"We think fifteen hundred men, my Lord."

"Ammunition?"

"Plenty."

"And how much food do they have?"

"My sources say two weeks on half rations which probably means they can last a month. The French do seem able to subsist on nothing, my Lord. Might I suggest we move before a gunner lays an accurate sight? And might I claim your Lordship's further attention?"

Wellington did not move. "I am claiming the gunners' whole attention," the General said with heavy humour, "as a means of encouraging them to improve their aim. That way, Hogan, they might relieve me of Erskine." General Erskine was usually drunk, perpetually half blind and reputed to be mad. "Or so the Horse Guards confessed to me," Wellington said, expecting Hogan to follow his erratic train of thought. "I wrote to them, Hogan, and complained at being provided with Erskine and do you know what they wrote back?" Wellington had told Hogan this story at least half a dozen times in the last three months, but the Irishman knew how much the General enjoyed the telling of it and so he indulged his master.

"I fear their reply has momentarily slipped my mind, my Lord."

"They wrote, Hogan, and I quote, that "no doubt he is sometimes a little mad, but in his lucid intervals he is an uncommonly clever fellow, but he did look a little wild as he embarked!" Wellington gave his great horse-neigh of a laugh. "So will Massйna try to relieve the garrison?"

Hogan understood from the General's tone that Wellington knew the answer as well as he did himself, and so he sensibly said nothing. The answer, anyway, was obvious, for both Hogan and Wellington understood that Marshal Massйna would not have left fifteen hundred men in Almeida just so they could be starved into surrender and thus forced to spend the rest of the war in some inhospitable prison camp on Dartmoor. Almeida had been garrisoned for a purpose and Hogan, like his master, suspected the purpose was close to its fulfilment.

A blossom of white smoke marked where a cannon had fired from the ramparts. The ball showed itself to Hogan as a dark vertical line that flickered in the sky, a sure sign that the shot was coming straight towards the observer. Now all depended on whether the gun-layer had judged the elevation right. One half-turn too many on the gun's elevating screw and the ball would fall short, one turn too few and it would scream overhead.

It fell a hundred yards short, then bounced up over Wellington's head to tear through a grove of oaks. Leaves scattered as the shot whipped the branches to and fro. "Their guns are too cold, Hogan," the General said. "They're under-firing."

"Not by a great deal, my Lord," Hogan said fervently, "and the barrels will warm quickly."

Wellington chuckled. "Value you life, do you? Well, ride on." His Lordship clicked his tongue and his horse obediently walked on down the slope past a British gun battery that was screened from the enemy by an earthwork topped by soil-filled baskets. Many of the gunners were stripped to the waist, some were sleeping, and none seemed to notice the commander passing. Another general might have been annoyed by the battery's casual air, but Wellington's quick eye noted the good condition of the guns and so he merely nodded to the battery commander before waving his aides out of earshot. "So what's your news, Hogan?"

"Too much news, my Lord, and none of it good," Hogan said. He took off his hat and fanned his face. "Marshal Bessiиres has joined Massйna, my Lord. Brought a deal of cavalry and artillery with him, but no infantry as far as we can gather."

"Your partisans?" Wellington was inquiring about the source of Hogan's information.

"Indeed, my Lord. They shadowed Bessiиres's march." Hogan took out his snuff box and helped himself to a restorative pinch while Wellington digested the news. Bessiиres commanded the French army in Northern Spain, an army devoted wholly to fighting partisans, and the news that Bessiиres had brought troops to reinforce Marshal Massйna hinted that the French were readying themselves for their attempt to relieve the seige of Almeida.

Wellington rode in silence for a few yards. His route took him up a gentle slope to a grassy crest that offered another view of the enemy fortress. He took out a spyglass and gave the spreading, low walls and the artillery-shattered rooftops a long inspection. Hogan imagined the gunners handspiking their guns around to lay on their new target. Wellington grunted, then snapped the spyglass shut. "So Massйna's coming to resupply these rascals, is he? And if he succeeds, Hogan, they'll have enough supplies to last out till hell goes cold unless we storm the place first, and storming it will take until midsummer at least, and I can't storm Almeida and Ciudad Rodrigo at the same time, so Massйna will just have to be stopped. It'll go low, I warrant." This last remark referred to a cannon that had just fired from the walls. The smoke jetted out across the ditch as Hogan tried to catch sight of the missile. The roundshot arrived a second before the sound of the gun. The ball bounced on the slope below the General's party and ricocheted high over his head to crack against an olive tree. Wellington turned his horse away. "But you know what it will mean, Hogan, if I try to stop Massйna in front of Almeida?"

"The Coa, my Lord."

"Exactly." If the British and Portuguese army fought the French close to Almeida then they would have the deep, fast-flowing River Coa at their backs, and if Massйna succeeded in turning Wellington's right flank, which he would assuredly try to do, then the army would be left with one road, just one road, on which it could retreat if it suffered defeat. And that one road led across a high, narrow bridge over the Coa's otherwise uncrossable gorge, and if the defeated army with all its guns and baggage and women and pack-horses and wounded were to try and cross that one narrow bridge then there would be chaos. And into that chaos would plunge the Emperor's heavy horses with their sword-wielding troopers and thus a fine British army that had thrown the French out of Portugal would die on the frontier of Spain and there would be a new bridge over the Seine in Paris and it would bear the odd name of Pont Castello Bom in commemoration of the place where Andrй Massйna, Marshal of France, would have destroyed Lord Wellington's army. "So we shall have to beat Marshal Massйna, won't we?" Wellington said to himself, then turned to Hogan. "When will he come, Hogan?"

"Soon, my Lord, very soon. The stores in Ciudad Rodrigo won't allow them otherwise," Hogan answered. With the arrival of Bessiиres's men the French now had too many mouths to feed from Ciudad Rodrigo's supply depots, which meant they would have to march soon or starve.

"So how many does Massйna have now?" Wellington asked.

"He can put fifty thousand men into the field, my Lord."

"And I can't put forty thousand against them," Wellington said bitterly. "One day, Hogan, London will come to believe that we can win this war and will actually send us some troops who are not mad, blind or drunk, but till then…?" He left the question unanswered. "Any more of those damned counterfeit newspapers?"

Hogan was not surprised by the sudden change of subject. The newspapers describing the fictional atrocities in Ireland had been intended to disaffect the Irish soldiers in the British army. The ploy had failed, but only just, and both Hogan and Wellington feared that the next attempt might be more successful. And if that attempt came on the eve of Massйna's crossing of the frontier to relieve Almeida it could be disastrous. "None, sir," Hogan said, "yet."

"But you've moved the Real Companпa Irlandesa away from the frontier?"

"They should be arriving at Vilar Formoso this morning, my Lord," Hogan said.

Wellington grimaced. "At which juncture you will apprise Captain Sharpe of his troubles?" The General did not wait for Hogan's answer. "Did he shoot the two prisoners, Hogan?"