Two of the bastards were down. The soldiers on the inner ramparts' battery were watching the fight, but not interfering. They were confused, for Kunwar Singh was standing right beside the fight and doing nothing, and his jewels made him appear a man of high authority, and so they followed his example and did not try to intervene. Some of the watching soldiers were even cheering, for, though the jettis were admired, they were also resented because they received privileges far above any ordinary soldier's expectations.

Lawford had moved to help Sharpe, but his uncle held him back. 'Let him be, Willie,' McCandless said quietly. 'He's doing the Lord's work and I've rarely seen it done better.'

The third jetti lumbered at Sharpe with his spear. He advanced warily, confused by the ease with which this foreign demon had downed his two companions.

Sharpe smiled at the third jetti, shouldered the musket, pulled back the cock, and fired.

The bullet drummed into the jetti's chest, making all his huge muscles shudder with the force of its impact. The jetti slowed, then tried to charge again, but his knees gave way and he fell forward onto his face. He twitched, his hands scrabbled for an instant, then he was still. From the ramparts above the soldiers cheered.

Sharpe uncoiled the whip from his neck, picked up one of the clumsy spears, and finished off the two jettis who still lived. One had been stunned and the other was almost unable to breathe, and both now had their throats cut. From the windows of the low buildings around the courtyard men and women stared at Sharpe in shock.

'Don't just stand there!' Sharpe snarled at Lawford. 'Sir,' he added hastily.

Lawford and McCandless came through the gate, while Kunwar Singh, as if released from a spell, suddenly hurried to meet them. Mary crossed to Sharpe. 'Are you all right?'

'Never better, lass,' he said. In truth he was shaking as he picked up his red coat and as Kunwar Singh's six men stared at him as though he was a devil come from nightmare. Sharpe wiped sweat from his eyes. He was oblivious of most of what had just happened for he had fought as he had always fought, fast and with a lethal skill, but it was instinct that led him, not reason, and the fight had left him with a seething hate. He wanted to slake that hate by killing more men, and perhaps Kunwar Singh's soldiers picked up that ferocity, for none of them dared move.

Lawford crossed to Sharpe. 'We think the assault is about to come, Sharpe,' the Lieutenant said, 'and Colonel McCandless is being taken to a place of safety. He's insisted that we go with him. The fellow in the jewels isn't happy about that, but McCandless won't go without us. And well done, by the way.'

Sharpe glanced up into the Lieutenant's eyes. 'I'm not going with him, sir, I'm going to fight.'

'Sharpe!' Lawford reproved him.

'There's a bloody great mine, sir!' Sharpe raised his voice angrily. 'Just waiting to kill our lads! I ain't letting that happen. You can do what you bloody well like, but I'm going to kill some more of these bastards. You can come with me, sir, or stay with the Colonel, I don't care. You, lad!' This was to one of Kunwar Singh's uncomprehending soldiers. 'Give me some cartridges. Come on, hurry!' Sharpe crossed to the man, pulled open his pouch and helped himself to a handful of cartridges that he shoved into a pocket. Kunwar Singh made no move to stop him. Indeed, everyone in the courtyard seemed to be stunned by the ferocity that had reduced three of the Tippoo's prized jettis to dead meat, though the officer commanding the troops on the inner wall did now call down to demand to know what was happening. Kunwar Singh shouted back that they were doing the Tippoo's bidding.

McCandless had overheard Sharpe talking to Lawford. 'If I can help, Private...' the Colonel said.

'You're weak, sir, begging your pardon, sir. But Mister Lawford will help me.'

Lawford said nothing for a moment, then nodded. 'Yes, of course I will.'

'What will you do?' McCandless asked. He spoke to Sharpe, not Lawford.

'Blow the bloody mine, sir, blow it to kingdom come.'

'God bless you, Sharpe. And keep you.'

'Save your prayers for the bloody enemy, sir,' Sharpe said curtly. He rammed a bullet home, then plunged into an alleyway that led southwards. He was loose in his enemy's rear, he was angry, and he was ready to give the bastards a taste of hell on earth.

Major General Baird hauled a huge watch from his fob pocket, sprang open the lid, and stared at the hands. One o'clock. On the fourth of May 1799. A Saturday. A drop of sweat landed on the watch crystal and he carefully wiped it away with a tassel of his red sash. His mother had made the sash. "You'll not let us down, young Davy,' she had said sternly, giving him the strip of tasselled silk and then saying no more as he had walked away to join the army. The sash was over twenty years old now, and it was frayed and threadbare, but Baird reckoned it would last him. He would take it back to Scotland one day.

It would be good, he thought, to go home and see the new century. Maybe the eighteen hundreds would bring a different world, even a better one, but he doubted that the new era would manage to dispense with soldiers. Till time ended, Baird suspected, there would be uses for a man and his sword. He took off his mildewed hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Almost time.

He peered between two sandbags that formed the forward lip of the trench. The South Cauvery rippled prettily between its flat boulders, the paths across its bed marked with the little white flags on their bamboo sticks. In a moment he would launch men across those paths, then through the gap in the glacis and up that mound of stone, brick, mud and dust. He counted eleven cannonballs stranded on the breach, looking for all the world like plums stuck in a pudding. Three hundred yards of ground to cover, one river to cross, and one plum pudding to climb. He could see men peering from between the city's battered crenellations. Flags flew there. The bastards would have guns mounted crosswise to the breach and perhaps a mine buried in the rubble. God preserve the Forlorn Hopes, he thought, though God was not usually merciful in such matters. If Colonel Gent was right, and there was a massive mine waiting for the attackers, then the Forlorn Hopes would be slaughtered, and then the main attack would have to assault the breach and climb its shoulders to where the enemy was massed on the outer ramparts. So be it. Too late to worry now.

Baird pushed through the waiting men to find Sergeant Graham. Graham would lead one of the two Forlorn Hopes and, if he lived, would be Lieutenant Graham by nightfall. The Sergeant was scooping a last ladleful of water from one of the barrels that had been placed in the trenches to slake the thirst of the waiting men. 'Not long now, Sergeant,' Baird said.

'Whenever you say, sir.' Graham poured the water over his bare head, then pulled on his shako. He would go into the breach with a musket in one hand and a British flag in the other.

'Whenever the guns give their farewell volley, Sergeant.' Baird clicked open the watch again and it seemed to him the hands had scarcely moved. 'In six minutes, I think, if this is accurate.' He held the watch to his ear. 'It usually loses a minute or two every day.'

'We're ready, sir,' Graham said.

'I'm sure you're ready,' Baird said, 'but wait for my order.'

'Of course, sir.'

Baird looked at the volunteers, a mix of British and sepoys. They grinned back at him. Rogues, he thought, every last man jack of them, but what splendid rogues, brave as lions. Baird felt a pang of sentimentality for these men, even for the sepoys. Like many soldiers the Scotsman was an emotional man, and he instinctively disliked those men, like Colonel Wellesley, who seemed passionless. Passion, Baird reckoned, was what would take men across the river and up the breach. Damn scientific soldiering now. The science of siege warfare had opened the city, but only a screaming and insane passion would take men inside. 'God be with you all, boys,' he said to the Forlorn Hope and they grinned again. Like every man who would cross the river today none of them was encumbered with a pack. They had all stripped off their stocks, too. They carried weapons and cartridges and nothing else, and if they succeeded they would be rewarded with General Harris's thanks and maybe a pittance of coins.