It had been a piece of pure bravado to hang the Colours on the gate-tower, each one fixed by driving an enemy bayonet through the flag and into the crumbling mortar of the battlements. It crossed Sharpe's mind that he and Harper had saved these Colours from Sir Augustus' impetuosity, from the man's stupidity, and Sharpe looked down at the place where Farthingdale had fallen. Smoke still drifted there, and then Sharpe swore and ducked as a bullet from the valley chipped at the stone by the flags. Someone down there thought the Colours had been captured, that the enemy was flaunting them.

'Sir? Harper pointed north towards the Convent.

The Rocket Troop had arrived. The fight at the eastern wall had meant their passage of the pass, close to the Castle's northern wall, had been undisturbed. Now the wagons were parked on the road leading to the Convent, the troopers watching curiously the confusion of the failed attack.

Who was in charge down there? Was Sir Augustus alive? Sharpe had assumed Kinney's death, certainly the Welshman was hard hit, so who was giving the orders to the Companies that had escaped the explosion? Bullets made the air above the gate-tower a deadly place, bullets fired from both sides, from keep and from valley. Sharpe sat down and watched Harper load the seven-barrelled gun. 'We wait. There was nothing Sharpe could do from the high turret. He had plucked some Fusiliers from the chaos, saved the Colours, and now they would have to sit it out until the Castle fell. He wished he had eaten some breakfast.

Sharpe had raised the Colours in bravado, but to the Fusiliers they were a taunt of failure. They did not see that it was Riflemen on the high battlement, they only saw their pride, their Colours, tacked to an enemy fortress. Men did not fight for King and Country so much as they fought for those squares of fringed silk, and the Fusiliers, recovering their order, saw the flags and no power on earth was going to stop them attempting to recover them. Six Companies had been untouched by the explosion, two others hardly affected, and now they turned, charged, and Frederickson launched his Riflemen ahead of them.

No one noticed that the guns in the watchtower had ceased firing. The battle was no longer being directed, it was now an expression of anger.

The bullets had stopped flickering about the gate-tower and Sharpe risked a look, saw the surge of men coming from the valley and turned back. 'Muskets! He pointed to the guns that had belonged to the half-dozen prisoners who still cowered against the stones.

Harper raked the muskets towards them, selected four that were still loaded, and raised his eyebrows towards Sharpe.

'The cannon.

The gun on the eastern wall, hard by the keep, was still the one weapon that could hurt the attack. It was a long shot for a musket, but the balls flying about the gunners' ears would at least discourage them. Sharpe levelled an unfamiliar French musket over the wall. It felt clumsy. He could see the gunners behind their embrasure, one holding the portfire which would spark the priming tube and slam the canister from the muzzle, and he aimed a little above the man's head and pulled the trigger. The gun hammered his shoulder, smoke blotted out his view, and then Harper's musket sounded in the next embrasure. Sharpe took the second musket, cocked it, and waited till the smoke of the first shot had thinned a little. Damn this still air!

The gunners had ducked, were looking wildly about for the source of the shots. Sharpe grinned, aimed lower, and once more a flint sparked on steel, priming exploded in his face, the burning powder stinging his cheek, and again the smoke obscured his view. Then there were cheers from the rubble, shouts of alarm from the courtyard, and Sharpe and Harper stood up and watched the scene from above.

Pot-au-Feu had no defence against this second attack. He had pinned all his hopes on the destructive power of the mine added to the desperation of his men, and now his defence collapsed. Sharpe saw, with satisfaction, the gunners leaving the cannon unfired, scrambling for the safety of the keep, and their example was being followed by the rabble in the courtyard. Red uniforms were flooding over the rubble, a line of green Riflemen ahead of them, and the Fusiliers were in no mood for mercy. They took the slim, seventeen-inch bayonets to the enemy, stabbed, and the blades came back reddened while Pot-au-Feu's men clamoured and fought to gain the safety of the single arched door that led into the keep.

A bugle was playing, a double note in the centre of each call that drove men to the charge, and Frederickson's Riflemen with their longer bayonets drove more fugitives towards the stable block beneath the western ramparts. They jumped the low wall, shouted their challenges, and the enemy ran.

Bayonets were not used often on the battlefield, at least not to kill. The force of the weapon was in the fear it provoked and Sharpe had witnessed dozens of bayonet charges when the blades never reached the enemy. Men would turn and run rather than face the edged steel. Yet here, in the confines of the courtyard, the Riflemen and Fusiliers had trapped an enemy with no space to run. They killed, as they had been trained to kill, and it took time before individual soldiers saw that some of the deserters were surrendering, and then the attackers began defending the unarmed prisoners against the fury of other men who still hunted with dripping blades.

Sharpe saw Frederickson, his patch and teeth removed, sending troops up the staircase which led, beside the stable block, to the western wall. The Castle was falling.

'Let's go down.

Two more Fusiliers had come to the turret's top and Sharpe left them guarding the prisoners. He and Harper clattered down the staircase, mundane now that it was not a place of stifling fear, and they came into the large room where the wounded moaned and the Fusilier Sergeant turned a worried face to Sharpe. 'Our lads, sir?

'Yes. Keep shouting down the stairs. They'll know your name, won't they?

'Yes, sir.

Sharpe opened the door that led to the northern wall. The rampart was empty. At its far end the firestep entered a tunnel in the north-western turret before turning left onto the western wall. As he watched he saw a figure appear in the turret, drop to one knee and bring up a rifle. Sharpe stepped into the sunlight. 'Don't shoot!

Thomas Taylor, the American, jerked his rifle safely upwards. He grinned, knowing he had frightened Sharpe, then called over his shoulder. Frederickson appeared, sabre in hand, and his face showed astonishment and then pleasure. He ran down the rampart. 'Was that you on the top?

'Yes.

'Christ! We thought it was enemy. Jesus! I thought you were dead, sir!

Sharpe looked at the courtyard where Pot-au-Feu's men made a desperate defence at the gateway to the keep. Otherwise it was chaos as Fusiliers took prisoners, searched them, and shouted triumphantly over their booty. 'Who's in charge?

'Damned if I know, sir.

'Farthingdale?

'Haven't seen him.

Sharpe could imagine what would happen if the Fusiliers reached the liquor that Pot-au-Feu undoubtedly had within the keep. He gave orders to Frederickson, shouted more to Captain Cross whose Riflemen now lined the eastern wall, and turned to Harper. 'Let's see if we can find that bloody gold we delivered.

'God! I'd forgotten it! The Sergeant grinned. 'After you, sir.

There was no resistance at the doorway that led from the ramparts into the keep. The Riflemen were already through, spreading out into the floors built about the keep's central courtyard. Prisoners were dragged from hiding places, booted down steep winding stairs, and Sharpe could hear the screams of women and the cries of frightened children. Then, looking through a crumbled and widened arrow slit at the southern side of the keep, he swore.