Eight Battalions? Dear God! And Sharpe had just sent half his Riflemen and a fifth of his muskets off into the thorns. Suppose the French attacked both positions? Suppose they cut Frederickson off from the Castle? He turned. 'Ensign!

'Sir?

'My compliments to Mr Brooker, and he's to come back as fast as he can! Captain Cross as well.

The Ensign ran.

'Gawd, sir! The bugler was staring at the village.

And so he should, by God. The Battalion that had moved south had done so to make way for the troops that were to assault the Castle, troops who spilled out into the valley, shepherded by mounted officers, troops who blackened the eastern end of the pasture land.

'Oh God!

'Sir? The bugler was worried.

Sharpe was smiling, his head shaking in disbelief. 'Lambs to the bloody slaughter, lad. Oh God, oh God, oh God! He turned. 'Captain Gilliland!

'Sir? Gilliland came out from the shadow of the Gate-tower, out into the chill breeze.

'Do you see that, Captain?

Gilliland looked at the village, his face registeringdisbelief and shock. 'Sir?

'Here beginneth the first lesson, Captain. Gilliland did not understand Sharpe's sudden pleasure. 'You're going to see a French column, Captain. It's the biggest bloody target in the world, and you're going to tear it into shreds. Do you hear me, man? Sharpe was grinning with delight, the cold forgotten. 'We're going to murder them! Get your troughs out!

Thank God for the Prince of Wales. Thank God for fat Prinny and his mad father, and thank God for Colonel Congreve, and thank God for a French General who was doing what any other soldier would do in his place. Sharpe grinned at the bugler. 'You're lucky to be here, lad! You're lucky to see this!

'I am, sir?

Sharpe stood on the rubble, the wind stirring his black hair, and a thought crossed his mind that perhaps the French planned to punch through the gap between Castle and Convent, but he could cope with that. The rockets could be swung round to face north as easily as they faced east, and he watched the cumbersome dressing of the French ranks in front of the village and he noticed how the centre line of the first rank was well to the road's right, and he knew they were coming for him. He glanced at the watchtower. That growing mass would be a tempting target for Frederickson's gun, but Sharpe had given orders that the gun was only to be used for the hill's defence. Frederickson would have to bide his time.

He looked for the other Ensign who carried his messages, and he ordered three Companies of Fusiliers into the courtyard with all the remaining Rifles. The only problem now was the French skirmishers, a veritable cloud of them, and they must be kept decently back from the trench. He walked forward to the puny excavation.

Thirty yards were usable, and in those thirty yards Gilliland's men were carving fifteen troughs in the parapet, troughs that aimed straight ahead, and Sharpe changed the angle so they covered the centre of the valley. He crouched behind the troughs, seeing where the rockets would go if they went in a straight line, and he saw where they would bisect the line of the attack just fifty yards ahead. He nodded. 'Perfect!

The gunners put their metal troughs into the earth beds. They were nervous, terrified, but Sharpe grinned at them, joked with them, told them of the victory they would win, and his mood spread to them. He clapped Gilliland on the shoulder. 'Bring them out. Do it casually, a few at a time! He had dressed the rocket troop in infantry overcoats, hiding the weapon till the very last moment.

The Riflemen were in the courtyard, staring at the solid mass of enemy, and Sharpe called them forward. He ordered them to lie down in front of the trench, their job to keep the Voltigeurs away from the rockets, and he lined the three Companies of Fusiliers on the rubble. Some would die because of the French skirmishers, but their volleys would make a killing ground in front of the Riflemen.

Two artillerymen served each trough. Others waited in reserve. One man would put the weapons on the metal cradle, the other would light the fuse, and both would duck into the trench as the propellant flamed overhead. And they would fire as fast as they could, rocket after rocket, each trough capable of five shots a minute giving over seventy missiles in a minute, missiles tipped with shells, death flaming from the trench at a target that was still being assembled at the village.

Cross was back in the courtyard, breathing heavily and looking worried. Sharpe put five of his Riflemen on the gate-tower, the rest in front of the trench, and he added Brooker's company to the Fusiliers lined on the rubble. The men looked terrified, as well they might, a double rank of four Companies was facing a French column, the instrument that had brought down kingdoms, and their only help Was the spindly rockets lying in the trench, rockets that had been contemptuously dismissed as toys.

'Load! Sharpe watched them. 'On the order to fire you will commence platoon firing! Your job is to keep the skirmishers away from the trench! Captain Brooker!

'Sir? Brooker's company was closest to the gate-tower.

'Watch that open flank of the trench! If those skirmishers get into the trench we're all dead. So don't let them! And don't worry about the column. That's dead already! He grinned at them. 'You're doing this for Colonel Kinney! Let him see those bastards going to hell!

And then the first drums sounded, the drums that had driven columns to Madrid and Moscow, that had piled Paris with captured Colours, the drums that beat the pas-de-charge, the rhythm that accompanied all French attacks, that stopped only with victory or defeat. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boomaboom, boomaboom, boom-boom.

And this time they were for Sharpe, just for Sharpe, a compliment from the Emperor to a man from a London Foundling Home, and he turned to face them, saw the French lurch into motion, and he laughed, mouth open to the wind, laughed because of the pride that suddenly took hold of him, swept him up, because the drums, at last, were for him.

CHAPTER 23

The General fidgeted. He had the feeling that there was some gesture he ought to make, perhaps to ride at the head of his men or stand to one side and salute them as they went forward, but he dismissed the thought irritably. The drums and the raised Colours stirred emotions that were hardly suitable for the pitiable enemy who would be crushed by this massive blow. A sledgehammer to crack a nut! He smiled, because he knew it to be true, but if the sledgehammer did, the work swiftly, then it was worth it.

Time. Always damned time. He had asked the time as the first skirmishers walked forward into the open field. Quarter to mid-day. Forty-five minutes to assemble the column, which was not bad, but it was still forty-five minutes lost. Well, there would be an end to this impudent enemy by mid-day, and then he could send the Lancers into the pass, start feeding the Battalions after them, and then the cumbersome supply carts that had to carry food and ammunition for this mid-winter blow.

A Colonel of Artillery reined in beside the General. The man was silent and resentful, wanting to unleash the power of his guns on the defenders of the Castle, but the General had derided the idea. To bombard the enemy would waste more time, and he suspected that the British could shelter behind stone walls that would take his gunners hours to reduce to rubble. No, the infantry could do this swiftly, lose some men in the front ranks, then surge over the rubble of the eastern wall and open the pathway to Portugal.

On the watchtower hill Pierre accepted a drink from Captain Frederickson's canteen and nodded towards the valley. 'I think you're about to lose.