and Spain, for reasons cited in the novel, were awkward allies, and there were influential Spaniards who wished to end the alliance and seek a rapprochement with Napoleon. That they failed is very much because of Henry Wellesley’s calm wisdom and, of course, because of Sir Thomas Graham’s victory at Barrosa.
The admiral, like Brigadier Moon and Caterina, is a fictional character. The action described at the start of the book, the attack on the pontoon bridge, is also fictional, though it is based on a very similar (and rather more successful) assault made by General Hill on the bridge over the Tagus at Almarez in May 1812. The attack on the fire rafts did occur, though much earlier than is implied in the novel, and General Graham took no part in that attack, but it proved a useful opportunity for Sharpe and him to meet, so I took liberties.
There is very little to be seen at Barrosa these days. The Spanish have no cause to remember the battle, and the village has now spread to become a pleasant seaside resort at the expense of the places where so many British, Portuguese, and French soldiers died. Marshal Victor began the battle with around seven thousand men and lost over two thousand killed and wounded, including General Rousseau who died on the day of the battle and General Ruffin who died of his wounds on board the ship taking him to England. Graham began with just over five thousand British and Portuguese, and lost fourteen hundred killed and wounded. The 28th had only two officers left at the battle’s end. The First Foot Guards, the Coal Heavers, lost ten officers and 210 guardsmen. No unit suffered as much as John Browne’s Flanker Battalion, which suffered at least 50 percent casualties. Major Browne, who did indeed sing “Heart of Oak” as he led them up the hill, miraculously survived. The 87th lost five officers (poor Keogh among them) and 168 men. Every unit suffered heavily, and all fought magnificently.
I must thank Johnny Watt who, at a time when ill health prevented me from traveling, reconnoitered the old city of Cadiz for me. He did a superb job and it was his enthusiasm for the crypt that led to so much murder and mayhem in the cathedral. Sharpe, I confess, had no business being at Barrosa, and if I had not gone to Johnny’s brother’s wedding in the nearby town of Jerez de la Frontera, I doubt my interest in the battle would have been piqued. But we were there and I could not resist seeing yet another peninsular battlefield, and so Sharpe was doomed to follow. He is now back in Portugal where, in 1811, he belongs, and Sharpe and Harper will march again.
