals fought.
The French twelve-pounders started firing at dusk. They opened fire all at once, men swearing in shock as the clap of their discharge boomed into the evening's perfection. They concentrated their fire on the houses on the outermost layer of the town, houses that had battered the column with volleys of fire as it had approached. The heavy iron balls screamed across the river to smash walls and topple roofs. One by one the houses collapsed, each one prompting a cheer from the watching Frenchmen. A second brigade had arrived in the afternoon, and some of those men sat by the river and watched the town that had torn their comrades to pieces earlier that day. In the morning, both brigades would launch their assault, a massive, unstoppable attack that would sweep the British out of the town like a sandcastle in a flood.
The houses were, at least, empty. Sharpe had long known what the French would do and had ordered the occupants out of the houses as soon as he was sure of the cannons' target. The redcoats and riflemen now rested in buildings well inside the town, laughing as each shot sent a new pile of rubble cascading down into the streets.
"Let's see those idiots get in now," Colonel Leroy laughed, watching the cobbled streets slowly fill with debris.
"Daft buggers," Plummer snorted beside him. "They'll still climb through, though. Most of them rubble's fallen outwards."
"All the same I expect we'll give them a thing or two to worry about," Leroy said agreeably, producing a chicken leg from his sabretache.
He tore it into half and gave one piece to Plummer. The gunner Captain nodded his thanks, then bit into the meat as another wave of cannonballs smashed into the town.
The two companies of Riflemen crept their way out of the town at ten in the night. They went slowly, their rifles loaded with powder from their horns and their bayonets heavy in their scabbards where they would not reflect the moonlight. Flashes of light illuminated the landscape as the twelve-pounders hammered at the town, helping their way as they stumbled through the half-darkness towards the river. Their objective was to ambush the gunners on the other side of the bank, putting a stop to the bombardment and denying the French their cover fire as they attacked the next day.
"Stop here," Frederickson whispered, hearing the gentle hiss of the river ahead of him.
Another salvo lit the ground all around them, causing the men to swear and curse as they ducked down. The moment of light allowed Frederickson to see the river and, bent double, he ran over and cautiously took a step in. He winced as the freezing water soaked through his boot, then, ignoring the burning cold, took several more steps before halting.
"Come on," he called softly.
There was a small splashing sound as the first of his men stepped in, then the two companies of Riflemen were wading across the river, cursing as their boots slipped on the river bed.
"Christ, it's cold," one man complained, and was immediately hushed by two of his companions.
"Stay together," Cross whispered.
He was worried that the men would separate and end up losing their direction, or worse, fail to cross the river completely. Shallow as the ford was, they could still be swept away if they were not careful.
Frederickson arrived at the opposite bank first, counting the men as they passed him.
"All across," Cross, the last man, said softly as Frederickson grasped his shoulder.
"Good,"
Frederickson removed his eye patch and false teeth and stowed them into his pocket.
"Skirmish order towards the guns. Slowly."
The men cautiously spread out along the river bank, cringing at the voices of the French sentries not far ahead. Frederickson ordered the advance as soon as they were ready. A hundred and sixty men moved in two loose ranks, all senses on alert.
"Wait," Frederickson hissed suddenly.
He waved the small force down.
A pair of French sentries appeared out of the gloom, laughing and talking as they walked towards the river. Frederickson cursed silently as they stopped no more than ten paces from his group, squeezing his eye shut in frustration as they unbuttoned their breeches and began pissing into the water. If the guns fired now, the men could easily spot them and the ambush would be ruined.
The Riflemen froze, watching the pair of men as they swayed slightly in the fridgid winter air. Frederickson held his breath as they buttoned their breeches and turned towards him, then let out a sigh as they turned around and headed back the way they came.
And just then the guns fired.
A burst of light flared upwards from somewhere beyond them. The two Frenchmen, startled by the sudden noise, instinctively turned their heads away from the source.
And found Frederickson staring straight at them.
For a moment the two sides gaped silently at each other, then the men opened their mouths to shout.
Frederickson, along with a half-dozen of his men, sprang at them.
The noise of the ensuing scuffle was drowned out by the thunder of the guns. The first Frenchman flailed as Frederickson's weight knocked him to the ground. He yelled incoherently as the one-eyed officer tried to cover his mouth, then Frederickson butted him in the head and pressed a forearm over his throat. The man reached upwards to claw at Frederickson's face, but suddenly fell back with a soft sigh. Frederickson glanced to his right and saw that one of his Riflemen had jammed a bayonet into the side of the Frenchman's ribs, effectively silencing him.
The second Frenchman jumped away from three Riflemen that clawed at him. He dived out of the way, scrambled up, then raced up the bank, flailing with his arms as he shouted in French. He took three steps, then a bayonet thrown like a knife caught him in the back. The man collapsed, screaming, as a second bayonet sailed above his head. He groped blindly behind him, yelping as a stone hit his buttock, then a Rifleman clubbed him in the back of the head with a rifle butt and another stabbed a second bayonet into him. The Frenchman jerked once and was still. Frederickson sighed in relief, the two Riflemen grinned at him, and just then a half-dozen muskets banged and the two men pitched forward.
"Shit!"
A dozen Frenchmen materialised out of the darkness, bayonets gleaming on their muskets as they advanced down the river bank. Frederickson swore as the first of them levelled their muskets, did a split-second calculation and barked a single command to his men.
"Kill the gunners!"
There was no chance of surprising the enemy now. Their only hope of success was to catch the gunners before they could retreat and withdraw before the enemy could organise a counterattack.
Frederickson's men screamed as they charged up the bank, surprising a small group of Frenchmen that were hurrying towards them. Several of the French pulled their triggers, but in the confusion they had forgotten to load their muskets and the flints sparked on empty pans.
"Kill them!" Frederickson shouted. "Kill them!"
The Riflemen tore into the small group of French. A Frenchman flailed with his musket like a club, driving a Rifleman back, then the Frenchman was bayoneted and the greenjackets seemed to swarm over the blue-coated men. More Frenchmen appeared, half-awake and disorganised, but the bayonets were stabbed down, kicked free and the Riflemen charged on, sprinting towards the twelve-pounders and unprotected gunners. Behind them, there were shouts and rifle shots as Cross's men fought the French piquets.
The French gunners were in sight, but, instead of running, they were gaping in surprise at this enemy that had erupted out of the darkness like creatures from hell. They still stared as the Riflemen knelt, aimed, and then they were running for cover as the spinning bullets hurled them backwards, flicking out of the darkness and clanging off their massive gun barrels.
"Finish them!" Frederickson knew there was no time to wait for his men to reload. "Finish them!"
His Riflemen charged, howling like banshees. A few of the gunners, those furthest away from the Rifles' assault, managed to flee into the darkness, but most of them were too slow to escape and were bayoneted by the vengeful Riflemen.
"Bastards!" one man shouted as he stabbed a fallen gunner again and again. "Bastards!"
"Back!" Frederickson called.
He could hear orders in French and knew an enemy counterattack could not be far off.
Then, as his men were beginning to retreat, a massive cheer came from the direction of the French camp and flood of Frenchmen swarmed over the guns.
"Run!"
The enemy was too close for any kind of orderly withdrawal. Their only hope now was to run across the ford and hope the French lost their way in the darkness.
His men abandoned all discipline and fled, their aggression disappearing as soon as it began. Some of them were too close to avoid the French bayonets, but most managed to get clear before the French charge could strike home and ran down the bank towards the ford where the sound of rifle shots and clashes of metal showed that Cross still held the enemy.
They ran through the ranks of Cross's company, who stood in two ranks along the bank in front of the ford, their rifles bristling with the twenty-three inch sword-bayonets. The company opened files to let their comrades through, then levelled their rifles as more than a hundred Frenchmen charged towards them.
"Fire!"
The volley crashed into the attacking French. A dozen Frenchmen went down, twice as many tripping over the sprawling bodies. Cross's second rank fired to send more of the enemy pitching forward, then Cross shouted at his men to fall back over the ford.
The French formed a line at the edge of the river and poured a ragged volley at the retreating Riflemen. Men screamed as they fell, the river running red amidst the greenjackets' splashing boots. Some tried to help their wounded comrades, but Cross shouted at his men to leave them. The cries of his wounded sounded ever louder as the French surged across the ford, howling in anger as they sought revenge against this enemy that had appeared in the night.
Neither Cross nor Frederickson saw the ranks of men waiting along the far bank, but once they had splashed out of the river they heard the English voices shouting at them to get down, saw the moonlight glinting off hundreds of bayonets, and dropped to the ground.
"Fire!" The order was British.
The double line of muskets flamed in the moonlit darkness. The French coming across the river were completely unaware of the hidden ambush and were cut down by the volley. The four light companies of Sharpe's brigade had come out of the town to rescue the night attack, and they now roared their challenge as they charged with bayonets to drive the enemy back across the river.
"General Sharpe!" Cross called, glimpsing the tall Brigadier amidst the mass of redcoats.
"Get out of here!" Sharpe yelled back.
"Rifles!" Frederickson cupped his hands. "Fall back to the town!"
The two companies of Riflemen retreated towards the town in a disorganised mass, cursing and swearing as they stumbled on rocks and stones. Behind them, muskets splintered from either bank as Sharpe's companies fought the newly-woken French.
The two sides were evenly matched. The French were by far the larger force, but Sharpe's men were formed and ready whereas the French were milling about in a disorganised mess, many of them without loaded muskets. The French did not dare to advance into the fury of bullets coming from the opposite bank, instead they spread along the river's edge and returned the fire, the air above the Douro filling with filthy smoke as the night skirmish turned into a savage firefight.
The Riflemen were only two hundred feet from the town when they heard the unmistakable thunder of hooves behind them. Frederickson whirled around, ammunition and pouches flapping, and his heart dropped as he saw the French lancers appear out of the darkness.
"Cavalry!" The word was shouted in terror.
"Rally!" Cross called, his voice edged with panic. "Rally, rally rally!"
Frederickson knew there was no time to form a rally square. His men were too far from the town to have any hope of outrunning the lancers to safety, and were too close to the lancers and too scattered to form a rally square in time. They would be destroyed.
Just as the realisation hit him, a trumpet sounded from the town. A line of British dragoons materialised on the flank of the French charge, straight swords bared as they charged full-tilt into the mass of enemy horsemen. The lancers, one moment away from slaughtering the helpless Riflemen, were thrown into chaos by the galloping line of dragoons. Swords fell onto necks and laid open backs. Men screamed in pain. A lance cartwheeled above the churning mass.
"Go, go, go!" Derritt appeared out of the melee, his helmet sheeted with blood and grinning like a fiend. "Get to the town, Frederickson!"
His second rank of horsemen crashed into the fight and he spurred around to join them, raising his sword as he whooped with excitement.
"Rifles!" Frederickson bellowed. "Back to the town!"
Brought back from the brink of destruction yet again, the two companies headed south in headlong flight, yelling for the piquets to hold their fire as they approached the town. Frederickson shouted at his men to quieten down as they came within earshot, then a single voice called from the dark mass of houses.
"Captain Frederickson?"
"Colonel Gough!" Frederickson answered, hearing the Irish Colonel's distinctive accent.
"Glad to hear you're back safe!" Gough said. "Sounds like a right nasty battle out there."
Frederickson shook his head.
"It's bloody chaos," he said. "Lancers, infantry, the whole lot."
"Go around the left and come inside," Gough said. "We'll see what damage you've wrought."
The Riflemen entered from the east of the town. More than a few of them were being supported by their comrades, bleeding from musket or bayonet wounds. The blacksmith sound of swords clashing on helmets faded into the distance as Derritt's cavalry broke the lancers. The musket fight still sounded loud in the night's silence, but Frederickson, climbing onto the roof of a house to join the four Colonels, saw that Sharpe's men were retreating. They went slowly, two companies providing cover as the other two marched. The lancers had vanished back over the bridge and Derritt's cavalry fell back together with the four companies of skirmishers, then, suddenly, a bugle sounded. Loud it rang, the sound seeming to linger in the air, and Plummer's guns answered the call, the nine-pounders crashing back on their trails as the iron balls screamed towards the bridge, ringing like bells as they struck the heavy stone. The gunners reloaded with frenetic speed, swabbing and ramming and pulling and grunting, and the guns roared into the night, again and again, pounding and pounding at the bridge for a full half hour before the first French guns were able to respond. Frederickson smiled in satisfaction as he saw that only five guns were firing, proof that he had killed more than half of the enemy gunners.
The first cannonballs bounced short, allowing Plummer's guns to fire a last salvo before he ordered them back. The French guns fired again, but by that time his horse teams were already well on their way around the right of the town, using the buildings in the town to shield themselves from the twelve-pounders' line of fire.
Gough clapped Frederickson on the back.
"Well done, Frederickson, bloody well done. Showed them how the Rifles fight, eh?"
"An excellent night's work, Captain," Chalmers said, nodding amiably at the one-eyed Captain.
Frederickson grinned at their praise, thoroughly pleased with himself, then peered through his telescope at the bridge as the dust around it settled. His body tensed as it came into view, then he jumped up, raising both fists into the air.
"Yes!" he yelled.
Leroy and Kinney thumped onto the balcony ledge in triumph.
The bridge had been damaged. It had not been destroyed, the French could still advance across it, but the weakened structure would not take the weight of the heavy guns and without them the French could not advance into Portugal. It would take days to repair the bridge, days in which a supporting force could arrive to bolster Barca de Alva's defences and end the French invasion, and all the while Sharpe's force would be there to harry and impede them. They had succeeded.
Which meant that the real trouble was about to begin.