Sharpe looked through the big telescope. The far tower, much closer now, had two black dots level and halfway up the mast, presumably the signal that said they were ready to receive a message.

'Here you are, Jeremy.' Charles handed over the first sheet and the boy leaped to the ropes, tugged and dropped them, sometimes looking at the sheet Captain Charles had given him, but mostly doing it from memory. Cox's Staff Captain jerked a thumb at the midshipman. 'Busy little blighter, eh? Used to be two of them, but the other got the pox. Died on us.'

Sharpe looked over the midshipman's shoulder at the sheet of paper and read 48726, 91858, 38197.

'Code,' Captain Charles boomed at him. 'Jolly clever, yes?'

'What does it say?'

The Staff Captain, gold lace at his cuffs, touched his nose. 'Can't say, dear chap. Top secret. Probably says the Brigadier has run out of rum; please send supply urgent. Something like that.'

'Isn't that the gold message?'

'Gold? Don't know about that. Only three messages this morning. That one tells the General that the 68th Regiment of the Line are outside since yesterday. This one's the daily report on available shot, and the last one's about the French battery.'

'Christ Almighty!' Sharpe started towards the stairs, but Lossow touched his arm.

'I'll go.' The German was serious. 'You stay.'

Harper stood beside Lossow. 'You should stay here, sir. You don't know what the Spanish are up to.'

Lossow smiled. 'You see? Outvoted.'

He ran down the stairs and Sharpe turned back to Captain Charles.

'What the hell's happening at headquarters?'

Charles sniffed, handed the second piece of paper to the midshipman. 'Affairs of state. I don't know. Your Major, the Spanish Colonel, and it's all arm-waving and table-thumping. Not my style, dear boy. Oh, I say! That is clever!' He was staring to the south.

Sharpe turned, picked up the telescope, and trained it on the French battery. Nothing was happening; the fascines still lay splayed apart and split open, and there were not even men attempting to repair the damage.

'What is it?' he asked.

'Over there.' Charles was pointing farther to the right. 'A second battery, hidden. We bang away at a heap of earth and the clever devils sneak the real battery into place. Jolly clever.'

It was clever. Sharpe saw French soldiers dragging away branches that had cloaked the excavation of a battery that, judging from the activity around it, was ready to open fire. He could see how well protected it was, by yards of earth, mounted fascines, and trenches for the gunners to use when under fire. The siege gun, hidden by shadows, could harass the defenders' guns as the French built their works forward until the breaching batteries were in place and the two forces, attackers and defenders, got down to work in earnest. The battery was built on the edge of dead ground and Sharpe knew that there would be infantry there, well protected from the Portuguese batteries, ready to repel an attack on the harassing battery.

Charles rubbed his hands. 'Things will hot up soon. They've been slow.'

Harper looked at the elegant Captain. 'How long can you hold out, sir?'

Captain Charles beamed at him. 'Forever, Sergeant! Or at least as long as the ammunition lasts! Once that's gone we'll just have to throw rocks.' That was evidently a joke, for he laughed. 'But there are tons of powder in the cathedral. And the Portuguese are good! By Jove, they're good!'

Sharpe stared at the new battery, and as he looked he saw a cloud of smoke grow at an incredible speed just in front of the earthwork. The smoke was lanced with red flame and, hardly visible, more of an impression than something he really saw, there was a pencil trace in the sky. He knew what it was, the sight of the shot arcing directly towards them.

'Down!'

'What is it?' Charles looked at him, but as he did the castle literally shook, the stones of the huge keep seemed to waver and crack, and mixed with the reverberating crash of falling masonry came the thunder of the siege gun.

'Good Lord!' Charles was still standing. 'Good Lord above! A ranging shot!'

Sharpe leaned over the ramparts. Some stones had fallen into the moat, dust hung in the air, and frightened birds, nesting in the crevices, flew out into the startled air.

'Bloody good shooting,' Harper growled.

The sound of the replying batteries was thinner than that of the giant gun, but more frequent. It took a long time to reload a siege gun. Sharpe, through the telescope, watched as the smoke of the discharge cleared and the Portuguese balls crashed into the redoubt, but to no apparent damage. The hard-packed earth soaked up the cannonade, and the aperture, just wide enough for its purpose, was plugged with fascines as the artillerymen sponged out and rammed home the huge missile. He kept watching, saw the fascines pulled back.

'Here it comes.'

This time he kept his eyes in the air above the gun and saw the pencil-line clearly as the huge iron ball rose and fell in its flat trajectory.

'For what we are about to receive,' Charles said, and the tower shook again, less violently, and the crash and the rumble mixed with the dust and the squawking birds. Charles brushed at his immaculate uniform. 'Distinctly unfriendly.'

'Has it occurred to you that they're after the telegraph?' Sharpe said.

'Good Lord. You could be right.' He turned to the midshipman. 'Hurry along, sailor!'

A shout from the stairway and Lossow appeared, covered in dust, grinning and holding a piece of paper. 'The message.'

Sharpe grabbed the boy. 'Stop everything. Send that!'

'But, sir!' The midshipman saw Sharpe's face, decided not to argue.

'Hurry!'

Captain Charles looked annoyed but reluctant to interfere, and watched as the boy clattered the ropes up and down.

'I'm just cancelling the last message, sir. Then I'll send yours.'

Another shot boomed overhead, sounding like a giant barrel being rolled fast across floorboards. It left a wind behind it, hot and violent, and Harper glanced at Sharpe and raised his eyebrows. Lossow looked at the battery, at the rolling cloud of dirty smoke, and pursed his lips.

'They've got the range.'

'The boy's doing his best,' Sharpe said irritably. 'What was the delay?'

'Damned politics.' Lossow spread his hands. 'The Spanish insisted on the message saying that the gold was Spanish. They insisted on protesting that they did not want British help. Cox is angry, Kearsey's saying his prayers, and your Spanish friends are sharpening their swords. Ah! At last.'

The black, tarred sheep bladders leaped up on the ropes, quivered for a second, and fell. The boy danced between the halliards, hauling away number by number, the obscene black bags vibrating in the breeze as they jerked up and down.

'Sir?' Harper was watching the battery. 'Sir!'

'Down!'

The ball, twenty-four pounds of iron, struck only a glancing blow on one of the crosstrees. The telegraph was well made, jointed and bolted, and as the French ball spun off into the unknown it ripped itself completely from its base like a tree torn bodily by a hurricane. The boy, holding on to a rope, was spun into the air, screaming until another halliard whiplashed round his neck and tore his head horribly from his shoulders. His blood sprayed the four men falling backwards, and then the mast, still unbroken, pounded back on to the ramparts, killing Charles instantly, broke itself in a great fracture, bounced like a falling cane, and stopped still.

'Sweet Jesus.' Harper stood up, 'Are you all right, sir?'

'Yes.' Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?'

The Sergeant pointed to the head. 'Rest of him's over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.'

Lossow swore in German, stood up, flinched as he put his weight on his left leg. Sharpe looked at him. 'Are you – hurt?'