Jourdan ignored him. He was staring north, watching the most easterly enemy column that was not coming towards him. It was striking for the Great Road, trying to cut him off from France. He shouted for an aide. `What’s the village on the river bend there?’
`Gamarra Mayor, sir.’
`Tell them to hold it! Tell them to hold it!’
`Sir!’
King Joseph, his breeches flap held in his hands, watched in horror as the aide spurred his horse into a gallop. `Hold what?’
`Your kingdom, sir. There!’ Jourdan’s voice was savage. He was pointing at the river bend and the small village of Gamarra Mayor. `You!’ He pointed to another aide. Tell General Reille I want his men in Gamarra Mayor. Go!’
If the river was crossed, and the road taken, then a battle, a kingdom and an army were lost. `Tell them to hold it!’ he shouted after the officer, then turned back to the west. A gun sounded, no great thing on this day, except this was a British gun and it had been brought to face the French, and the roundshot landed on the slope of the Arinez Hill, bounced, and came to rest a few yards from Jourdan’s horse. It was the first enemy shot to reach the Arinez Hill and it spoke of things to come.
Marshal Jourdan, whose day of triumph was turning sour, tossed his Marshal’s baton into his carriage. It was a red velvet staff, tipped with gold and decorated with gold eagles. It was a bauble fit for a triumph, but now, he knew, he had to fight against disaster. He had sent his reserves to his left, and now his right was threatened. He shouted for news and wondered what happened beyond the bank of smoke which hid this battle for a kingdom.
Richard Sharpe, though he did not know it, galloped within two hundred yards of Wellington. He went north, following the river, shouting at the villagers who watched the battle from the track to clear a path. Across the water he could see the smoke pumping from the French gun line. The canister twitched and tore at the trampled crops.
He slowed at the river bend, forced to negotiate a village street crowded with Battalions who waited to cross the bridges. He shouted at one mounted officer, asking where the Fifth was, and the man waved Sharpe on. `The left!’
A Rifle officer, lighting a cigar from the pipe of one of his men, saw Sharpe and his mouth dropped open. The cigar fell to the ground. Sharpe smiled. `Morning, Harry. Good luck!’ He put his heels back, leaving the man stupefied by the sight of a disgraced, hanged, and buried man come back from the dead. Sharpe laughed, cleared the village, and put Carbine into a canter that took them due east along the Zadorra’s northern bank.
Ahead of him the Third and Seventh Divisions were launched at the river. They attacked at the double, skirmishers in front, the huge formations splitting apart to stream over the unblown bridges and unguarded fords. Angel was awed by the sight. More than ten thousand infantry were moving, a red tide that assaulted the southern French positions.
A Major galloped towards Sharpe. Behind him a Brigade of infantry were standing, their General impatient at their head. `Are you staff?’
`No!’ Sharpe reined in.
`God damn it!’ The Major’s sword was drawn. `The Peer’s forgotten us! God damn it!’
`Just go!’
`Go?’
`Why not?’ Sharpe grinned at the man. `Where’s the Fifth?’
`Keep going!’ The Major had turned his horse and now waved his sword towards the river in a signal to his General. The Brigade picked up its muskets.
`Come on, Angel!’ Sharpe feared the battle would be over before he could join it.
To Sharpe’s right, as he circled the rear of the now advancing brigade, the British attack reformed on the Zadorra’s southern bank. Ahead of the attack, spread out in the untrodden wheat that was thick with flowers, the Rifles, men of the 95th, went ahead in the skirmish line. They could see the French guns on the Arinez Hill and they knelt, fired, reloaded and advanced.
The bullets, flickering out of the smoke cloud and clanging on the black-muzzled barrels of the French guns, were the first warning the battery had of their danger. `Spikes!’