Ballesteros’s Spanish army was intact, Ducos thought, because Soult had not destroyed it. He had merely defeated it, and so driven it back to the protection of the great guns of the British garrison at Gibraltar. Defeat was not enough. The enemy had to be annihilated! There was a lack of audacity among the French commanders in Spain, Ducos had decided. They feared losing battles, and so did not take the risks which might let them win great victories.
“Ballesteros does not count,” Ducos said, “he is a pawn. The guerilleros do not count. They are bandits. Only Wellington’s army counts.”
“And part of his army is on my northern flank,” Soult pointed out. “I have General Hill to my north, Ballesteros to my south, and you want me to send men to help Marmont?”
“No,” Ducos said, “the Emperor wants you to send men to defeat Wellington.”
Soult looked at the map. The mention of Napoleon had stilled his protests, and in truth the idea that Major Ducos had suggested was not unappealing.
It was daring, very daring. By itself it might not destroy Wellington, but it would unbalance him and bring him hurrying back to the Portuguese border. Such a retreat would save Madrid, it would give Marmont time to reform his army and it would damage Wellington’s reputation.
Take a few thousand men, Ducos had suggested, and march them eastwards until they could cross the headwaters of the Guadiana. There they must strike north, through Madridejos to Toledo, where the bridge over the Tagus was still in French hands. The British would find nothing odd in such a manouevre, indeed they would assume that Soult was merely retreating northwards like the rest of the French armies. But from Toledo, Ducos urged, the force should strike north west towards the roads on which Wellington’s supply convoys travelled. To reach those vulnerable roads they must cross the Sierra de Gredos, then bridge the deep, fast-flowing River Tormes. That was the problem, crossing the river, but Ducos had identified a little-used bridge guarded by a mediaeval fortress called San Miguel. At best, Ducos told Soult, San Miguel would be garrisoned by a company of Spaniards, maybe two, and once across the bridge the French would be in the flat country across which the British supply line ran from Portugal. “The British believe they are safe,” Ducos urged Soult. “They believe there is not a Frenchman within a hundred miles of those roads!
They are sleeping.”
And if Soult’s picked force could come down from the Sierra de Gredos like a pack of wolves then for a week, no more, they could destroy, capture and kill, before they would need to march away. A ring of retreating British troops would otherwise tighten about them, but that week could save the French in Spain. And it would also make the Emperor very grateful to Nicolas Jean-de Dieu Soult, Duke of Dalmatia.
So Soult agreed.
And picked six thousand men, of whom a third were cavalry, and put them under the command of his best cavalry general, Jean Herault.
Who now led his men north through Toledo, with Ducos by his side, a sleeping enemy ahead and glory in his grasp.
Major Tubbs insisted that one small room of the fortress, which only had four usable rooms on its three floors, be described as an officer’s mess, and there Sharpe, Teresa, Major Tubbs, Lieutenant Price and Ensign Hickey ate. Sharpe, perhaps wanting to unsettle Lucius Tubbs, had insisted on inviting the major’s foreman, Mister MacKeon, and so the Scotsman, who was a tall, frowning man with huge hands, sat awkwardly at the table which was far too small for six people.
Ensign Hickey could not take his eyes from Teresa. He did try once or twice, and even ventured a conversation with MacKeon, but MacKeon just scowled at him and Hickey’s watery eyes inevitably strayed back to Teresa who was illuminated by the large candles that the village priest had carried up from the church. The flamelight cast intriguing shadows on Teresa’s face and Hickey stared at her mournfully.
“You’ve never seen a woman before, Mister Hickey?” Sharpe asked.
“Yes, sir. Yes, I have. Yes.” Hickey nodded vigorously. He was sixteen, new to the battalion and in awe of Captain Sharpe. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, reddening.