Sharpe’s Revenge: The Peace of 1814. Bernard Cornwell

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      The battle, as if by mutual consent, stopped to draw breath.

      Beresford used the lull to divide his attack. His left hand division would now slant away to threaten the land between the ridge and the city, while the right division, in which Nairn’s Brigade marched, would advance northwards along the ridge’s summit. Horse artillery was being dragged up the slope to thicken Beresford’s attack. The morning passed. Many of the waiting men fell asleep with their heads pillowed on their packs and their faces shaded by mildewed shakoes. Some ate, and a few just stared emptily at the sky. Some men gazed along the ridge towards the fearful French defences. Every few minutes a random French cannonball bounded through the somnolent lines, provoking an irritated scramble from its bouncing path. Sometimes a howitzer shell banged a sharp explosion on the turf, but the fire was sporadic and allowed most of the waiting men to ignore the enemy. Sharpe watched one fusilier patiently hammer the soft lead of a musketball into a perfect cube, then prick its faces with a touch-hole spike to make a dice. No one would gamble with the man who, disgusted, hurled the lead cube away.

      In the early afternoon the battalions which had broken the twin French columns were moved to the rear of Beresford’s new formations. Nairn’s brigade now formed the right flank of the first line. He had his two English battalions forward, and his Highlanders in reserve. The horse gunners stacked their ready ammunition alongside the advanced positions, while the skirmishers deployed as a protective screen even further forward.

      Sharpe strolled forward to join Frederickson who offered a piece of French garlic sausage. ‘I suppose,’ Frederickson was staring at the ridge’s plateau, ‘that this would be a good moment to resign from the army?’

      Sharpe smiled at the grim joke, then drew out his telescope which he trained on the nearest French fortification. He said nothing, and his silence was ominous.

      ‘The bloody French must know the war’s lost,’ Frederickson said irritably, ‘so why prolong the killing?’

      ‘Pride,’ Sharpe said curtly, though why, for that matter, were his own countrymen insisting on taking Toulouse if it was really believed that the Emperor was doomed? Perhaps peace was a chimera. Perhaps it was just a rumour that would fade like the stench of blood and powder-smoke from this battlefield.

      And, as Sharpe well knew, there would be much blood and smoke on this high ridge. The French were waiting, prepared, and Beresford’s infantry must now advance through a series of strong fortifications that ran across the ridge’s spine. There were gun batteries and entrenchments, all bolstered by earthen redoubts which, topped by palisades, stood like small fortresses athwart the line of attack. One redoubt, larger than the rest, dominated the ridge’s centre and, like its smaller brethren, was faced with a ditch above which its wooden palisade was embrasured for artillery. It was no wonder that Beresford’s climb up the southern slope had not been opposed by French gunfire, for all the enemy cannons were now dug safe into the small forts.

      Frederickson borrowed Sharpe’s glass and stared for a long time at the awesome defences. ‘Easter’s meant to be a day for miracles, is it not?’

      Sharpe smiled dutifully, then turned to greet Sergeant Harper. ‘We’ll be earning our crust today, Sergeant.’

      ‘Aye, sir, we will.’ Harper accepted Frederickson’s offer of the telescope and made a quick scrutiny of the great redoubt in the ridge’s centre. ‘Why don’t we just beat the bastards to jelly with gunfire?’

      ‘Can’t get the big guns up here,’ Frederickson answered cheerfully. ‘We’ve only got galloper guns today.’

      ‘Peashooters.’ СКАЧАТЬ