Sharpe watched the French column come on.
He and the Chosen Men lay hidden in a shallow fold of ground on the flank, screened by dry grass and the rise of the field. From there Sharpe could see the French clearly. They came in a deep column, blue coats packed close together, white crossbelts bright beneath the Spanish sun, bayonets glittering above their heads. The drums beat steadily as the officers urged the men forward.
Ahead of them stood a British battalion.
It looked too thin. Ridiculously thin. Two ranks of redcoats stood shoulder to shoulder against the mass of the French column, with gaps already showing where men had fallen. The colours hung behind the line and officers hurried along the ranks, dressing the men and shouting them into position. Sharpe could not help wondering how such a small line could possibly stop what was coming towards it.
The French column filled the field beyond. Blue coats packed together, white crossbelts bright in the sunlight, bayonets glittering above the heads of thousands of men. It was a great moving mass, deep and deliberate, while the British battalion looked like a thin red thread stretched across its path.
Harper crouched beside Sharpe.
"They'll need every man they've got."
"They'll need three volleys," Sharpe said. "A good battalion can give you three shots a minute."
The French came closer.
The first British volley crashed out.
Flame ran along the red line and smoke rolled across the field. The front of the French column disappeared. Men fell, others stumbled over them, but the column closed its ranks and continued forward.
"First," Sharpe said.
The British were already reloading.
The second volley came sooner.
It struck the French at closer range and this time the effect was unmistakable. The column slowed. Its front ranks crumpled and the men behind them checked their advance, forced to step around the dead. Officers shouted and waved their swords, trying to restore the pace, but the great mass of blue coats no longer moved with the same steady confidence.
Sharpe watched the British line. They had seen it too.
For a moment the redcoats cheered.
Then the officers began shouting for the men to reload. The third volley had to come quickly.
Sharpe saw the first cartridge bitten open. Powder was poured. Balls were rammed home, but there was no longer the calm precision of the earlier loading. A soldier slammed the butt of his musket against the ground rather than waste time working the ramrod. Another caught his hand against a bayonet and skinned his knuckles. A man fumbled his cartridge and cursed as he bent to find it.
The French were coming again.
The column had lost its momentum, but it had not stopped.
Sharpe understood the danger. The British were frightened now. Not broken, not yet, but frightened enough to hurry. The French were frightened too, for they had seen their own ranks torn apart and had felt the weight of British musketry.
Both sides were reaching the same moment. The next few seconds would decide which one lost its nerve.
The third volley fired, the sound was enormous.
The French column disappeared behind smoke and Sharpe saw men thrown sideways by the impact. The leading ranks collapsed into one another, and for the first time the column seemed to stop altogether.
The British line cheered.
But Sharpe did not.
He saw the redcoats trying to reload again and knew there would be no time. The French were too close now. Men were already lowering their muskets for the bayonet. Officers were shouting. The battalion had fired its three volleys and had done everything musketry could do.
Now came the killing.
Sharpe rose.
"Chosen Men."
They looked towards him.
Sharpe drew his sword and pointed towards the French flank.
"With me."
He did not wait for another order.
The Chosen Men charged.
They came out of the grass at the precise moment when the French were least able to respond. The column was trying to recover from the third volley, its front ranks struggling to reform while the British battalion held them in place. Sharpe's rifles struck the exposed flank like a blow from a hammer.
The Chosen Men fired once at almost point-blank range.
Then they went in.
Sharpe found himself among the French before he had time to think. There was no room for the elegant use of a sword now. A bayonet thrust towards his stomach and he knocked the musket aside, stepping forward to drive his blade beneath the man's ribs. Another Frenchman swung his musket and caught Sharpe across the shoulder with the butt.
The blow staggered him.
For a second his legs nearly went from under him.
The Frenchman raised the musket again.
Harper appeared beside Sharpe.
The big Irishman seized the French soldier by his crossbelt and smashed his own musket into the man's face. The Frenchman collapsed, and Harper hauled Sharpe upright.
"You all right, sir?"
Sharpe rolled his shoulder.
"I will be."
They went forward together.
There was no formation now, only men fighting in knots among the wreckage of the French column. Rifles became clubs. Bayonets stabbed at close range. Men grappled with one another, punching, kicking and clawing for an advantage. Sharpe and Harper stayed almost shoulder to shoulder, moving through the crush, each covering the other whenever a Frenchman tried to get behind them.
Then Sharpe saw the eagle.
It stood above the fighting, bright against the smoke, guarded by a knot of French officers who had gathered around it.
"Harper!"
"I see it."
They fought their way towards the standard.
A French officer stepped between Sharpe and the eagle. His sword came down hard. Sharpe caught the blow and drove forward, but another Frenchman struck at him from the side. Harper's rifle smashed into the man's ribs, and Sharpe used the opening to thrust beneath the officer's guard.
The Frenchman fell.
Harper seized the eagle.
For a moment he stood there with it clutched in both hands, his face blackened with powder and blood.
The French saw him, their eagle was gone and something broke.
Men who had endured the volleys and the rifle attack began looking backwards. Officers shouted for them to close ranks, but the column was no longer a column. It was a crowd of men fighting to survive.
Sharpe looked towards the British battalion. The redcoats were still standing, though their line had begun to move forward now, bayonets fixed.
Harper lifted the captured eagle.
"Captain?"
Sharpe looked beyond him.
The field was still full of Frenchmen. Guns were firing somewhere through the smoke, cavalry was moving on another part of the battlefield, and the heat pressed down upon everything.
"No time to admire it," Sharpe said.
Harper grinned.
Sharpe raised his sword.
"Come on."
They went forward with the Chosen Men, disappearing once more into the smoke and dust, because the French were still fighting and Salamanca was nowhere near won.
*****
Having taken a little piss with Dave in my previous post about the Useful Tools, I thought I should probably share a post about the actual commission work he did under his A Cardboard Fortress blog on Facebook.
Because, despite all the abuse, Dave is actually a very good painter.
No, seriously.
As mentioned in the previous post, and as you can probably gather from the text above, Sharpe and the 95th Rifles were the subject of this particular small commission.
Wargames Atlantic have been making the "Legends" series which focuses on the characters of the novels, and is based around the actors from the TV show.
Which has no doubt driven up interest in not only the period but the character as well. Unless you're a big historical fiction reader or entrenched in the Napoleonic era. Chances are you'll only have come across Sharpe due to the TV show.
My own collection of Sharpe hardbacks have pride of place on my bookshelf, surrounded by Black Library and my other historical fiction collections.
I do wonder if they're going to make a miniature of Lady Isabella Farthingdale.
Back to wargaming...
We believe these particular models came from the now-discontinued British Rifles box that Wargames Atlantic previously produced. They make a rather nice little representation of the Chosen Men, particularly with the character models giving the unit some personality rather than simply being a collection of generic riflemen.
The full section, painted and "almost" professionally photographed:
As you can see, Dave has done a very good job with them. They have the sort of character that makes me immediately want to put them on a table and start throwing dice.
I could quite easily see these being used for a Napoleonic skirmish game, with Sharpe, Harper and the Chosen Men operating as a small elite unit amongst the larger armies, much like the fiction.
Of course, many of the battles depicted in the television series would technically be considered skirmishes by the standards of the period. But that is largely a consequence of television rather than history. A production simply cannot put thousands upon thousands of extras onto a battlefield every time two armies meet.
What the series did manage to capture, however, was the impression of the larger battle happening around these small groups of men. That makes the Chosen Men particularly well suited to skirmish gaming. A handful of figures can have their own little story while the larger battle rages somewhere beyond the table.
I look forward to seeing what Dave takes on for his next commission. He seems to have a habit of choosing a completely different period or range of miniatures each time, so there is usually something interesting to look at.
And, despite the earlier abuse, I have to admit these turned out rather well.
Until next time, have nice day.
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