On the watchtower hill Frederickson wrote on a piece of the sketching paper, then gave it to the French officer. 'My father's address, though God knows if I'll be living near him.

Pierre had a formal calling card, on the back of which he put his own address. 'After the war, perhaps?

'You think it will end?

Pierre shrugged. 'Aren't we all tired of it?

Frederickson was not, but it seemed hardly polite to say so. 'After the war, then? He looked at the captured German Lancer whose spear had been decorated with a dirty white cloth. The Lancer was not happy, hating to carry the makeshift flag, and Frederickson switched to German. 'If you don't carry it your own people will shoot you. He looked back to Pierre, changed back into the French language. 'You'll observe all the usual nonsense? Wait to be exchanged, no fighting against us until then?

'I will observe all the usual nonsense. Pierre smiled. 'And no telling what you've seen up here?

'Of course not. Though I can't speak for him. Pierre glanced at the Lancer.

'He hasn't seen the rockets in the tower. He can't tell anything. Frederickson grinned cheerfully through the lie, knowing that Sergeant Rossner had described in graphic detail the non-existent rockets stacked on the hilltop to the young Lancer. 'I'm sorry to see you go, Pierre.

'It's good of you to let me. Good luck! Come and see us after the war!

Frederickson watched them go. He looked at one of his Sergeants. 'A thoroughly nice man, that.

'So it seems, sir.

'Sensible, too. Much prefers Salamanca's old Cathedral to the new.

'Really, sir? The Sergeant had not noticed one Cathedral in Salamanca, let alone two.

Frederickson turned to see Lieutenant Wise coming up through the thorns. 'Well done, Lieutenant! Any casualties?

'Corporal Baker lost a finger, sir.

'Left or right hand?

'Left, sir.

'Well, he can still fire a rifle. Splendid! And when we run out of ammunition we can throw snowballs! He grinned at the Sergeant. 'Come the four corners of the world in arms, Sergeant, and we will shock them.

'A chance would be a fine thing, sir.

'It will come, Sergeant, it will come!

To the north of the village, well away from the Rifle sharpshooters on the watchtower hill, two batteries of French guns unlimbered. The horses were taken away, the ready ammunition piled by the guns, and the snow settled on the bulbous roundshot piles and on the serge bags of powder. The artillerymen were strong and confident. The infantry had failed, and now the General was sensibly calling in the artillery. Not just the artillery, the French artillery, Napoleon's own weapon. Every gunner in France was proud that the Emperor was an artilleryman. A Sergeant swept the snow off the wreathed 'N' on a gun's breech and squinted along the barrel at the Convent. Soon, my lovely, he thought, soon. He patted the gun as though the brass, iron and timber monster were a favoured child.

Sharpe crossed to the Convent during the truce, his boots leaving fresh prints on the snow, and he stopped at the gates to look at the foreshortened barrels of the guns, guns that looked straight at him. He went inside, past the hornbeam which was decorated anew with a delicate tracery of snow, and it seemed impossible that only yesterday morning he had watched the German Riflemen decorate the bare branches.

He spoke to the officers, surprising them with his words, and he made them repeat his orders and then walk him through their positions so he knew they had understood. The Fusilier officers seemed relieved by his words. 'We will not defend the Convent, gentlemen.

'Something up your sleeve, sir? Harry Price grinned.

'No, Harry.

Sharpe went downstairs and found Harper. 'Patrick?

'Sir?'The big grin.

'All well?

'Aye. So what's happening? Sharpe told him and the broad Irish face nodded. 'The lads will be glad to be back with you, so they will, sir.

'I'll be glad to have them back. Tell them.

'They know that. How's my friend Private Hakeswill?

'Rotting in the dungeon.

'I heard so. Harper grinned. 'That's good.

'Did you spike the gun?

'Aye, they'll not fire that in a hurry. Harper had driven a nail into the touchhole, then filed the cut nail smooth with the breech. The whole touch-hole would have to be drilled out, then replaced with an iron wedge block, in which a new touch-hole was bored, that was inserted from the inside of the barrel and shaped so that each subsequent firing of the gun would drive it further home. Harper scratched his temple. 'You reckon it will be tonight, sir?

'Dusk?

'Aye.

'Good luck.

'The Irish don't need luck, sir.

'Just the English off their backs, yes? Sharpe laughed.

Harper grinned. 'You see how promotion brings sense to you, sir?

Sharpe walked back across the valley, the snow falling thicker now, only a few tussocks of grass visible above the clean whiteness. He thought it would be the Convent that the French would attack, though it was possible that the siting of the guns was an attempt to mislead him, but he did not think so. The French wanted the Convent so they could put their big guns behind the protection of its wall and hammer at the Castle's northern ramparts. Then they would try for the watchtower so their guns could plunge fire into the courtyard, and most of all he feared the howitzers that would lob their shells high in the clouds before they fell among the defenders. Tomorrow.

The snow crunched under his boots, settled on his face, touched the old ramparts with a white shading which was curiously beautiful. The snow had covered the dark stains on the grass. He wondered how long they could hold this position. The weather could only delay any relief, and now they were down to just four hundred rockets. Gilliland had not been able to bring more because of the necessity of bringing the Fusiliers' supplies, but somehow Sharpe did not think the rockets would be used much more in the Gateway of God. He had one idea for them, an idea of desperation, but they had served their purpose, as had the quick-fuses which he had taken from Gilliland for another purpose. The fuses were for firing batches of rockets, and Gilliland had been unhappy at losing them, but their time would come.

Upstairs in the Castle the Fusilier surgeon sawed at a leg. He had pushed back the flap of skin that would fold over the stump, sliced through the muscle, tying off the blood vessels, and he worked fast with his short saw. Orderlies held the Fusilier down on the table, the man was trying to hold back his scream, gagging down on the folded leather pad that had already subdued the pain of fifteen other men, and the surgeon grunted as the bone splintered and powdered beneath the saw's teeth. 'Almost there, son. Good lad! Good lad!

In the trench where the rockets had been fired Cross's German Riflemen buried their two dead. They had deepened the trench, put the bodies in, and then covered them with rocks that would prevent the scavengers' paws from scrabbling up the dead meat. They had piled the earth on top, watched as Cross said sad, inadequate words, and then, as the snow mottled the mounded grave, they had sung the new song which the Germans of this war had taken to their hearts. 'Ick hatt' einen Kameraden, Einen bess'ren findst du nicht… Their voices reached Sharpe in the Castle keep. 'I had a comrade once, you couldn't find a better.

Captain Brooker stood opposite Sharpe. The Fusilier Captain was shaved, his uniform brushed, and he made Sharpe feel dirty and tattered. 'What's the bill, Captain?

'Fifteen dead, sir. Thirty-eight badly wounded.

'I'm sorry. Sharpe took the paper from him, tucked it into his pouch. 'Ammunition?

'Plenty, sir.

'Rations?

'Two days, sir.

'Let's hope it won't be that long. Sharpe rubbed his face. 'So we're down to a hundred and eighty Fusiliers in the Castle?