“Do you see anything, sir?”
“Keep still, damn you!” He moved the glass back, concentrating on the spot where the white, dusty road merged with the sky. Then, with the suddenness of an actor coming through a stage trapdoor, the crest was lined with horsemen. Pendleton gasped, the image wavered, but Sharpe steadied it. Green uniforms, a single white cross-belt. He closed the glass and straightened up.
“Chasseurs.”
There was a murmur from the Regimienta; the men nudged each other and pointed up the hill. Sharpe mentally split the line in half, then in half again, and counted the distant silhouettes in groups of five. Lennox had ridden across.
“Two hundred, Sharpe?”
“That’s what I make it.”
Lennox fiddled with his sword hilt. “They won’t bother us.” He sounded resentful.
A second line of horsemen appeared. Sharpe opened the tube again and rested it on Pendleton’s shoulder. The French were making a dramatic appearance: two lines of cavalry, two hundred men in each, walking slowly towards the bridge. Through the lens Sharpe could see the carbines slung on their shoulders, and on each horse there was an obscene lump behind the stirrup where the rider had strapped a netful of forage for his mount. He straightened up again and told Pendleton he could jump down.
“Are they going to fight, sir?” Like Lennox the young boy was eager for a brush with the French. Sharpe shook his head.
“They won’t come near. They’re just having a look at us. They’ve nothing to gain by attacking.”
When Sharpe had been locked in the Tippoo’s dungeon with Lawford the Lieutenant had tried to teach him to play chess. It had been a hopeless task. They could never remember which chip of stone was supposed to represent which piece, and their jailers had thought the scratched grid on the floor was an attempt at magic. They had been beaten and the chessboard scratched out. But Sharpe remembered the word `stalemate’. That was the position now. The French could not harm the infantry and the infantry could not harm the French. Simmerson was bringing the rest of the Battalion across the bridge, threading them past an exasperated Hogan and his excavation, but it made no difference how many men the allies had. The cavalry were simply too quick; the foot-soldiers would never get anywhere near them. And if the cavalry chose to attack they would be annihilated by the dreadful close-range volleys, and any horse that survived the bullets would swerve away or pull up rather than gallop into the close-packed, steel-tipped ranks. There would be no fight today.
Simmerson thought otherwise. He waved his drawn sword cheerfully at Lennox. “We’ve got them, Lennox! We’ve got them!”
“Aye, sir.” Lennox sounded gloomy; he would have liked a fight. “Doesn’t the fool realise they won’t attack us? Does he think we’re going to lumber round this field like a cow chasing a fox? Damn it! We’ve done the job, Sharpe. We’ve mined the bridge, and it’ll take an hour to get this lot back over.”
“Lennox!” Simmerson was in his element. “Form your company on the left! Mr Sterritt’s company will guard the bridge and, if you please, I’ll borrow Mr Gibbons from you as my aide de camp’t`
“Your gain is my loss, sir.” Lennox grinned at Sharpe. “Aide de camp! He thinks he’s fighting the Battle of Blenheim! What will you do, Sharpe?”
Sharpe grinned back. “I’m not invited. I’ll watch your gallant efforts. Enjoy yourself!”
The cavalry had stopped half a mile away, lined across the road, their horses’ uncropped tails swishing at the summer flies. Sharpe wondered what they made of the scene in front of them: the Spanish advancing clumsily in four ranks, eight hundred men round their colours marching towards four hundred French horsemen while, at the bridge, another eight hundred infantry prepared to advance.
Simmerson assembled his company commanders and Sharpe listened as he gave his orders. The South Essex were to form line, in four ranks like the Spanish, and advance behind them. “We’ll wait and see, gentlemen, what the enemy does and deploy accordingly! Unfurl the colours!”
Lennox winked at Sharpe. It was farcical that two clumsy Regiments of foot thought they could attack four hundred horsemen who would dance out of the way and laugh at the efforts made against them. The French commander probably did not believe what was happening and, at the very least, it would provide him with an amusing story to tell when he rejoined Victor’s army. Sharpe wondered what Simmerson would do when it finally dawned on him that the French would not attack. Probably the Colonel would claim that he had scared the enemy away.