Bernard Cornwell – 1812 10 Sharpe’s Enemy

‘So?’

Dubreton shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking beneath him. ‘Well. We know La Aguja is here, and I think it’s unlikely she would travel alone. I think they were Partisans, given army greatcoats by the English.’ He shrugged. ‘They give them everything else.’

The General looked to his other side. ‘Ducos?’

‘It makes sense.’ The voice was grudging.

‘So we add fifty Partisans to the garrison. Now tell me how many British troops there are, and where?’

The Captain did not like the responsibility. His voice was unhappy. ‘Sixty Rifles and a hundred redcoats on the hill, sir. Thirty and three hundred in the Castle, and thirty and one hundred in the Convent?’

The General grunted. ‘Dubreton?’

‘I’d agree, sir. Perhaps a few less in the Convent.’

‘Guns?’

Dubreton answered. ‘Our prisoners are certain of that, sir. One in the Convent which can’t bear. One over the broken wall which isn’t a danger till we reach the courtyard, and two on the hill.’

‘And they brought gunners with them?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The General sat silent. Time, time, time. He wanted to be at the river this afternoon, across by evening, and at Vila Nova by nightfall tomorrow. That was optimistic, he knew, and he had allowed himself one more day to achieve his object, but if this damned Sharpe held him up all day today, then the operation would be jeopardized. He played with an idea. ‘What if we ignore them? Ring that damned Castle with Voltigeurs and march straight past them? Eh?’

It was a tempting thought. If the three Battalions that were to garrison the Gateway of God remained to continue the siege, then the rest of the force could go on into Portugal, but all of the officers knew what might happen. If the Castle was not taken by the three Battalions, then the General’s retreat was blocked. There was another reason too. Dubreton voiced it. ‘The pass is too narrow, sir. Those damned Rifles will kill every horse that goes through.’ He imagined the light guns that were to go with the General smashed on the lip of the pass, their horses shot, the weight of barrel and carriage running the wheels over wounded animals, turning over, blocking the road beneath the pitiless aim of the Greenjackets.

The General looked left, at the high tower. ‘How long to take that?’

‘How many Battalions, sir?’ Dubreton asked.

‘Two.’

Dubreton looked at the thorns, at the steepness of the hill, and he imagined the soldiers climbing into the Rifle fire. ‘Two hours, sir.’

‘As little as that?’

‘We’ll offer them medals.’

The General gave a humourless laugh. ‘So we could have the tower by one o’clock. Another hour to put guns there.’ He shrugged. ‘We might as well put our guns here! They can pound those bastards into mincemeat.’

Ducos’ voice was a sneer. ‘Why take the tower at all? Why not just take the Castle?’ No one answered him, so he went on. ‘We lose time with every minute! Colonel Dubreton has already given them till eleven o’clock! How many men would you lose attacking the tower, Colonel?’

‘Fifty.’

‘And still the Castle will have to be taken. So lose the men there instead.’ The Castle was a mere blur to Ducos, but he waved at it dismissively. ‘The attack en massel Give medals to the first five ranks and go!’

En masse. It was the French way, the method that had brought victory to the armies of the Empire throughout Europe, the way of the Emperor, the irresistible mass. Throw the mass like a human missile at the Castle’s defenders, overwhelm them with targets, terrify them with the massed drummers in the columns’ centre, and push over the dead to victory. The Castle could be theirs by mid-day, and the General knew that the Convent was not the same threat, that it was less heavily garrisoned and more vulnerable to the twelve pounder shots that would crumble its walls about the British. Take the Castle, unseat the gun in the Convent, and then his troops could be marching into the pass by two o’clock, the garrison on the watchtower forgotten, ignored, treated with the contempt that it deserved. En masse.