Sharpe nodded. Wellesley would not be waiting behind the Portina stream if he thought the next day could bring defeat. Of all the British Generals he was the only one trusted by the men who carried the guns; they knew he understood how to fight the French and, most important, when not to fight them. Hogan pointed.
“What’s that?”
Three-quarters of a mile away French horsemen were firing their carbines. Sharpe could see no target. He watched the puffs of smoke and listened to the faint crackle.
“Dragoons.”
“I know that!” Hogan said. “But what are they firing at?”
“Snakes?” During his walks up the Portina Sharpe had noticed small black snakes that wriggled mysteriously in the dank grass by the stream. He had avoided them but he supposed it was possible they lived out on the plain as well, and the horsemen were merely amusing themselves with target practice. It was evening and the flames from the carbine muzzles sparkled brightly in the dusk. It was strange, Sharpe thought, how often war could look pretty.
“Hello.” Harper pointed down. “They’ve woken up our brave allies. Looks like a bloody ants’ nest.”
Below the wall the Spanish infantry had become excited. Men left the fires and lined themselves behind the earth and stone walls and laid muskets over the felled and piled trunks Hogan had placed in the gateways. Officers stood on the wall, their swords drawn, there was shouting and jostling, men pointing at the distant Dragoons and their twinkling muskets.
Hogan laughed. “It’s so good to have allies.”
The Dragoons, too far away to be seen clearly, went on firing at their unseen targets. Sharpe guessed it was just horseplay. The French were oblivious of the panic they were causing in the Spanish ranks. Every Spanish infantry-man had crowded to the breastworks, their backsides illuminated by the fires, and their muskets bristled towards the empty field. The officers barked out commands and to Sharpe’s horror he watched as the hundreds of muskets were loaded.
“What the hell are they doing?” He listened to the rattle of ramrods being thrust down barrels, watched as officers raised their swords. “Watch this,” Hogan said. “You might learn a thing or two.”
No order was given. Instead a single musket fired, its ball thrumming uselessly into the grass, and it was fol-lowed by the biggest volley Sharpe had ever heard. Thousands of muskets fired, gouted flame and smoke, a rolling thunder assailed them, the sound seemed to last for ever and mingled with it came the yells of the Spaniards. The fire and lead poured into the empty field. The Dragoons looked up, startled, but no musket ball would carry even a third of the distance towards them so they sat their horses and watched the fringe of musket smoke drift into the air.
For a second Sharpe thought the Spanish were cheering their own victory over the innocent grass but suddenly he realised the shouts were not of triumph, but of alarm. They had been scared witless by their own volley, by the thunder of ten thousand muskets, and now they ran for safety. Thousands streamed into the olive trees, throwing away muskets, trampling the fires in their panic, screaming for help, heads up, arms pumping, running from their own noise. Sharpe shouted down to his men on the gate.
“Let them through!”
There was no point in trying to stop the panic. Sharpe’s dozen men would have been swamped by the hundreds of Spanish who crowded into the gate and streamed into the town. Others circled north towards the roads that led eastwards, away from the French. They would loot the baggage parks, raid the houses in town, spread alarm and confusion but there was nothing to be done. Sharpe watched Spanish cavalry use their swords on the fugitive infantry. They would stop some of them, perhaps by morning they might collect most of them, but the bulk of the Spanish infantry had evaporated, scared, defeated by a handful of Dragoons three-quarters of a mile away. Sharpe began laughing. It was too funny, too idiotic, somehow exactly fitting for this campaign. He saw the Spanish cavalry slash furiously at the infantry, forcing groups of them back to the line, and far away he heard the bugles call more Spanish horse into the hunt. On the plain the French fires formed lines of light, thousands and thousands of flames marking the enemy lines, and not one of the men round those fires would know they had just routed several thousand Spanish infantry. Sharpe col-lapsed on the wall and looked at Harper.