Simmerson had watched the Regimienta form their square. He was obviously nonplussed. It must have oc-curred to him that he could not attack the French, so the French had to attack him. There was a pause in proceed-ings. The Spanish had formed their rough square on the right of the track; Simmerson gave his orders and with a marvellous precision the South Essex demonstrated, on the left, how a Battalion should form a square. Even at half a mile Sharpe could see the horsemen clapping ironically.
Now there were two squares, the Spanish nearer the French, and still the horsemen made no move. Time passed. The sun climbed higher in the sky, the grassland shivered in the haze, the French horses lowered their necks and cropped at the thin pasture. Captain Sterritt, guarding the bridge with his company, became plaintive.
“Why don’t they attack?”
“Would you?” Sharpe asked.
Sterritt looked puzzled. Sharpe could understand why. Simmerson was looking increasingly foolish, he had marched to war with drawn sword and unfurled banners and the enemy was refusing to fight. Now he was stranded, like a beached whale, in a defensive square. It was virtually impossible to make an ordered march while in a square formation; it was easy enough for the leading edge, they marched forwards, but the sides had to step sideways, and the rear edge walk backwards, all of them fighting off encircling horsemen. It was not impossible, Sharpe had done it, but when survival depends on doing the impossi-ble then men will find a way. Simmerson wanted to move but he did not want his neat, ordered square to be torn out of alignment as he advanced. He could have resumed the line formation but then he would look even more foolish for having formed a square at all. So he stayed where he was and the French looked on, filled with wonderment at the strange antics of the enemies.
“Someone’s got to do something!” Captain Sterritt frowned in bewilderment. War was not supposed to be like this! It was glory and victory, not this humiliation.
“Someone’s doing something!” Hogan nodded at the South Essex. A horseman had been released from the square and was galloping towards the bridge.
“It’s Lieutenant Gibbons.” Sterritt raised a hand to his Colonel’s nephew, who pulled his horse to a violent stop. His features were stern, filled with the seriousness of the moment. He looked down on Sharpe.
“You’re to report to the Colonel.”
“Why?”
Gibbons looked astonished. “The Colonel wants you. Now!”
Hogan coughed. “Lieutenant Sharpe is under my orders. Why does the Colonel want him?”
Gibbons flung an arm towards the immobile French. “We need a skirmish line, Sharpe, something to sting the French into action.”
Sharpe nodded. “How far ahead of the square am I supposed to take my men?” He spoke in sweet reasonable-ness.
Gibbons shrugged. “Near enough to move the cavalry. Hurry!”
“I’m not moving.”
Gibbons stared down at Sharpe. “I beg your pardon.”
“I will not kill my men. I go more than fifty yards from that square and the French will ride us down like hares. Don’t you know that skirmishers fall back from cavalry?”
“Are you coming, Sharpe?” Gibbons made it sound like an ultimatum.
“No.”
The Lieutenant turned to Hogan. “Sir? Will you order Lieutenant Sharpe to obey?”
“Listen, laddie.” Sharpe noticed that Hogan had broad-ened his Irish accent. “Tell your Colonel from me that the sooner he gets back over the bridge the sooner we can put a hole in it, and the sooner we get home. And, no, I will not instruct Lieutenant Sharpe to commit suicide. Good day, sir.”
Gibbons wrenched his horse round, tearing at its mouth with the bit, and clapped his spurs into its side, shouted something unintelligible at Sharpe or Hogan, and gal-loped back towards the impotent square in spurts of dust. Sterritt turned to them, appalled.
“You can’t refuse an order!”
Hogan’s patience snapped. Sharpe had never heard the little Irishman lose his temper but the events had exaspe-rated him. “Don’t you bloody understand? Do you know what a skirmish line is? It’s a line of men scattered in front of the enemy. They’ll be ridden down like scarecrows! Christ! What does he think he’s doing?”