'Is there food in the city, sir?' one of the volunteers asked.

'Plenty, boys, plenty.' Baird, like the rest of the army, was on half-rations.

'And some bibbi, sir?' another man asked.

Baird rolled his eyes. 'Running over with it, lads, and all of them just panting for you. The place is fair crammed with bibbi. Even enough for us old generals.'

They laughed. General Harris had given strict orders that the inhabitants were not to be molested, but Baird knew that the terrible savagery of an assault on a breach almost demanded that the men's appetites be satisfied afterwards. He did not care. So far as Major General David Baird was concerned the boys could play to their loins' content so long as they first won.

He edged his way through the crush of men to a point midway between the two Forlorn Hopes. The watch still ticked, but again the minute hand seemed scarcely to have moved since he last looked at the face. Baird closed the lid, pushed the watch into his fob, then peered again at the city. The undamaged parts of the wall glowed white in the sun. It was, with its towers and shining roofs and tall palms, a beautiful place, yet it was there that Baird had spent close to four years as a prisoner of the Tippoo. He hated the place as he hated its ruler. Revenge had been a long time coming, but it was here now.

He drew his claymore, a brutal Scottish blade that had none of the finesse of more modern swords, yet Baird, at six feet four inches tall, had little need of finesse. He would carry his butcher's blade into a breach of blood to pay back the Tippoo for forty-four months of hell.

In the batteries behind Baird the gunners blew on their linstocks to keep the fire burning. General Harris pulled out his watch. Colonel Arthur Wellesley, who would lead the second wave of attackers through the breach, adjusted his cravat, and thought of his responsibilities. The bulk of his men were from the Regiment de Meuron, a Swiss battalion that had once fought for the Dutch, but which had put itself under the command of the East India Company when the British had captured Ceylon. The men were mostly Swiss, but with a leavening from the German states, and they were a sober, steady battalion that Wellesley planned to lead to the Inner Palace to protect its contents and its harem from the ravages of the attackers. Seringapatam might fall, and the Tippoo might die, but the important thing was to gain Mysore's friendship and Wellesley was determined to make certain that no unnecessary atrocities soured its citizens' new allegiance. He adjusted the silver-gilt gorget about his neck, drew his sword an inch or two, then let it fall back into its scabbard before momentarily closing his eyes to say a prayer beseeching God's protection on his men.

The Forlorn Hopes, their muskets loaded and tipped with steel, crouched in the trenches. The officers' watches ticked on, the river ran gentle across its stones and the silent city waited.

'Coat off,' Sharpe said to Lawford, instinctively lapsing back into the relationship that had existed between them when they had served in Gudin's battalion. 'No point in showing a red coat till we have to,' Sharpe explained, turning his own coat inside out. He did not put it back on, but knotted its sleeves about his neck so that the claw-torn jacket hung down against his scarred and naked back. The two men were crouched in a byre off the alley that led from the courtyard. Colonel McCandless had gone, led away to Appah Rao's house, and Sharpe and Lawford were alone. 'I don't even have a gun,' the Lieutenant said nervously.

'Soon remedy that,' Sharpe said confidently. 'Come on now.'

Sharpe led, plunging into the intricate maze of small streets that surrounded the palace. A white man's face was not so unusual as to attract attention in Seringapatam, for there were plenty of Europeans serving the Tippoo, but even so Sharpe did not fancy his chances in a red coat. He did not fancy his chances much at all, but he would be damned before he abandoned his fellow soldiers to the Tippoo's mine.

He hurried past a shuttered goldsmith's shop and half glimpsed, deep in its shadowed entrance, an armed man who was standing guard on the property. 'Stay here,' he told Lawford, then slung the musket on his shoulder and doubled back. He pushed a wandering cow out of his way and ducked into the goldsmith's entrance. 'How are you feeling today?' he said pleasantly to the man who, speaking no English, just frowned in confusion. He was still frowning when Sharpe's left fist buried itself in his belly. He grunted, but then the right fist smacked him on the bridge of his nose and he was in no state to resist as Sharpe stripped him of musket and cartridge box. For good measure Sharpe gave the man a tap on the skull with the butt-end of the musket, then went back to the street. 'One musket, sir, filthy as hell, but she'll fire. Cartridges too.'

Lawford opened the musket's pan to check that it was loaded. 'Just what do you plan to do, Sharpe?' the Lieutenant asked.

'Don't know, sir. Won't know till we get there.'

'You're going to the mine?'

'Aye, sir.'

'There'll be guards.'

'Like as not.'

'And only two of us.'

'I can count, sir.' Sharpe grinned. 'It's reading I find hard. But my letters are coming on, aren't they?'

'You're reading well,' Lawford said. Probably, the Lieutenant thought, as well as most seven-year-olds, but it had still been gratifying to see the pleasure Sharpe took from the process, even if his only reading matter was a crumpled page of the Revelation full of mysterious beasts with wings that covered their eyes. 'I'll get you some more interesting books when we're out of here,' Lawford promised.

'I'd like that, sir,' Sharpe said, then ran across a street junction. The fear of an imminent assault had served to empty the streets of their usual crowds, but the alleys were clogged with parked carts. Stray dogs barked as the two men hurried southwards, but there were few people to remark their presence. 'There, sir, there's our bloody answer,' Sharpe said. He had run from a street into a small square, and now jerked back into the shadows. Lawford peered about the corner to see that the small open space was filled with handcarts, and that the handcarts were piled with rockets. 'Waiting to take them up to the wall, I dare say,' Sharpe said. 'Got so many up there already they have to store the rest down here. What we do, sir, is take one cart, go down that next street and have a private Guy Fawkes day.'

'There are guards.'

'Of course there are.'

'I mean on the rocket carts, Sharpe.'

'They're nothing,' Sharpe said scornfully. 'If those fellows were any good they'd be up on the walls. Can't be nothing but maimed men and grandfathers. Rubbish. All we have to do is shout at the buggers. Are you ready?'

Lawford looked into his companion's face. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you, Sharpe?'

'Aye, sir. Aren't you?'

'I'm scared as hell,' Lawford admitted.

Sharpe smiled. 'You won't be when we're through, sir. We're going to be all right. You just behave as though you owned the bloody place. You officers are supposed to be good at that, aren't you? So I'll grab a cart and you shout at the rubbish. Tell them Gudin sent us. Come on, sir, time's wasting. Just walk out there as though we owned the place.'

Sharpe brazenly walked into the sunlight, his musket slung on his shoulder, and Lawford followed him. 'You won't tell anyone that I confessed to being scared?' the Lieutenant asked.

'Of course not, sir. You think I'm not scared myself? Jesus, I almost fouled my breeches when that bloody tiger jumped at me. I've never seen a thing move so bloody fast. But I wasn't going to show I was scared in front of bloody Hakeswill. Hey, you! Are you in charge?' Sharpe shouted imperiously at a man who squatted beside one of the carts. 'Move your bloody self, I want the cart.'