'And plum pudding, sir. You told me you got plum pudding once. Harper was loading the huge gun.

'Once. Yes. It was a gift from someone or other. In the afternoon the quality would come and visit. Little boys and girls brought by their mothers to see how the orphans lived. God! We hated them! Mind you, it was the one bloody day of the winter when they heated the place. Couldn't have the children of the rich catching a cold when they visited the poor. He held the sword up, stared at the blade reflectively. 'Long time ago, Captain, long time ago.

'Did you ever go back?

Sharpe sat up. 'No. He paused. 'I thought about it. Be nice to go back, dressed up in uniform, carrying this. He hefted the sword again, then grinned. 'It's probably all changed. The bastards who ran it are probably dead and the children probably sleep in beds and get three meals a day and don't know how lucky they are. He stood up so that he could slide the sword into its scabbard.

Frederickson shook his head. 'I don't think it's changed much.

Sharpe shrugged. 'It doesn't matter, Captain. Children are tough little things. Leave them to life and they manage. He made it sound brutal because he had managed, and he walked away from Frederickson and Harper because the conversation had made him think of his own daughter. Was she old enough to be excited by Christmas Eve? He did not know. He thought of her small round face, her dark hair that had looked so much like his when he had last seen her, and he wondered what kind of life she would have. A life without a father, a life that had come out of war, and he knew that he did not want to leave her alone to life.

He talked to the men, chatting easily, listening to their jokes and knowing their hidden fears. He had the Sergeants hand out another half dozen canteens of brandy and was touched because men offered him swigs of the precious liquid. He left his own advance party till last, the fifteen men sitting in their own group and putting the last touches to sword bayonets that were already sharp. Eight were Germans who spoke good English, good enough to understand urgent orders, and he waved them down as, with the formality of their race, they began getting to their feet. 'Warm enough?

Nods and smiles. 'Yes, sir. They looked freezing. One man, thin as a ramrod, licked his lips as he ran an oiled leather cloth over his sword bayonet. He held the blade up to the last light of the day and seemed satisfied. He put the bayonet down and, with meticulous care, folded the leather and put it into an oilskin packet. He looked up, saw Sharpe's interest, and wordlessly handed the blade up to the Major. Sharpe put a thumb on the fore-edge. Christ! It was like a razor. 'How do you get it that sharp?

'Trouble, sir, trouble. Work it every day. The man took the bayonet back and pushed it carefully into its scabbard.

Another man grinned at Sharpe. 'Taylor wears a spike out every year, sir. Sharpens 'em too much. You should see his rifle, sir. Taylor was obviously the showpiece of his company, used to the attention, and he handed the weapon to Sharpe.

Like the bayonet, this, too, had been worked on. The wood was oiled to a deep polish. The stock had been reshaped with a knife, giving a narrower grip behind the trigger while, on top of the butt, a leather pad had been nailed with brass-headed nails. A cheek-piece. Sharpe pulled the cock back, checking first that the gun was unloaded, and the flint seemed to rest uneasily at the full position. Sharpe touched the trigger and the flint snapped forward, almost without any pressure from Sharpe's finger, and the thin man grinned. 'Filed down, sir.

Sharpe gave the rifle back. Taylor's voice reminded him of Major Leroy's of the South Essex. 'Are you American, Taylor?

'Yes, sir.

'Loyalist?

'No, sir. Fugitive. Taylor seemed an unsmiling, laconic man.

'From what?

'Merchantman, sir. Ran in Lisbon.

'He killed the Captain, sir. The other man volunteered with an admiring smile.

Sharpe looked at Taylor. The American shrugged. 'Where are you from in America, Taylor?

The cold eyes looked at Sharpe as if the mind behind them was thinking whether or not to answer. Then the shrug again. 'Tennessee, sir.

'Never heard of it. Does it worry you we're at war with the United States?

'No, sir. Taylor's answer seemed to suggest that his country would manage quite well without his assistance. 'I hear you've a man in your Company, sir, who thinks he can shoot?

Sharpe knew he meant Daniel Hagman, the marksman of the South Essex. 'That's right.

'You tell him, sir, that Thomas Taylor is better.

'What's your range?

The eyes looked dispassionately at Sharpe. Again he seemed to think about his answer. 'At two hundred yards I'm certain.

'So's Hagman.

The grin again. 'I mean certain of putting a ball in one of his eyes, sir.

It was an impossible boast, of course, but Sharpe liked the spirit in which it was made. Taylor, he guessed, would be an awkward man to lead, but so were many of the Riflemen. They were encouraged to be independent, to think for themselves on a battlefield, and the Rifle Regiments had thrown away much old fashioned blind discipline and relied more on morale as a motivating force. A new officer to the 95th or the 60th was expected to drill and train in the ranks, to learn the merits of the men he would command in battle, and that was a hard apprenticeship for some yet it forged trust and respect on both sides. Sharpe was sure of these men. They would fight, but what of Pot-au-Feu's men in the Convent? All were trained soldiers and his one hope, that appeared more slender as the cold day wore on into night, was that soon the deserters would be hopeless with drink.

Evening, Christmas Eve, and clouds covered the sky so there was no star to guide them. The Christmas hymns were being sung in the parish churches at home. 'High let us swell our tuneful notes, and join the angelic throng'. Sharpe remembered the words from the Foundling Home. 'Good will to sinful men is shewn, and peace on earth is given'. There would be no good will for sinful men this night. Out of the darkness would come swords, bayonets and death. Christmas Eve, 1812, in the Gateway of God would be screams and pain, blood and anger, and Sharpe thought of the innocent women in the Convent and he let the anger begin. Let the waiting be done, he prayed, let the night arrive, and he wanted the flare of battle within him, he wanted Hakeswill dead, he wanted the night to come.

Christmas Eve turned to darkness. Wolves prowled in the saw-toothed peaks, a wind drove cold from the west, and the men in green jackets waited, shivering, and in their hearts was revenge and death.

A night so dark it was like the Eve of Creation. A blackness complete, a darkness that did not even betray an horizon, a night of clouds and no moon. Christmas Eve.

The men made small noises as they waited in the gully. They were like animals crouching against a bitter cold. The small drizzle compounded the misery.

Sharpe would go first with his small group, then Frederickson, as Senior Captain, would bring on the main group of Riflemen. Harry Price would wait outside the Convent until the fight was over, or until, unthinkably, he must cover a wild retreat in the darkness.

It was a night when failure insisted on rehearsing itself in Sharpe's head. He had peered over the gully's rim in the dusk and he had stared long at the route he must take in the darkness, but suppose he got lost? Or suppose that some fool disobeyed orders and went forward with a loaded rifle, tripped, and blasted the night apart with an accidental shot? Suppose there was no track down the northern side of the valley? Sharpe knew there were thorn bushes on the valley's flanks and he imagined leading his troops into the snagging spines and then he forced the pessimism away. It insisted on coming back. Suppose the hostages had been moved? Suppose he could not find them in the Convent? Perhaps they were dead. He wondered what kind of young, rich woman would marry Sir Augustus Farthingdale. She would probably think of Sharpe as some kind of horrid savage.