'Yes, sir.

'Instead of which you usurped Rymer's authority, organized an attack, stirred up the French, and had one of my officers killed.

Sharpe could sense his own anger flaring and he fought it. He ignored the reference to Matthews. 'Stirred up the French, sir?

'Damn it, man, you fired at them!

'Captain Rymer told you that, sir?

'I'm not here to argue with you! Did you or didn't you?

'I returned their fire, sir.

Silence. Rymer had obviously told a different story. Windham glanced at Collett, who shrugged. Both men believed Sharpe, but Rymer's authority had to be backed up. Windham changed tack. 'But nevertheless you disobeyed my orders?

'Yes, sir.

Silence again. Windham had not expected the answer, or perhaps he had expected excuses, and Sharpe had made a simple admission of disobedience. But to ask the reason why, was to invite a criticism of Rymer that the Colonel did not want to hear. He looked at Sharpe. The Rifleman seemed so damned confident. He sat there, seemingly unworried, the strong, scarred face spoke of a competence and trustworthiness that disarmed the Colonel. Windham shook his head. 'Damn it, Sharpe, Rymer's in an impossible position. He's trying to establish his authority over a company and he's finding it difficult while you're on his heels.

Collett stirred, perhaps disapprovingly, but Sharpe nodded slowly. 'Yes, sir.

'The rifles, for instance.

Sharpe felt a flicker of alarm. 'The rifles, sir?

Collett broke in, his voice harsh, 'Rymer's opinion is that they led to our casualties last night. They're too slow to load and last night they let us down. Muskets would have been faster, more effective.

Sharpe nodded. 'True, but that was only last night.

'And that's only your opinion. Rymer disagrees. Collett paused. 'And Rymer has the Company.

'Which he must run as he sees fit. Windham took up from Collett. 'Which means the rifles must go.

Sharpe's voice, for the first time, rose. 'We need more rifles, sir, not less.

'Which is what I am talking about!" Windham's voice rose as well. 'You cannot run the Light Company. One man must do it!

Which was Rymer. Sharpe's anger subsided. He was being punished not for his own failure, but for Rymer's and all three men knew it. He forced a rueful smile. 'Yes, sir.

Silence again. Sharpe could feel that there was one more thing to be said, one thing the Colonel was shying from, and he had had enough. He would make it easy, get the damned interview over. 'So what happens now, sir?

'Happens? We go on, Sharpe, we go on! Windham was avoiding the answer, but then he plunged in. 'Major Hogan talked to us. He was upset. The Colonel paused. He had plunged in at the wrong place, but Sharpe could guess at what had happened. Windham wanted rid of Sharpe, at least for the moment, and Hogan had engineered an answer that Windham was hesitant about mentioning.

'Yes, sir?

'He'd like your assistance, Sharpe. For a few days, anyway. The Engineers are short-handed, always are, damn them, and he asked for your help. I said yes.

'So I'm to leave the Battalion, sir?

'For a few days, Sharpe, for a few days.

Collett stirred by the tent pole. 'Damn it, Sharpe, they'll be handing out Captaincies like pound notes on election day soon.

Sharpe nodded. 'Yes, sir. Collett had made the point. Sharpe was an embarrassment, not just to Rymer, but to all the Captains who saw him sniffing at their heels. If he could leave the Battalion now, go to Hogan, then there would be no difficulty in bringing him back, after the assault, into a Captaincy. And the assault would be soon. Wellington was not patient in a siege, the fine weather was bringing the possibility of a French counter-move, and Sharpe sensed that the infantry would be hurled against the city very soon. Too soon, probably. Collett was right; there would be vacancies, too many vacancies, made by the French guns in Badajoz.

Windham seemed relieved by Sharpe's evident acceptance. 'That's it, then, Sharpe. Good luck; good hunting! He barked an embarrassed laugh. 'We'll see you back!

'Yes, sir. But not, Sharpe thought, in the way Windham planned. The Rifleman, as he limped from the tent, did not object to the Colonel's solution, or rather Hogan's solution, but he was damned if he would be nothing more than a pawn to be pushed round a board and sacrificed. He had lost his Company, and now he was pushed out of the Battalion, and he felt an anger inside him. He was superfluous. Then damn them all. He would make the Forlorn Hope. He would live and they would take him back, not as a convenient replacement for a dead Captain, but as a soldier they could not ignore. He would fight back! God damn them, he would fight back, and he knew where he was going to start. He heard a cackle come from the Battalion's supply dump. Hakeswill! Bloody Hakeswill who had emptied the seven-barreled gun at him in the darkness. Sharpe turned towards the sound, winced as the pain seared his leg, and marched towards the enemy.

CHAPTER 20

Hakeswill cackled. 'You bloody fairies! You're not bloody soldiers. Stand still!

The twelve Riflemen stood still. Each would have gladlykilled the Sergeant, but not here, not in the supply dump that was open to the gaze of the whole camp. The murder would have to be done at night, in secret, but somehow Hakeswill seemed always to be awake, or alert to the smallest sound. Perhaps he was right, he could not be killed.

Hakeswill walked slowly down the rank. Each man was stripped to his shirt, the green jackets lying on the ground in front of them. He stopped by Hagman, the old poacher, and pushed at the jacket with his foot. 'What's this, then? His toe was pointing at the black stripe sewn on the sleeve.

'Senior Rifleman's badge, Sergeant.

'Senior Rifleman's badge, Sergeant. Hakeswill imitated Hagman. The yellow face twitched. 'Bloody decrepit, you are!" He pushed the sleeve into the mud. 'Senior bloody Rifleman! From now on you're a bloody soldier. He cackled, letting his fetid breath wash over Hagman's face. The Rifleman did not move or react; to do so was to invite punishment. Hakeswill twitched and moved on. He was feeling pleased with himself. The Riflemen had annoyed him because they seemed to him to form an elite group, a close-knit group, and he had wanted to smash them. He had suggested to Rymer as they straggled back from the dam that the rifles were a hindrance; he had hinted that Rymer could begin to establish his ascendancy over Sharpe's old Company by disbanding the Riflemen, and it had worked. 'You! About turn! You poxed Irish pig! Turn! His spittle sprayed Harper.

Harper paused for a fraction of a second, and saw an officer watching. He had no wish to end his days in front of a firing squad. He turned round.

Hakeswill drew his bayonet. 'How's your back, Private?

'Fine, Sergeant.

'Fine, fine. Hakeswill mimicked the Donegal accent. 'That's good, Private. He put the flat of the bayonet high on Harper's back and drew the blade downwards, over the unhealed cuts, over the scabs, and blood welled out to stain the shirt. 'You've got a dirty shirt, Private, a dirty, Irish shirt.

'Yes, Sergeant. Harper kept the pain out of his voice. He had promised he would kill this man, and he would.

'Wash it! Hakeswill sheathed his bayonet. 'About turn!

The twelve Riflemen watched the Sergeant. He was mad, there was no doubt about that. In the past few days he had taken to a new habit, of sitting by himself, taking off" his hat, and talking into it. He talked to his shako as if it was a friend. He told it his plans and his hopes, how he would find Teresa, and his eyes would flick up to the Company to catch them looking at him as they listened. Then he would cackle. 'I'm going to have her. His eyes would go back to the shako's greasy interior. 'I'm going to have the pretty lady, oh yes, Obadiah's going to have her!