"Good to see you, Charles, " he said, knowing that his use of the Christian name would irritate Morris.

"Nice morning, eh?"

Morris looked left and right as though seeking someone who could help him confront this upstart from his past. Morris had never liked Sharpe, indeed he had conspired with Obadiah Hakeswill to have Sharpe flogged in the hope that the punishment would end in death, but Sharpe had survived and had been commissioned. Now the bastard was being familiar, and there was nothing Morris could do about it.

«Sharpe,» he managed to say.

"Thought I'd join you, Charles, " Sharpe said airily.

"I've been stranded up here, and Kenny reckoned I might be useful to you."

"Of course, " Morris said, conscious of his men's gaze. Morris would have liked to tell Sharpe to bugger a long way off, but he could not commit such impolite ness to a fellow officer in front of his men.

"I

never congratulated you, " he forced himself to say.

"No time like the present, " Sharpe said.

Morris blushed.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you, Charles, " Sharpe said, then turned and looked at the company. Most grinned at him, but a few men avoided his gaze.

"No Sergeant Hakeswill?" Sharpe asked guilelessly.

"He was captured by the enemy, " Morris said. The Captain was staring at Sharpe's coat which was not quite big enough and looked, somehow, familiar.

Sharpe saw Morris frowning at the jacket.

"You like the coat?" he asked.

"What?" Morris asked, confused by his suspicions and by Sharpe's easy manner. Morris himself was wearing an old coat that was disfigured by brown cloth patches.

"I bought the coat after Assaye, " Sharpe said.

"You weren't there, were you?"

"No."

"Nor at Argaum?"

«No,» Morris said, stiffening slightly. He resented the fact that Sharpe had survived those battles and was now suggesting, however delicately, that the experience gave him an advantage. The truth was that it did, but Morris could not admit that any more than he could admit his jealousy of Sharpe's reputation.

"So what are our orders today?" Sharpe asked.

Morris could not accustom himself to this confident Sharpe who treated him as an equal and he was tempted not to answer, but the question was reasonable and Sharpe was undoubtedly an officer, if merely an ensign.

"Once we're through the first wall, " Morris answered unhappily, "Kenny's going to attack the left-hand upper breach and he wants us to seal off the right upper breach."

"Sounds like a decent morning's work, " Sharpe said happily, then raised a hand to Garrard.

"How are you, Tom?"

"Pleased you're here, sir."

"Couldn't let you babies go into a breach without some help, " Sharpe said, then held out his hand to Sergeant Green.

"Good to see you, Sergeant."

"Grand to see you too, sir, " Green said, shaking Sharpe's hand.

"I

heard you'd been commissioned and I hardly dared believe it!»

"You know what they say about scum, Sergeant, " Sharpe said.

"Always floats to the top, eh?" Some of the men laughed, especially when Sharpe glanced at Morris who had, indeed, expressed that very opinion not long before. Others scowled, for there were plenty in the company who resented Sharpe's good fortune.

One of them, a dark-faced man called Growley, spat.

"You always were a lucky bastard, Sharpie."

Sharpe seemed to ignore the remark as he stepped through the seated company and greeted more of his old friends, but when he was behind Crowley he turned abruptly and pushed out the butt of his slung musket so that the heavy stock thumped into the private's head. Crowley let out a yelp and turned to see Sharpe standing above him.

"The word, Crowley, " Sharpe said menacingly, 'is "sir"."

Crowley met Sharpe's gaze, but could not hold it.

"Yes, sir, " he said meekly.

"I'm sorry I was careless with the musket, Crowley, " Sharpe said.

There was another burst of laughter, making Morris scowl, but he was quite uncertain of how to deal with Sharpe and so he said nothing.

Watson, a Welsh private who had joined the regiment rather than face an assize court, jerked a thumb towards the fort.

"They say the breaches are too steep, Mister Sharpe."

"Nothing to what you Welsh boys climb every day in the mountains, " Sharpe said. He had borrowed Major Stokes's telescope shortly after dawn and stared at the breaches, and he had not much liked what he had seen, but this was no time to tell the truth.

"We're going to give the buggers a right bloody thrashing, lads, " he said instead.

"I've fought these Mahrattas twice now and they don't stand. They look good, but press home on the bastards and they turn and run like jack rabbits. Just keep going, boys, keep fighting, and the buggers'll give up."

It was the speech Morris should have made to them, and Sharpe had not even known he was going to make any kind of speech when he opened his mouth, but somehow the words had come. And he was glad, for the men looked relieved at his confidence, then some of them looked nervous again as they watched a sepoy coming up the track with a British flag in his hands. Colonel Kenny and his aides walked behind the man, all with drawn swords. Captain Morris drank deep from his canteen, and the smell of rum wafted to Sharpe.

The guns fired on, crumbling the breaches' shoulders and filling the air with smoke and dust as they tried to make the rough way smooth.

Soldiers, sensing that the order to advance was about to be given, stood and hefted their weapons. Some touched rabbits' feet hidden in pockets, or whatever other small token gave them a finger hold on life.

One man vomited, another trembled. Sweat poured down their faces.

"Four ranks, " Morris said.

"Into ranks! Quick now! " Sergeant Green snapped. An howitzer shell arced overhead then plummeted towards the fort trailing its wisp of fuse smoke. Sharpe heard the shell explode, then watched another shell follow. A man dashed out of the ranks into the rocks, lowered his trousers and emptied his bowels. Everyone pretended not to notice until the smell struck them, then they jeered as the embarrassed man went back to his place.

"That's enough! " Green said.

A sepoy drummer with an old-fashioned mitred shako on his head gave his drum a couple of taps, while a piper from the Scotch Brigade filled his bag then settled the instrument under his elbow. Colonel Kenny was looking at his watch. The guns fired on, their smoke drifting down to the waiting men. The sepoy with the flag was at the front of the forming column, and Sharpe guessed the enemy must be able to see the bright tip of the colour above the rocky crest.

Sharpe took the bayonet from his belt and slotted it onto the musket.

He was not wearing the sabre that Ahmed had stolen from Morris, for he knew the weapon would be identifiable, and so he had a tulwar that he had borrowed from Syud Sevajee. He did not trust the weapon. He had seen too many Indian blades break in combat. Besides he was used to a musket and bayonet.

"Fix bayonets! " Morris ordered, prompted by the sight of Sharpe's blade.

"And save your fire till you're hard in the breach, " Sharpe added.

"You've got one shot, lads, so don't waste it. You won't have time to reload till you're through both walls."

Morris scowled at this unasked-for advice, but the men seemed grateful for it, just as they were grateful that they were not in the front ranks of Kenny's force. That honour had gone to the Grenadier Company of the 94th who thus formed the Forlorn Hope. Usually the Hope, that group of men who went first into a breach to spring the enemy traps and fight down the immediate defenders, was composed of volunteers, but Kenny had decided to do without a proper Forlorn Hope. He wanted to fill the breaches quickly and so overwhelm the de fences by numbers, and thus hard behind the Scotch Brigade's grenadiers were two more companies of Scots, then came the sepoys and Morris's men. Hard and fast, Kenny had told them, hard and fast.