"Sir! Mister Sharpe, sir!" It was Patrick Harper who called.

Sharpe collapsed the telescope and walked back, seeing as he went what had prompted Harper's call. Two companies of brown-coated cazadores were approaching the spur and Sharpe supposed the Portuguese troops had orders to clear the rocky knoll of the enemy. A pair of nine-pounders were being repositioned to support their attack, but Sharpe did not hold out much chance for it. The cazadores numbered about the same as the voltigeurs, but the French had cover and it would be a nasty fight if they decided to make a stand.

"I didn't want you in the way when those gunners started firing," Harper explained, jerking his head towards the pair of nine-pounders.

"Decent of you, Pat."

"If you died, sir, then Slingsby would take over," Harper said without a trace of insubordination.

"You wouldn't want that?" Sharpe asked.

"I'm from Donegal, sir, and I put up with whatever the good Lord sends to trouble me."

"He sent me, Pat, he sent me."

"Mysterious are the ways of the Lord," Harris put in. The cazadores were waiting fifty paces behind Sharpe. He ignored them, instead asking again if any of the men had seen Dodd. Mister Iliffe, who had not heard Sharpe ask before, nodded nervously. "He was running, sir."

"Where?"

"When we were almost cut off, sir? Down the hill. Going like a hare." Which matched what Carter, Dodd's partner, had thought. The two men had very nearly been trapped by the voltigeurs and Dodd had elected the fast way out, downhill, while Carter had been lucky to escape uphill with nothing more serious than a musket ball in his pack, which he claimed had only helped him along. Sharpe reckoned Dodd would rejoin later. He was a countryman, could read ground, and doubtless he would avoid the French and climb up the southern part of the ridge. Whatever, there was nothing Sharpe could do about him now.

"So are we going to help the Portuguese boys?" Harper asked.

"Not on your bloody life," Sharpe said, "not unless they bring a whole bloody battalion."

"He's coming to ask you," Harper said in warning, nodding towards a slim Portuguese officer who approached the light company. His brown uniform had black facings and his high-fronted shako had a long black plume. Sharpe noted that the officer wore a heavy cavalry sword and, unusually, carried a rifle. Sharpe could think of only one officer who was so armed, himself, and he felt irritated that there should be another officer with the same weapons, but then the approaching man took off his black-plumed barretina and smiled broadly.

"Good God," Sharpe said.

"No, no, it's only me." Jorge Vicente, whom Sharpe had last seen in the wild country north east of Oporto, held out his hand. "Mister Sharpe," he said.

"Jorge!"

"Capitao Vicente now." Vicente clasped Sharpe and then, to the rifleman's embarrassment, gave his friend a kiss on both cheeks. "And you, Richard, a major by now, I expect?"

"Bloody hell, no, Jorge. They don't promote the likes of me. It might spoil the army's reputation. How are you?"

"I am-how do you say? — flourishing. But you?" Vicente frowned at Sharpe's bruised face. "You are wounded?"

"Fell down some steps," Sharpe said.

"You must be careful," Vicente said solemnly, then smiled. "Sergeant Harper! It is good to see you."

"No kissing, sir, I'm Irish."

Vicente greeted the other men he had known in the wild pursuit of Soult's army across the northern frontier, then turned back to Sharpe. "I've orders to knock those things out of the rocks." He gestured towards the French.

"It's a good idea," Sharpe said, "but there aren't enough of you."

"Two Portuguese are equal to one Frenchman," Vicente said airily, "and you might do the honor of helping us?"

"Bloody hell," Sharpe said, then evaded an answer by nodding at the Baker rifle on Vicente's shoulder. "And what are you doing carrying a rifle?"

"Imitating you," Vicente said frankly, "and besides, I am now the captain of a atirador company, the how do you say? marksmen. We carry rifles, the other companies have muskets. I transferred from the 18th when we raised the cazador battalions. So, shall we attack?"

"What do you think?" Sharpe countered.

Vicente smiled uncertainly. He had been a soldier for less than two years; before that he had been a lawyer and when Sharpe first met him the young Portuguese had been a stickler for the supposed rules of warfare. That might or might not have changed, but Sharpe suspected Vicente was a natural soldier, brave and decisive, no fool, yet he was still nervous of showing his skills to Sharpe who had taught him most of what he knew about fighting. He glanced at Sharpe, then shadowed his eyes to stare at the French. "They won't stand," he suggested.

"They might," Sharpe said, "and there are at least a hundred of the bastards. How many are we? A hundred and thirty? If it was up to me, Jorge, I'd send in your whole battalion."

"My Colonel ordered me to do it."

"Does he know what he's doing?"

"He's English," Vicente said dryly. The Portuguese army had been reorganized and trained in the last eighteen months and huge numbers of British officers had volunteered into its ranks for the reward of a promotion.

"I'd still send in more men," Sharpe said.

Vicente had no chance to answer because there was the sudden thump of hooves on the springy turf and a stentorian voice shouting at him. "Don't hang about, Vicente! There are Frogs to kill! Get on with it, Captain, get on with it! Who the devil are you?" This last question was directed at Sharpe and came from a horseman who had trouble curbing his gelding as he tried to rein in beside the two officers. The rider's voice betrayed he was English, though he was wearing Portuguese brown to which he had added a black cocked hat that sported a pair of golden tassels. One tassel shadowed his face that looked to be red and glistening.

"Sharpe, sir," Sharpe answered the man's bad-tempered question.

"95th?"

"South Essex, sir."

"That bloody mob of yokels," the officer said. "Lost a color a couple of years back, didn't you?"

"We took one back at Talavera," Sharpe said harshly.

"Did you now?" The horseman did not seem particularly interested.

He took out a small telescope and stared at the rocky knoll, ignoring some musket balls which, fired at extreme range, fluttered impotently by. "Allow me to name Colonel Rogers-Jones," Vicente said, "my Colonel."

"And the man, Vicente," Rogers-Jones said, "who ordered you to turf those buggers out of the rocks. I didn't tell you to stand here and chatter, did I?"

"I was seeking Captain Sharpe's advice, sir," Vicente said.

"Reckon he's got any to offer?" The Colonel sounded amused.

"He took a French Eagle," Vicente pointed out.

"Not by standing around talking, he didn't," Rogers-Jones said. He collapsed his telescope. "I'll tell the gunners to open fire," he went on, "and you advance, Vicente. You'll help him, Sharpe." He added the order carelessly. "Winkle them out, Vicente, then stay there to make sure the bastards don't come back." He turned his horse and spurred away.

"Jesus bloody wept," Sharpe said. "Does he know how many of them there are?"

"I still have my orders," Vicente said bleakly.

Sharpe took the rifle off his shoulder and loaded it. "You want advice?"

"Of course."

"Send our rifles up the middle," Sharpe said, "in skirmish order. They're to keep firing, hard and fast, no patches, just keeping the bastards' heads down. The rest of our lads will come up behind in line. Bayonets fixed. Straight-forward battalion attack, Jorge, with three companies, and I hope your bastard Colonel is satisfied."

"Our lads?" Vicente picked those two words out of Sharpe's advice.