Here there was proper fighting. The colours of the South Essex were still flying, though the men surrounding them had lost all semblance of a proper formation. They had been forced into a crude ring, pressed back by horsemen, and they fought off the sabres and hooves with sword and bayonet. It was a desperate fight. The French had thrown most of their men against the small band; they may have stood no chance of capturing the bridge, but inside the terrified ring was a greater prize. The colours. For the French to ride off the field with captured colours was to ride into glory, to become heroes, to know that the tale would be told throughout Europe. The man who captured the colours could name his own reward, whether in money, women, or rank, and the Chasseurs tried to break the British resistance with a savage fury. The South Essex were fighting back, no less desperate, their efforts fired by the fanatical determination that their flags should not fall. To lose the colours was the ultimate disgrace.
It had taken Sharpe only a few seconds to comprehend the utter chaos in front of him; there were no choices to be made; he would go forward towards the colours, hoping the ring of survivors could hold out against the horsemen long enough for his company to bring their muskets and bayonets into range. He turned to the men. Harper had done his work well. Riflemen were scattered through the ranks to bolster the frayed nerves of the men from Sterritt’s company. The men in green jackets grinned at Sharpe. The men in red stood appalled and nervous. Sharpe noted that Harper had put a file of Riflemen at each end of the company, the vulnerable flanks which would be the weakest points of his force and where only steady nerves and rigid bayonets would deter the swooping horsemen. Two nervous Lieutenants had been pushed into the files, and like the other men of Sterritt’s company they flicked their eyes at the crowd near the bridge. They wanted to run, they wanted the safety of the other bank, but Sharpe could also see two steady Sergeants who had seen battle before and calmly waited for orders.
“We’re going forward. To the colours.” Some of the faces were white with fear. “There’s nothing to be frightened about. As long as you stay in ranks. Understand? You must stay in ranks.” He spoke simply and forcibly. Some of the men still looked towards the fugitives and the bridge. “If anyone breaks ranks they will be shot.” Now they looked at him. Harper grinned. “And no-one fires without my orders. No-one.” They understood. He unslung his rifle, threw it to Pendleton and drew his great killing blade. “Forward!”
He walked a few paces in front listening to Harper call out the dressing and rhythm of the advance. He hurried. There was little time, and he guessed that the first two hundred yards would be easy enough. They advanced over the flat, open ground, unencumbered by horsemen. The difficult stretch was the final hundred paces when the company would have to keep in ranks while they stepped over the dead and wounded and when the French would realise the danger and challenge them. He wondered how much time had elapsed since the fatal Spanish volley; it could only be minutes, yet suddenly he was feeling again the sensations of battle. There was a familiar detachment; he knew it would last until the first volley or blow, and he noticed irrelevant details; it seemed as if the ground were moving beneath him rather than he walking on the dusty, cracked soil of early summer. He saw each sparse blade of pale grass; there were ants scurrying round white specks in the dirt. The fight round the colours seemed far away, the sounds tiny, and he wanted to close the gap. There were the beginnings of excitement, elation even, at the nearness of battle. Some men were fulfilled by music, others by trade; there were men who took pleasure in working the soil, but Sharpe’s instincts were for this. For the danger of battle. He had been a soldier half his life, he knew the discomforts, the injustices, he knew the half-pitying glanc-es of men whose business let them sleep safe at night, but they did not know this. He knew that not all soldiers felt it; he could feel ashamed of it if he gave himself time to think, but this was not the time.