Chapter Six: The Ordeal
Dawn revealed the extent of damage Plummer's guns had wrought. The bridge still stood, its shadow stretching across the river as the sun rose, but the heavy stone masonry had been badly damaged by the nine-pounders' fire. Fragments of stone the size of dinner plates were scattered along the roadway, which was covered in a fine layer of white dust. More than a quarter of the bridge was missing in one particular place where the gunners had concentrated their fire, and some of the broad arches and columns that supported the bridge were broken.
The British cheered as they saw the state of the bridge, waving their muskets and rifles in the air, then, suddenly, the cheers died as thousands of French appeared on the horizon, the sunlight gleaming off their bayonets as they marched slowly forward. Sharpe, standing with his colonels on the roof of one of the northern houses, swore bitterly as the dark lines of men came into view.
"A whole bloody division," Gough growled.
Sharpe said nothing. He didn't need to. The full might of the French force was being paraded in the morning sun, spreading themselves in an arrogant panoply of overwhelming power. Within an hour, he knew, that force would be storming his defences and there would be nothing he could do about it.
"All men to their positions," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "Let's see what they throw at us."
The five men walked into the street, moving to take their stations in their assigned parts of the town. Sharpe himself climbed the bell tower in the centre of the town, attended by his ensign messengers and a half-dozen rifle sharpshooters. He listened to the usual small jokes that were made before the battle, gave the appropriate replies, then there was a massive cheer and the French came on.
The day's first attack on Barca de Alva was made by the same men who had attacked the day before. The brigade of infantry marched across the damaged bridge and through the ford, forming their columns just outside of the British rifles' deadly range. They assembled slowly, unhurriedly, until, without bothering to throw out a skirmish line, they surged forward with a roar of vengeance, a dark wave of Frenchmen flooding across the snow-lined field like an oil spill spreading across the ocean.
On the left, Derritt's company was pushed back by an entire brigade of French cavalry. He watched helplessly as the French charge swept past his troopers, then swore and wrenched his horse around. There would be no day of glory for him, not this day when he was outnumbered more than five to one. He led his men away from the town and hoped that the French would be content with driving him away from the battle.
The defenders perched among the rubble of the outermost houses had time for one hurried volley, then the French were scrambling up the piles of debris, forcing the defenders back into the streets beyond. The French gave a breathless cheer as they reached the summit of the rubble, then the muskets flamed from streets and roofs to send them rolling down the opposite side. More Frenchmen spilled over the crest of the rubble to come howling down towards the streets, but volleys of musket fire crashed out to send them falling to the ground, the piled bricks and wood slick with new blood. Still the French could not be denied. There were too few redcoats to hold them off for long and the French clambered up the rubble to the roofs beyond, then used their new lodgements to fire down on the British half-companies below. Yet more Frenchmen flooded down the piles of rubble to drive the embattled redcoats back, leaving several bodies sprawled on the cobbles.
The victorious French charged up the streets where the newly-reinforced half-companies greeted them with a deafening blast of musketry, then the grenades dropped from the houses above and the explosions began, throwing Frenchmen to the ground and eviscerating them with jagged iron shrapnel. Muskets fired from windows and balconies, drowning the streets in flame and lead, and thus it was the French's turn to retreat, stumbling blindly away from the maelstrom of explosions and death while beyond the flames and smoke the half-companies kept up their blistering hail of volley fire.
The French retreated from the streets, but they had not given up their assault. Voltigeurs and redcoats traded fire from the roofs of the outermost houses. Other Frenchmen ran into the alleys where there were no windows and balconies to rain death on them, then sought ways into the town where they surprised the half-companies as they reloaded their muskets and peered into the smoke. Pistols fired, swords and bayonets clashed, and then the greater numbers of the French had forced them back. The half-companies fell back towards the town centre, confused and outflanked, and the defenders in the houses dared not fire for fear of hitting their comrades. Above, the fighting intensified as Frenchmen found ways to cross the gap between roofs. Some, where the houses were built closely together, simply jumped from one roof to the other. The British shot the first few that made the leap, then bayoneted the next, but once again the French overpowered them through their sheer strength of numbers, then flooded into the houses and killed the defenders inside. Other groups of Frenchmen resorted to out-shooting their enemies, pouring fire at the rooftops until the defending British were all dead or wounded. Houses fell, the screams rising above the thunder of musketry as the redcoats inside were slaughtered. Many houses still stood, but now there were not enough redcoats to stop the French from entering the streets. Grenades dropped and muskets banged, but the French lunged into windows with bayonets or fired up at and into them and soon the grenadiers ran out of grenades and the French broke into the houses, shooting through locks and battering through the barricades.
The momentum of the French attack carried most of them into the town square where Brigadier General Sharpe waited with his reserves. A full battalion's worth of men stood in four ranks bristling with bayonets, hundreds more in the tall houses along the town where they now aimed their muskets at the onrushing enemy. The Majors commanding the position waited until the French came close enough, then shouted the order.
"Fire!"
Smoke blotted the redcoats from sight. The first volley crashed out to pile a barrier of bodies on the cobbles of the square, then the rear ranks fired to add to the sprawl as the leading Frenchmen were battered down by the continuous volleys of musketry. More smoke drifted slowly down from the houses as the redcoats blasted their muskets at the closely-packed enemy.
The French fired back. Colonel Kinney roared an order and died as a bullet pierced his jacket and lanced into his heart. Colonel Chalmers was grazed in the arm as he swung his sword down. A second bullet glanced off one of his ribs, then a third struck him in the chest. His mouth opened in shock as he fell backwards, but by sheer luck the bullet had been absorbed by a medal he wore and he was dragged out of the ranks as his mouth opened and closed, surprised and stunned but relatively unhurt. Men were struck as they reloaded their muskets, folding over silently or screaming horribly as they fell. Corporals dragged the dead bodies out of the lines, tugging the men together to fill the gap. Above the cacophony of musket fire the sergeants were shouting the litany of battle. "Close up! Close up!"
The French assault stalled in the town square, a torrent of musket fire pouring down on them from all three sides. The pattern of the previous day repeated itself as the French fell back from the relentless volley fire. The British let out a massive cheer as they went forward with bayonets, driving the enemy out of the town, but then there was a great roar and Sharpe trained his telescope on the outskirts of the town to see a whole new column of French infantry flooding into the streets. The men in the front ranks of the column wore moustaches and plumed bearskins; the massed grenadiers of the entire division, the biggest and strongest fighters in the French General's force, and now they were hurled at the British defences like a human cannon ball.
The redcoats, fighting their way through the streets and maddened with battle lust, were caught unawares by the grenadiers' counterattack. Suddenly the streets were filled with huge men wearing bearskins and epaulettes, blasting at the redcoats with muskets or stabbing with bayonets. The retreating French from the first attack were swept up in the charge and screamed wildly as they joined the assault and forced the British back through the streets they had been driven from only moments ago. The redcoats, tired and confused by the sudden turn of events, retreated from the vengeful French and their blood-reddened bayonets.
Once again the French charge washed into the town square, but this time no volleys greeted them because the defenders had all been caught up in the fight. The redcoats in the houses opened fire as the enemy came howling back into their line of fire, but the attack was now too massive to be stopped by their fire alone.
Sharpe watched aghast as his men went back from the French onslaught. The riflemen around him were loading and firing, cursing as the powder smoke obscured their aim. The French seemed to be winning everywhere. A wounded lieutenant had arrived moments ago with a report that the French had widened their attack and were overunning the houses in the east and west of the town. All around him, the crackle of musketry and thick banks of powder smoke grew closer to the town square, evidence that his defences along the outskirts were collapsing. The half-companies in the eastern and western streets seemed to be holding for the moment, but the north had been smashed wide open and Sharpe knew it could not be long before the victorious Frenchmen streamed into the alleys and streets to attack those redcoats from the rear. His thoughts became desperate and fear rushed into him. He had to stop the French somehow, but with what? The men in the houses were doing all they could, blinding themselves with powder smoke as they poured their relentless fire at the square, and still the French came on. The outer defences had either fallen or were fighting for their lives. The reserves were fleeing from a force four times their number.
Then there was sudden crash of muskets and Sharpe twisted around to see a rush of redcoats charging from the southern streets. They halted at the edge of the town square where they formed four ragged ranks to receive the French charge. Sharpe glimpsed Gough running in behind the line and realised that he must have ordered his men out of the southern houses to rescue the beleaguered reserves before the French momentum overwhelmed the town.
"Fire!" Gough bellowed.
The musket flames jetted into the air as the volley struck the French charge. A second volley whipped out over the blood-slickened stones to hurl more grenadiers back, but still the enemy came forward. Frenchmen tripped on fallen comrades, screaming as they were hit, but the sheer weight of the assault was forcing them onwards and into the blistering hail of musketry. More redcoats formed ranks behind the kneeling men as officers organised the survivors of Sharpe's reserves.. Above them, the redcoats in the houses kept up their relentless fusillade, adding to the sprawl of bodies that cooled on the cobbled stones.
And there, for a while, the attack stalled. The French had filled half the town with dead and wounded, then captured it, but once again were forced to a halt at the very heart of the town. Gradually, the message was relayed down the mass of Frenchmen and they began to edge away from the devastating musketry, taking shelter in the captured part of the town just beyond the town square they had come so close to capturing. They were just a stone's throw away from the lines of redcoats that waited with grim faces and loaded muskets, and once those men were thrown back they would be driven out of the town like rats before the slaughter, then the cavalry brigade would be released to slash and spear this enemy that had caused them such grevious loss into bloody ruin.
The day just needed one more push, one last charge, and Sharpe's force would be finished.