The French General tried to make victory certain by sending forward the rest of his reserves. He did not order them to attack the town square, instead he sent them to the left and right of the town to take the houses there. The English commander, he knew, could not defend everything at once. His northern defences had already fallen, and from the report of the frantic surge that had stopped his latest assault at the last minute he guessed that the British had taken troops from somewhere else, which meant that some other part of the defence had been weakened. It would only be a matter of time before his fresh troops discovered their weakness, then the British would be surrounded on all four sides and, as fast as they were with their muskets, they would surely fall to this overwhelming attack.
"Go," he waved to the Colonels of the reserve battalions. "Go!"
Let the English wait in the town square. Death was coming for them.
"Sir?"
For the millionth time that day the word reached Sharpe's ears. The tall Rifleman turned towards the voice, seeing one of his Ensign messengers standing a few paces away.
"What is it?"
"French troops, sir." The boy's nervousness showed he understood the seriousness of his message. "More French troops massing on the eastern and western sides. A thousand men each, sir, it looks like, maybe more."
Sharpe nodded wordlessly, then swore under his breath as he turned away. Several thousand Frenchmen already in the streets. Thousands more readying to attack. His face was grim as he did the math.
"They have a bloody corps," he muttered bitterly.
All around him his men were readying themselves for battle, loading weapons and filling their pouches with new cartridges. The dead and wounded left bloody smears as they were dragged or carried across the cobbles. There were many of them. He glanced up at the sky to gauge the time. The sun blazed directly above him. Only noon. Enough time for the French to regroup and kill the rest of his men, Sharpe thought. For a moment he toyed with the idea of surrender, then closed his eyes briefly. His orders were to hold the French as long as was needed.
The crackle of musketry rose again in the distance and he knew there was no stopping the French this time. There was nothing more he could do. Another half-hour of fighting, perhaps, then it would be over.
A last thought made him turn to his ensigns.
"Where are the colours?"
"Up there, sir." One of the ensigns pointed to the bell tower where the eight large flags hung from windows. Sharpe beckoned three of them over.
"Take the colours," he told them. "And get out of the town. Ride south and don't stop until you reach the rest of the army."
"The colours, sir?" They gaped.
"Do it!" Despair made Sharpe lash out. "Now!"
A fourth ensign stepped over. "Sir?"
Sharpe rounded on him. "What?" he said savagely.
"There's a brigade of French lancers, sir, north of the town. They pushed Captain Derritt's troop back."
Sharpe swore. "Then hide them! Take the colours, scatter them and hide them somewhere in this place! The French can't be allowed to get to them!"
He strode away before they could comprehend the full meaning of his orders. The realisation on their faces and stammering questions would only worsen his mood. He drew his sword a few inches, rammed it back into its scabbard.
"Damn it," he said quietly. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."
The French were breaking through his defences. Lancers had already cut the road to Lisbon. There was no way out.
The sounds of muskets came closer as redcoats fell back against the assault. Officers, sweating and hatless, came with news that the streets to the east and west were being overrun by Frenchmen.
Brigadier General Sharpe seemed to only half-hear the news. The tall rifleman nodded distantly, shaking his head when they asked for orders.
"Hold as best as you can," was the reply, and the officers, puzzled by the change in the General's normally alert demeanour, could only nod and wonder what he had up his sleeve.
A massive roar filled the air as the French surged once more into the town square. An explosion of musket fire hammered the air as every British gun opened fire. Smoke blotted the French from sight for a moment, then the wall of dark uniforms burst through the cloud and English voices were shouting, "Bayonets!"
Four ranks of redcoats straightened and levelled their blades. Both sides howled enough to fill the world and then the two sides met with a crash that numbed the sounds that came after. The momentum of the charge forced bodies onto the hedge of bayonets. Men folded over on both sides. The front ranks were crushed together by the press of men and could do little more than spit into each other's faces, then the rear ranks rammed bayonets up and over their comrades in the front and their snarls faded into choking agony as they fell. Pistols flared on both sides as officers joined the fight.
The redcoats were hard-pressed to hold the line. The sheer weight of the French forced them back, but they had been fighting all their lives and ripped into the enemy with a ferocity that the French conscripts could not match. They gave no ground except over the bodies of their dead, yet the French inexorably ground on until the British had been driven out of the town square and into the alleys and streets beyond. The whole square was filled with a seething mass of Frenchmen. The redcoats in the houses could hardly miss against such a horde, but there were under attack from two sides now as the French overwhelmed them from behind.
Brigadier General Sharpe went back with his men, shouting for them to take up positions in the southern houses. The surviving redcoats swarmed onto rooftops and windows, leaning out to pour a blistering hail of musket fire down onto the French.
"The houses!" A French officer saw the slaughter the redcoats were inflicting on his men and pointed with his sword up at the balconies and windows. Into the houses!"
Redcoats jerked back as the French turned their muskets on them. Some died. Others survived and returned fire, screaming hate as they rammed fresh bullets down their fouled barrels. Huddles of men held furniture against the doors as French axes thumped into the flimsy wood. The air was thick with choking smoke.
Sharpe himself went into a large three-storey building that was taller than most of the others. All around him were men of the South Essex, his former battalion. Bullets hummed and thumped all around him as he ran up the stairs. The French were pouring fire at every square inch of the buildings, trying to batter the redcoats into submission.
Sharpe emerged onto the rooftop, finding an Irish lieutenant there with fifty of his men. The Irishmen were firing down onto rooftops of other houses that were occupied with French.
Despair filled Sharpe as he gazed across the battered town. Everywhere he looked the French were winning, climbing onto rooftops, filling the streets. His new brigade had been reduced to a ragged mass of redcoats clinging to the southern end of the town. The victories of the day before seemed like a lifetime ago. They were fighting for their lives now.
"Sir! Sir! Look!" The Irish lieutenant grabbed his shoulder, pointed to the south.
A line of hussars had appeared in the distance, hussars who, under the dust of the road, were clad in yellow and blue. Sharpe, recognising the uniforms, gave a shout of pure joy.
"Germans!" an Irishman said in astonishment. The redcoats on the roof began to cheer.
Sharpe felt a great pressure lift from his chest. There would be no massacre, no bitter surrender to the French. The King's German Legion had come to deliver them. The reinforcements had arrived at last.
The French general saw the German horsemen and knew the day was lost. Most of his troops were still in the town and within a few hours he knew a corps of Allied infantry would appear on the horizon. There were no reinforcements for him and then it would only be a matter of time before he was forced to retreat. He turned his gaze to Barca de Alva and swore impotently at the smoke-wreathed town. The damned redcoats had spoiled the entire campaign. He had thought to swallow them up with his corps, but instead they had stuck in the French throat like a bone that could not be spat out. It would take an hour to extricate his men from the town, another hour to get them formed and over the bridge, and by then more British would be in sight and he would be forced to fight a rearguard action, taking even more casualties in the process. Marshal Massena would be furious at the losses and despair and anger swelled in the general as he realised this could spell the end of his career. Certainly there would be no more promotion after such a debacle. At best he would be sent back to France in disgrace, given the lowly task of overseeing the conscription or a militia garrison.
"Damned British!" he roared out loud. "Damn them to hell!"
"Sir?" one of his aides spurred a pace towards him.
"Call them back," the general said bitterly. "Call them all back. Go to Rabiot and Lassan and tell them to withdraw the men. It's over."
"Over, sir?" The aide gaped at him.
"Go!" the general roared. "Go!" He grabbed the aide by his epaulette, wrenched him towards the bridge. "Go, damn you!" He trembled with fury. He had been a soldier since he was a young man and knew no other life. He had no future apart from the army and that future was now gone. There would be no more command, no more for him. There would be nothing.
An officer approached cautiously, as if he feared the general was about to attack him. "We're retreating, mon general?"
"We're retreating," the general said bitterly. The anger evaporated, leaving a tired resignation.
"But why? Surely the town is ours now."
The general lifted his head and saw that the officer was a young man, a captain on his staff. He would probably rise high in the army and the general realised there was wisdom he could impart to the young captain. He turned to the town, pointed at the KGL cavalry.
"Those horsemen," he explained. "Are the vanguard of a British corps. If we do not withdraw now we will find ourselves trapped on the wrong end of the bridge with an army of redcoats."
The captain nodded slowly, understanding. "It's a pity. We almost broke them."
"We almost did." the general agreed. He turned his horse and spurred away, heading back to the camp to issue his orders.
It was over.
Sharpe and his brigade marched from Barca de Alava that same day, relieved by a strong corps of Portuguese that chased the French back over the bridge. The rolling thunder of battle could be heard for some time after and Sharpe, listening by the river as his men tried to melt ice into water, guessed that the French General had realised that the Portuguese could not bring artillery over the weakened bridge and were trying to capitalise on their advantage. The Portuguese evidently realised the same thing, for just before dusk they came marching back into the town, sporting bloody smears on their uniforms from the smashing impact of French cannonballs. They were the fortunate ones, Sharpe thought. They had survived.
Over eight hundred men of his brigade had not been as fortunate. The British graves seemed to stretch as far as Sharpe could see. Close to a thousand more had been wounded and Sharpe felt the bitter pain as much as any of the men. So much death, he thought, staring at the pale, frostbitten corpses, and all for what? Close to nothing had been gained from the brief campaign. The French had disappeared into Spain and would return in the spring with their ranks filled by new recruits.
"Sharpe." The tall rifleman turned to see Major Hogan rein in a few paces from him.
"Hogan." Sharpe's greeting was dull as a musket ball.
"I'm sorry." Hogan shrugged, guessing at Sharpe's mood. "It had to be done."
"Eight hundred dead." Sharpe's voice was raw with anguish.
"I know, Richard, I know."
Around them men cursed as they chipped at the ground with their shovels. The winter snow had frozen the earth solid and it would take hours to dig up even a sparse covering of dirt.
Colonel Leroy brought the two officers steaming tin mugs of tea. Sharpe drank deeply, grateful for the warmth. Hogan took a mouthful and spat it onto the ground.
"Blargh! What's in this?"
"Nothing, sir." Leroy sounded surprised.
"You damned English." Hogan was indignant. This tea's bloody horrible."
Sharpe laughed and took another drink. Steam curled around his eyes as he watched his men struggle, men who had fought for him, given their lives because he had asked. These were no ordinary men, Sharpe thought. They were Sharpe's Brigade.