Someone slapped his back; men shouted as though he had won a victory when all he had done was halve the victory of the French. The company was with them, standing with the dead, watching the Chasseurs trot away with their trophy. There was no hope of retrieving the King’s Colour; it was already three hundred yards away, surrounded by triumphant horsemen at the beginning of its long journey which would take it over the Pyrenees to be mocked by the Parisian mob before it joined the other colours, Italian, Prussian, Austrian, Russian and Spanish, that marked French victories round Europe. Sharpe watched it go and felt sickened and ashamed. The Spanish colours were there too, both of them, but they were not his concern. His own honour was tied up with the captured flag, his reputation as a soldier; it was a question of pride.
He touched Harper on the elbow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.” The Sergeant was panting, still holding the pike, which was bloodied for half its length. “Yourself?”
“I’m fine. Well done. And thank you.”
Harper shook the compliment off but grinned at his Lieutenant. “It was a rare one, sir. At least we got one back.”
Sharpe turned to look at the colour. It hung above the company, tattered and blood-stained, lost and regained.
An officer was below it and Sharpe recognised Leroy, morose, solitary Captain Leroy, whom Lennox had de-scribed as the only other decent soldier in the Battalion. His face was masked in blood, and Sharpe pushed through the ranks towards him.
“Sir?”
“Well done, Sharpe. This is a miserable shambles.” The Captain’s voice was strange, the accent unusual, and Sharpe remembered he came from America; one of the small band of loyalists who still fought for the Mother country. Sharpe indicated Leroy’s head.
“Are you hurt badly?”
“That’s just a scratch. I’ve been cut in the leg though.”
Sharpe looked down. Leroy’s thigh was smothered in blood. “What happened?”
“I was at the colours. Thank God you came, though Simmerson deserves to lose both. The bastard.”
Sharpe looked towards the bridge. Little could be seen of it because the field between was still full of French horsemen. There were puffs of smoke and the crackle of musketry, so someone had organised a scratch defence, but the Chasseurs were no longer fighting. Bugles called them from the slaughter, back up the road to where they formed ranks round their three trophies. They should feel proud of themselves, thought Sharpe; four hundred light cavalry had broken two Regiments, captured three col-ours, and all because of the stupidity and pride of Simmerson and the Spanish Colonel. He wondered where Simmerson was. He had not been in the group round the colours unless his dead body lay in one of the heaps. He turned to Leroy.
“Have you seen Simmerson?”
“God knows what happened to him. Forrest was there.”
“Dead?”
Leroy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Lennox?”
“I haven’t seen him. He was in the square.”
Sharpe looked round the field. It was an appalling sight. The spot where they stood, where the colours had been fought for, was ringed with bodies. There were wounded men, stirring and crying, horses that lay on their sides, coughed blood, and beat the soil in a frantic tattoo. Sharpe found a Sergeant.
“Get those horses shot, Sergeant.”
“Sir?” The man stared dumbly at Sharpe.
“Shoot them! Hurry!”
He could not stand the sight of the wounded animals. Men walked to them and pointed muskets at their heads, and Sharpe turned to count his Riflemen.
“They’re all safe, sir.” Harper had counted already.
“Thanks.” They had been in little danger as long as they stayed in ranks and kept the bayonets steady. He remem-bered thinking the same thing as the South Essex proudly marched up the field, banners waving, and now they were broken. He tried to estimate the butcher’s bill. There were no more than thirty or forty dead Frenchmen on the field, a high enough price from four hundred, but they had gained glory for their Regiment and had inflicted appalling losses on the British and Spanish. A hundred dead? He looked at the piles of dead, the broken trail of bodies leading to the bridge; it was impossible to guess the number. It would be high, and there would be far more wounded, men whose faces had been laid open by the horsemen, blinded men who would be led to Lisbon, shipped home, and abandoned to the cold charity of a society long inured to maimed beggars. He shivered.