Sharpe's Eagle by Bernard Cornwell Page A

cutting left and right as simply as on the practice field, driving the

panicked mass to the killing ground at the bridge's entrance. More horsemen had been ordered

against the remnants of the British square, a huddle of men fighting desperately round the

colours, but Sharpe could see more cavalry, standing motionless in two ranks, the French reserve

which could be thrown in to sustain the attack or break any sudden resistance from the

infantry.
    There was no point in defending the bridge. It was well enough protected from the French by

the turbulent mass of men struggling for its dubious safety. Sharpe guessed that perhaps a

thousand men were trying to thread themselves on to a roadway just wide enough for an ox-cart. It

was an unbelievable sight. Sharpe had seen panic on a battlefield before, but never quite like

this. Less than a hundred horsemen were driving ten times their number in horrific flight. The

crowd at the bridge could not move forward, the press of bodies was too great, but Spanish and

British fought and seethed, clawed and shoved, desperate to escape the Chasseurs who cut at the

fringes of the crowd. Even those who succeeded in pushing their way onto the bridge were not

safe. Sharpe caught a glimpse of men falling into the water where the bridge was broken and where

Hogan had destroyed the parapets. Other men, harried by sabres, joined the back of the crowd. The

French had no chance of cutting their way through that immense barrier of bone and flesh; nor

were they trying to get to the bridge. Instead the Chasseurs kept the panic boiling so that the

men had no chance to reform and turn on their pursuers with loaded muskets and raised bayonets.

The horsemen were almost lackadaisical in their sabre cuts. Sharpe saw one man cheerfully urging

the fugitives on with the flat of his sword. It took effort to kill a man, especially if he was

wearing his pack and had turned his back. Inexperienced horsemen swept their blades in impressive

arcs that slammed into a soldier's back; the victim would collapse, only to discover, astonished,

that his injury was merely a sliced pack and greatcoat. The veteran Chasseurs waited until they

were level with their targets and then cut backwards at the unprotected face, and Sharpe knew

there would be far more wounded than dead, horribly wounded, faces mangled by the blades, heads

opened to the bone. He turned to his front.
    Here there was proper fighting. The colours of the South Essex were still flying, though the

men surrounding them had lost all semblance of a proper formation. They had been forced into a

crude ring, pressed back by horsemen, and they fought off the sabres and hooves with sword and

bayonet. It was a desperate fight. The French had thrown most of their men against the small

band; they may have stood no chance of capturing the bridge, but inside the terrified ring was a

greater prize. The colours. For the French to ride off the field with captured colours was to

ride into glory, to become heroes, to know that the tale would be told throughout Europe. The man

who captured the colours could name his own reward, whether in money, women, or rank, and the

Chasseurs tried to break the British resistance with a savage fury. The South Essex were fighting

back, no less desperate, their efforts fired by the fanatical determination that their flags

should not fall. To lose the colours was the ultimate disgrace.
    It had taken Sharpe only a few seconds to comprehend the utter chaos in front of him; there

were no choices to be made; he would go forward towards the colours, hoping the ring of survivors

could hold out against the horsemen long enough for his company to bring their muskets and

bayonets into range. He turned to the men. Harper had done his work well. Riflemen were scattered

through the ranks to bolster the frayed nerves of the men from Sterritt's company. The men in

green jackets grinned at