were led away and the field guns pointed across the river. They would herald the attack, hurling their round shot at the French lines, tearing holes in the French Battalions as Sharpe led his skirmishers into the river. It was cold, too cold to feel any excitement; that would come later. Now were the hours to feel apprehensive, to tighten belts and buckles, to feel hungry. Sharpe shivered slightly in his greatcoat, nodded his thanks to Harper, and made his way down the grove between the lines of his men who stamped their feet and swung their arms and resurrected the more successful jokes of the previous evening. Somehow they were not as funny in the small hours before dawn.
He left the trees and walked onto the patch of grass that lay beside the river. His boots swished through the dew and warned the sentries of his coming. He was challenged, gave the password, and greeted as he jumped down onto the shingle at the water’s edge.
“Anything happening?”
“No, sir.”
The water slid blackly beneath the tendrils of mist. There was an occasional slap and swirl from the river as a fish twisted and disturbed the surface. Sharpe peered over his cupped hands and blew on his fingers; there was the faintest dot of red light on the far bank that suddenly glowed brighter. The French sentry was smoking a cigar or a pipe. Sharpe looked to his left. The eastern sky at last had a suspicion of colour, a flat silver grey that silhouetted the hills, the first sign of dawn. He clapped one of the sentries on the shoulder. “Not long now.”
He climbed the brief bank between the shingle and the grass and walked back to the trees. From the French lines he could hear a dog barking, the whinny of a horse, and then the sound of bugles. They would start lighting their fires, start cooking a breakfast, and hopefully they would be still eating it when the Spanish bayonets came at them from the west. He suddenly felt a longing for devilled kidneys and coffee, for any food other than the thin stew and the Tommies and the old ship’s biscuits that the Battalion had lived on for a week. He remembered the garlic sausage they had collected from the enemy dead at Rolica and hoped he would find some that morning on the bodies of the men who were grumbling round their fires just across the river.
Back in the grove he took off his greatcoat, rolled it tight, and strapped it to his pack. He shivered. He took the rag off the lock of his rifle that had protected it from the dew and tested the tension of the spring with his thumb. He slung it on his shoulder, slapped his sword, and started moving the Light Company down to the treeline. The skirmishers would go first, the thin line of Riflemen and redcoats wading the Alberche to drive off the sentries and lock up the French Voltigeurs so that they could not blunt the attack of the massed British Battalions which would follow on to the French flank. He made the men lie down a few feet inside the grove where they merged into the shadows of the trees, while behind he could see the other nine companies of the Battalion forming up for the assault that could not be far away.
Dawn crept over the mountains, flooding the valley with a silver-grey light, shrinking the pools of shadow and revealing the shapes of trees and bushes on the far bank. It would still be a few moments, Sharpe decided, before the Spanish would break the silence and start the attack. He walked along the treeline, nodded to the Captain of the Light Company of the 29th who was on his right flank, made the polite small talk, wishing each other luck, and then strolled back to stand beside Harper. They did not speak but Sharpe knew the big Irishman was thinking of the promise Lennox had extracted from them by the bridge. But for Sharpe the Eagle had more urgency. If he could not pluck it from its perch today there might not be another chance for months and that meant no chance at all. In a few weeks, unless he could blunt Simmerson’s letter, he might be on a ship for the West Indies and the inevitable fever that made the posting a virtual death warrant. He thought of Josefina, asleep in the town, her black hair spread on a pillow, and wondered why suddenly his life had been enmeshed in a series of problems that one month ago he had not even suspected existed.
Muskets banged erratically in the distance. The men cocked their ears, murmured to each other, listened to the sporadic firing that rattled up and down the French lines. Lieutenant Knowles came up to Sharpe and raised his eyebrows in a question. Sharpe shook his head. “They’re clearing their muskets, that’s all.” The French sentries had been changed and the men going off duty were getting rid of their charges that might have become damp in the night air. Musket fire would not herald the attack. Sharpe was waiting for the red flashes that would illumine the western sky like summer lightning and show that the Spanish artillery was opening the battle. It could not be far off.
There were shouts from the river. Again the men pricked their ears, strained forward, but again it was a false alarm. A group of the enemy appeared, chasing and shouting at each other in horseplay, carrying buckets to the water’s edge. One of them held up his bucket and shouted something to the British bank; his companions all laughed, but Sharpe had no idea what the joke was.
“Watering horses?” Knowles asked.
“No.” Sharpe stifled a yawn. “Artillery buckets. There must be guns to our front.” That was bad news. A dozen men were carrying buckets in which the sponges that damped out the sparks in discharged guns were dipped. The water in the pails would be black as ink after a few shots, and if the guns were directly ahead Sharpe knew that the South Essex might be marching into a storm of canister fragments. He felt tired, achingly tired; he wanted to begin the fight, he wanted the Eagle out of his dreams.
Simmerson and Forrest appeared, both on foot, and stared at the artillerymen filling their buckets. Sharpe said good morning and Simmerson, his antagonism blunted by nervousness, nodded back. “Those musket shots?”
“Just clearing their charges, sir. Nothing else.”
Simmerson grunted. He was doing his best to be civil, as if he realised at this moment that he needed Sharpe’s skill on his side. He pulled out a vast watch, opened the lid, and shook his head. “Spanish are late.”
The light began to lose its greyness. There was a sparkle on the far bank, and behind them Sharpe could see the smoke of the hundreds of French cooking fires. “Permission to relieve the picquets, sir?”
“Yes, Sharpe, yes.” Simmerson was making a huge effort to sound normal, and Sharpe wondered if suddenly the Colonel was regretting the letter he had written. Sometimes the imminence of battle made seemingly intractable quarrels seem like things of no importance. Simmerson looked as if he would say more, but instead he shook his head again and led Forrest further down the line.
The sentries were changed, the minutes passed, the sun climbed over the mist, and the last vestiges of night disappeared like fading cannon smoke in the western sky. Damn the Spanish, thought Sharpe, as he listened to the bugles calling the French Regiments to parade. A group of horsemen appeared on the far bank and inspected the British side through telescopes. There would be no surprise now. The French officers would be able to see the batteries of guns, the saddled cavalry horses, the rows of infantry lined in the trees. All surprise had gone, vanished with the shadows and the cold, for the first time the French would know how many men opposed them, where the attack was planned, and how they should meet it.
The sound of church bells came from the town and Sharpe wondered what Josefina was doing: had the bells wakened her? He imagined her body stretching between warm sheets, a body that would not be his till after battle. The sound of the bells reminded him of England and he thought of all the village churches that would be filling with people. Would they be thinking of their army in Spain? He doubted it. The British were not fond of their army. They celebrated its victories, of course, but there had been no such celebrations for a long time. The navy was feted, Nelson’s captains had been household names, but Trafalgar was a memory and Nelson was in his tomb, and the British went their way oblivious of the war. The morning became warm, the men somnolent; they leaned against the cork trees and slept with their muskets propped on their knees. From somewhere in the French camp was the harsh sound of a muleteer’s bell reminding Sharpe of normality.
“Sir!” A Sergeant was calling him from one of the companies higher in the grove. “Company officers, sir. To the Colonel!”
Sharpe waved his reply, picked up the rifle, left Knowles in charge and walked up the grove. He was late. The Captains stood in a bunch listening to a Lieutenant from Hill’s staff. Sharpe caught snatches of his words.
“Fast asleep… no battle… usual routine.”
There was a buzz of questions. The Lieutenant, glorious in the silvered Dragoon uniform, sounded bored. “The General requests that we keep posted, sir. But we’re not expecting the French to do anything.”
He rode away leaving the officers puzzled. Sharpe made his way towards Forrest to find out what he had missed, when he saw a familiar figure riding hard down the track. He walked into the road and held up a hand. It was Lieutenant Colonel Lawford and he was furious. He saw Sharpe, reined in, and swore.
“Bloody hell, Richard! Bloody, bloody, bloody hell! Bloody Spanish!”
