The thumb was the attack on the heights.
The index finger was the troops who had advanced beneath the heights into the guns’ thunder, the troops who had been stopped by the French artillery, the troops who suffered minute by horrid minute.
The thumb and index finger were supposed to do no more than pin the enemy’s attention, to draw his reserves across to the south and west, and, when that was done, the remaining three fingers would curl in from the north.
But where were they? The men on the plain were dying because the left hand columns were late and Wellington, who hated to see men die unnecessarily, would not even allow himself to be consoled by the fact that the longer he waited, the more his enemy would be convinced that the main attack was coming from the west.
He rode a small way up the slope and stared northwards. The land seemed empty. He clicked his fingers. An aide spurred forward.
The General turned. ‘Hurry them!’
‘My Lord.’
There was no need to explain who should be hurried. There should be three columns coming from the northern hills, columns that would trample the crops over the river, carry the bridges, and fall on the French right. Wellington wondered why in God’s name the French had left the bridges intact. His cavalry scouts had reported no signs of powder ready to blow the arches sky high. It made no sense. The General had feared that his northern attacks would have to wade the fords, their bodies drifting downstream in bloodied water, but the French had left the bridges open.
Yet the three columns which, like fingers, would squeeze the life from the French army, had not appeared and their lateness meant that the French gans were taking a heavy toll on the plain. The fingers of Wellington’s right hand drummed on the pommel of his saddle. He waited, while beneath him the guns shivered the warm morning.
‘Dear Captain Saumier?’
‘Ma’am?’ He sounded tired. Eight times La Marquesa had sent him limping down the crowded tiers, either for more wine or more pastries.
‘In my coach there is a parasol. Would you be very gallant and fetch it for me?’
‘Entirely my pleasure, ma’am.’
‘The white parasol, not the black.’
‘There’s nothing else I can fetch you at the same time?’ her escort asked hopefully.
‘Not that I can think of.’
He edged down the crowded bench, his ugly face reddening because he knew that the other women had observed him running errands like a small boy for La Marquesa.
She stared at the battlefield, seeing only the great cloud of cannon smoke. For some reason she found herself thinking about Sharpe, wondering whether he would have been as malleable as this Captain Saumier. Somehow she doubted it. Richard had always been ready to frown and growl his displeasure. He had been, she thought, a man of immense pride, a pride made fragile because it had come from the gutter.
She had felt regret when she had heard he was dead. She was glad then that she had lied to him, had told him that she loved him. Richard, she thought, had wanted her to say that and he had been eager to believe it. She wondered why soldiers, who knew death and horror better than anyone, were so often soggily romantic. Send them to their deaths happy was what the women of this army said; and why not? She tried to imagine being in bed with Captain Saumier, and the thought made her shudder. She cooled herself with her fan. The sun was tryingly hot.
A cavalry officer reined in at the wall’s foot. There had been a succession of such officers all morning who had come to show off to the ladies and shout up news from the fighting that was still hidden by the great bank of smoke. The cavalry officer swept off his hat. All was well, he said. The British were beaten. Soon Jourdan would order the line forward.
La Marquesa smiled. Victory today would mean Ducos’ defeat. A beat of pure malicious pleasure went through her at the thought of that defeat.
She looked away from the smoke. She looked at the empty northern fields, bright with poppies and’cornflowers, a scene of innocence on this day of guns and smoke. Far off there, at the foot of the northern hills and too far away to play any part in today’s battle, was a small, story-book castle. She pulled her ivory spyglass open and stared at the tiny old fortress.
And instead she saw troops. Troops trampling the crops flat. Troops spilling from the gum’es of the hills, troops swarming southwards towards the right of the French line.
She stared. The troops wore red. She knew what she saw; it was the despised Wellington proving to the French yet again that he could not attack. Beneath her the cavalry officer caught a thrown handkerchief, wheeled his horse, and galloped back to the battle.
‘Sir!’
‘Sir!’
Marshal Jourdan, who a moment before had been thinking that the battle would be won by two o’clock, and had been thinking regretfully that his pursuit would mean he could not attend the victory dinner that night, stared to his right.
He could not believe what he saw.
The columns were coming towards him, towards the unguarded flank, and the British Colours were bright over their heads. He had already taken his reserves from the right to re-assault the Puebla Heights, now Wellington had unleashed the weight of his real attack. For one brief, horrid second, Jourdan admired Wellington for waiting this long, for letting his men suffer under the guns long enough to convince the French that the frontal attack was the real attack, then the Marshal began shouting.
The right flanks of the French lines were to turn outwards. There would not be time to stop the British crossing the river, so Jourdan knew he must fight them on the near bank with his guns.
King Joseph, who had retired into his carriage to use his silver chamber pot, came hurrying back into the sunshine. ‘What’s happening?’
Jourdan ignored him. He was staring north, watching the most easterly enemy column that was not coming towards him. It was striking for the Great Road, trying to cut him off from France. He shouted for an aide. ‘What’s the village on the river bend there?’
‘Gamarra Mayor, sir.’
‘Tell them to hold it! Tell them to hold it!’
‘Sir!’
King Joseph, his breeches flap held in his hands, watched in horror as the aide spurred his horse into a gallop. ‘Hold what?’
‘Your kingdom, sir. There!’ Jourdan’s voice was savage. He was pointing at the river bend and the small village of Gamarra Mayor. ‘You!’ He pointed to another aide. Tell General Reille I want his men in Gamarra Mayor. Go!’
If the river was crossed, and the road taken, then a battle, a kingdom and an army were lost. ‘Tell them to hold it!’ he shouted after the officer, then turned back to the west. A gun sounded, no great thing on this day, except this was a British gun and it had been brought to face the French, and the roundshot landed on the slope of the Arinez Hill, bounced, and came to rest a few yards from Jourdan’s horse. It was the first enemy shot to reach the Arinez Hill and it spoke of things to come.
Marshal Jourdan, whose day of triumph was turning sour, tossed his Marshal’s baton into his carriage. It was a red velvet staff, tipped with gold and decorated with gold eagles. It was a bauble fit for a triumph, but now, he knew, he had to fight against disaster. He had sent his reserves to his left, and now his right was threatened. He shouted for news and wondered what happened beyond the bank of smoke which hid this battle for a kingdom.
Richard Sharpe, though he did not know it, galloped within two hundred yards of Wellington. He went north, following the river, shouting at the villagers who watched the battle from the track to clear a path. Across the water he could see the smoke pumping from the French gun line. The canister twitched and tore at the trampled crops.
