The Imperial Guard had been stopped. Now it must learn defeat.
Then Wellington glanced to his left, and saw his own defeat.
The last of the British light cavalry had been drawn up in line a hundred yards behind Halkett’s brigade. They had been posted there in case of disaster. Some would escort the colours of the defeated army to safety, while the rest would protect the retreat of the surviving British infantry with a last suicidal charge.
They believed that suicidal charge was imminent for they could see the battalions of Halkett’s brigade edging back towards them. Beyond those scared troops, and dark on the crest, a column of French infantry was appearing from the smoky darkness of the valley. Far off to the right the British Guards were standing firm and pouring musket-fire at another enemy column, but here, closer to the centre of the British line, the redcoats were giving ground and the Emperor’s men were pounding relentlessly forward.
“Stop them!” a cavalry colonel shouted. He pointed, not at the French, but at the British infantry.
Sabres rasped from scabbards and the horsemen spurred forward to threaten their own infantry.
The redcoats were shuffling backwards. The wounded begged their comrades not to leave them. Some officers and men tried to staunch the spreading panic, but the battalions were leaderless and they knew this battle was lost for their colours had been taken away, and they knew that in a moment the long French bayonets would sear forward. The men of the Prince of Wales’s Own
Volunteers looked to their rear, searching for orders, and all they saw was their own terrified and half-blind Colonel riding backwards. Beyond the Colonel was the cavalry. The redcoats looked left towards the open space on the ridge where flight was still possible. They were no longer soldiers; they were a mob on the teetering edge of panicked flight, and then, above the noise of the drums and above the sound of the cavalry’s hooves and above the crash of the British Guards’ volleys and above the French cheers for their Emperor, one huge voice stilled the battlefield.
“South Essex! Halt!” The voice filled the space between the blood-reeking mud and the smoke. “Sergeant Harper!”
“Sir!” Harper’s voice answered from the rear of the battalion.
“You will kill the next man who takes a step backwards, and that includes officers!”
“Very good, sir!” Harper’s voice held a convincing edge of anger as an implicit promise that he would indeed murder any man who took another backwards pace.
Sharpe stood in front of the battalion and with his back to the French column. His horse, which d’Alembord had been riding, was being held by a sergeant in the Grenadier Company. Sharpe suspected the man had been ready to mount and flee from the expected defeat, and now the Sergeant stared with fear and defiance at Sharpe. “Bring the horse here!” Sharpe called to the Sergeant, but not angrily, instead keeping his voice almost matter-of-fact as though there was not a damned great column of victorious French infantry storming across the ridge’s crest not a pistol’s shot behind him. “Bring the horse here! Quickly now!” Sharpe wanted to be on horseback so that every man in the battalion could see him. These soldiers had no colours any more, they had precious few officers any more, so they must be able to see who led them and see that he was not flinching from the drum-driven threat which pounded so close.
“Form ranks! Hurry now!” Sharpe dropped his rifle into the saddle holster, then pulled himself awkwardly into the saddle. He was secretly flinching because he expected a volley of French musketry to chop him and the horse brutally down, but he had to show calmness in front of the frightened battalion. They knew him, they trusted him, and Sharpe knew they would fight like the gutter-born bastards they were if they were just given a chance and given leadership. He thanked the Sergeant for bringing the horse, then, as he fiddled his left foot into the stirrup, he turned to stare at the four shaken ranks. “Make sure you’re loaded!” He turned the horse so he could see the enemy. Christ, but they were close! They were marching towards the open space to the right of the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, a space left by a panicking battalion that had evidently fled. Sharpe toyed with the idea of marching his own men into that gaping hole, but he knew he was too late. The French had almost pierced the British line, so now they must be attacked on their open right flank.