The working parties took jackets from the dead, threaded the sleeves onto abandoned muskets, and made crude stretchers on which wounded men were carried to the bridge. Half the men worked on the piles round the spot where Sharpe and Harper had clambered across the blood and corpses to rescue the colour; the other half worked among the bodies that formed a fan shape ending at the entrance to the bridge. The French were swiftly finished and started rummaging through the blue-coated bodies of the Spanish. It was not mercy they were showing but a desire to loot the dead and the wounded. The British did the same, there was no stopping them; the spoils of a fight were the one reward of the survivors. The Riflemen, on Sharpe’s orders, collected abandoned muskets, dozens of them, and took ammunition pouches from the dead. If the French should attack then Sharpe planned to arm each man with three or four loaded guns and meet the horsemen with a continuous volley that would destroy the attackers. It would not bring back the lost colour. That had gone for ever or until in some unimaginable future the army might march into Paris and take back the trophy. As he moved among the carnage, directing the work, he doubted if the French really meant to attack again. The losses they would incur would hardly be worth the effort; perhaps instead they were hoping for his surrender. He helped Leroy to the bridge, propped him against the parapet, and cut away the white breeches. There was a bullet wound in the American’s thigh, dark and oozing, but the carbine ball had gone clean through, and, despite Leroy’s evident disgust, Sharpe summoned Harper to put maggots in the wound before binding it with a strip torn from the shirt of a dead man. Forrest was alive, stunned and bleeding, found where the colours had fallen with his sword still gripped in his hand. Sharpe propped him next to Leroy. It would be minutes before Forrest recovered himself, and Sharpe doubted whether the Major, who looked like a vicar, would want to take any more military action that day. He put the colour with the two wounded officers, propped its great yellow flag over the parapet as a symbol of defiance to the French, but what about the British? Twice he had walked gingerly to the edge of the broken roadway and hailed the far bank, but it was as if the men there inhabited a different world, went about their business oblivious of the carnage just a few hundred feet away. For the third time Sharpe walked out onto the bridge through the broken stones.

“Hello!” There could only be thirty minutes of the hour left. He cupped his hands again. “Hello!”

Hogan appeared, waved to him, and came across the other part of the broken bridge. It was reassuring to see the Engineer’s blue coat and cocked hat, but there was something different about the uniform. Sharpe could not place the oddity but it was there. He waved at the gap between them.

“What happened?”

Hogan spread his hands. “Not my doing. Simmerson lit the fuse.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“Why do you think? He got frightened. Thought the French would swarm all over him. I’m sorry. I tried to stop him but I’m under arrest.” That was it! Hogan wore no sword. The Irishman grinned happily at Sharpe. “So are you, by the way.”

Sharpe swore viciously and at length. Hogan let him finish. “I know, Sharpe, I know. It’s just plain stupid. It’s all because we refused to let your Riflemen form a skirmish line, remember?”

“He thinks that would have saved him?”

“He has to blame someone. He won’t blame himself, so you and I are the scapegoats.” Hogan took off his hat and scratched his balding pate. “I couldn’t give a damn, Richard. It’ll just mean enduring the man’s spleen till we get back to the army. After that we’ll hear no more about it. The General will tear him apart! Don’t worry yourself!”

It seemed ridiculous to be discussing their mutual arrest in shouts across the gap where the water broke white on the shattered stonework. Sharpe waved his hand at the wounded.

“What about this lot? We’ve got dozens of wounded and the French are coming back soon. We need help. What’s he doing?”

“Doing?” Hogan shook his head. “He’s like a chicken with its head chopped off. He’s drilling the men, that’s what he’s doing. Any poor sod who doesn’t have a musket will be lucky if he only gets three dozen lashes. The bastard doesn’t know what to do!”

“But for Christ’s sake!”

Hogan held up his hand. “I know, I know. I’ve told him he’s got to get timber and ropes.” He pointed at the forty-foot gap. “I can’t hope to get timber to bridge this, but we can make rafts and float them across. But there’s no timber here. He’ll have to send back for it!”

“Has he done it?”

“No.” Hogan said no more. Sharpe could imagine the argument he had had with Simmerson, and he knew the Engineer would have done his best. For a moment they discussed names, who was dead, who was wounded. Hogan asked after Lennox but Sharpe had no news, and he wondered whether the Scotsman was lying dead on the field. Then there was the clatter of hooves and Sharpe saw Lieutenant Christian Gibbons ride onto the bridge behind Hogan. The blond lieutenant stared down at the Engineer.

“I thought you were under arrest, Captain, and confined?”

Hogan looked up at the arrogant Lieutenant. “I needed a piss.”

Sharpe laughed. Hogan waved, wished him luck, and turned back to the convent leaving Sharpe facing Gibbons across the water. The Lieutenant’s uniform was clean and pristine.

“You’re under arrest, Sharpe, and I am ordered to tell you that Sir Henry will request a General Court Martial.”

Sharpe laughed. It was the only possible response, and it enraged the Lieutenant. “It’s no laughing matter! You are ordered to surrender your sword to me.”

Sharpe looked at the water. “Will you fetch it, Gibbons? Or shall I bring it to you?”

Gibbons ignored the comment. He had been given a message to deliver and was determined to reach the end, whatever the difficulties. “And you are ordered to return the Regimental Colour.”

It was unbelievable. Sharpe could scarcely credit his ears. He stood on the shattered bridge in the searing heat while behind him were rows of wounded men whose cries could clearly be heard, yet Simmerson had sent his nephew to demand that Sharpe surrender his sword and hand over the colour.

“Why was the bridge blown up?”

“It is not your business, Sharpe.”

“It damn well is, Gibbons, I’m on the wrong bloody side of it.” He looked at the elegant Lieutenant, whose uniform was quite unstained by any blood or earth. He suspected Simmerson’s uniform would be the same. “Were you going to abandon the wounded, Gibbons? Was that it?”

The Lieutenant looked at Sharpe with distaste. “Will you please fetch the colour, Sharpe, and throw it to this side of the bridge?”

“Go away, Gibbons.” Sharpe spoke with an equal disdain. “Get your precious uncle to talk with me, not his lapdog. As for the colour? It stays here. You deserted it and I fought for it. My men fought for it and it stays with us till you get us back across the river. Do you understand?” His voice was rising with anger. “So tell that to your fat windbag! He gets his colour with us. And tell him the French are coming back for another attack. They want that colour and that’s why I’m keeping my sword, Gibbons, so that I can fight for it!” He drew the thirty-five inches of steel. There had been no time to clean the blade, and Gibbons could scarcely take his eyes off the crusted blood. “And Gibbons. If you want this you can bloody well come and get it yourself.” He turned away from the Lieutenant, back to the wounded and dead, back to where Harper was waiting with a distressed face.

“Sergeant?”

“We found Captain Lennox, sir. He’s bad.”

Sharpe followed Harper through the rows of wounded, who stared at him dumbly. There was so little he could do! He could bind up wounds but there was no way to dull the pain. He needed brandy, a doctor, help. And now Lennox.