The General grinned. 'So that's that. How many were there?

An aide-de-camp snapped a telescope shut. 'Fifty redcoats, sir, twenty grasshoppers.

Dubreton sipped his coffee. 'So Major Sharpe lost.

'Let's be grateful for that. The General cupped his hands about his own coffee. 'They must have gone in the night, leaving that rearguard.

Another aide-de-camp was staring at the deserted watch-tower hill. 'Sir?

'Pierre?

'They left the guns.

The General yawned. 'They didn't have time to get them out. Those artillerymen marched all the way here for nothing. He laughed. It had been Dubreton's guess that the artillerymen he had seen in the Castle had been brought to fetch the guns back from the high valley. He had further guessed that Sharpe had arranged for him to see the men so that the French might think the British had properly served artillery batteries. Dubreton felt a moment of idle regret. It would have been interesting to fight against Richard Sharpe.

The General flung the dregs of his coffee onto the roadway and looked at Dubreton. 'He broke Ducos' glasses?

'Yes, sir.

The General laughed, the sound uncannily like the whinnying of a horse, so much so that the horse's ears flicked back in interest at the sound. The General shook his head. 'We'll catch them up before mid-day. Make sure this Sharpe doesn't fall into friend Ducos' hands. Alexandre.

‘Yes, sir.

'What's the time, Pierre?

'Twenty to nine, sir.

'What's twenty minutes in a war? Let's begin, gentlemen! The General, a small man, clapped Dubreton's back. 'Well done, Alexandre! It would have taken us all of a day to force this pass if they'd stayed.

'Thank you, sir. Again Dubreton felt a moment's regret that the enemy had folded so easily, yet he knew the regret was misplaced. This operation in midwinter was horribly dependent on timing. The French would take the Gateway of God, garrison it, then send most of their force down towards Vila Nova on the north bank of the Douro. Their presence would reinforce the careful rumours that Ducos had spread, rumours that talked of an invasion of North Portugal, the Tras os Montes, the Land beyond the Mountains, and when the British reacted, as they must, by bringing their forces north, then the real operation would unwind from Salamanca. Divisions of the Army of Portugal, reinforced by men from the Army of the Centre and even one division from the Army of the South would cross the Coa, stripped of its defenders from the British Light Division, and they would capture Frenada, possibly Almeida, and hoped even to surprise the Spanish garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo. Within a week the northern road from Portugal would again be in French hands, the war of the British set back at least a year, and Dubreton had lain awake in the night, his wife sleeping peacefully, and feared that Sharpe would stay in the Gateway of God. In the small hours he had got up, dressed silently, and joined the picquet line west of Adrados. A Sergeant had greeted him then nodded towards the Castle. 'Hear that, sir? Carts rumbling in the night. 'Bastards are going, sir.’

’Let's hope so, Sergeant.

Now, as daylight filled the valley, a grey light, damp and depressing, Dubreton felt a moment's regret for Sharpe. He had liked the Rifleman, recognizing in him a fellow soldier, and he knew that Sharpe wanted to make his stand in the high valley. It would have been a hopeless fight, but worthy of a soldier, and as he thought so the suspicion formed in his brain. Dubreton smiled. Of course! Suppose Sharpe wanted them to think that the British had left? He took out his own glass, borrowed the shoulder of a soldier, and searched the dark arrow slits of the Castle.

Nothing. He shifted the lens to the right, his hand slipping so that for a second he could only see the freshly turned earth of the graves in front of the east wall, and then the glass was under control and he looked at the gate-tower. Still nothing. The gate seemed unblocked. He tilted the telescope up and looked at the long dark slits above the arch and there was movement! He grinned, the sentry could sense the Colonel's excitement, and then the moment had passed. A jackdaw only, flying from the empty building, the birds taking over what was normally their own domain. He closed the glass. The sentry looked at him. 'Anyone there, sir?

'No. It's empty.

In the rectangular room above the gateway Sharpe cursed. The Fusilier shook his head. 'I'm sorry, sir. Bloody thing got out.

'Well don't play with the bloody baskets!

'No, sir.

It had taken Harper and Daniel Hagman over two hours to snare the five birds from the rocks above the Convent. Sharpe had wanted to keep them until the French were much closer, when the enemy could clearly see the birds leaving the arrow slits and draw the obvious conclusion that the building was once again deserted. Now this fool of a Fusilier had prised apart the lips of the rush basket to look at the bird, and it had exploded up at him, flying desperately about the chamber before seeing daylight and rocketing out into the valley. One wasted bird! Sharpe had only one other, the remaining three were with one of Cross's Lieutenants in the Keep.

It had been a night of frantic business, a load falling from Sharpe's shoulders when, at five o'clock, Sir Augustus Farthingdale and Josefina had ridden westward down the pass with four lightly wounded Fusiliers mounted on Gilliland's troop horses as escort. An hour later Sharpe had sent the women and children westward, herded on their way by Cross's Riflemen who had pushed them a mile down the pass and then left them to their own devices. Nearly four hundred prisoners remained in the Castle dungeons, guarded by the other lightly wounded Fusiliers. The wounded had been brought by wagon from the Convent to the Castle, carried up to the big room that looked westward and would be furthest from the French cannon-fire. The surgeon, a tall, grim man, had laid his probes, saws and knives on a table carried up from the kitchens.

Three Companies of Fusiliers were now at the watch-tower, reinforcing Frederickson's seventy-nine Riflemen.

Sharpe had ensured that the best Captains were at the tower, men who could fight on the isolated hill and not look for orders that might never arrive. The weakest Captains, two of them, he had put in the Convent, and with them was Harry. Price with Sharpe's old Company and eight of Cross's Riflemen. A hundred and seven men held the Convent, not counting officers, exactly half the number of Riflemen and Fusiliers who now crouched on the reverse slope of the watchtower hill. Sharpe had given the Convent one advantage. Patrick Harper was there, and Sharpe had put weak Captains into the building to make it easier for the Irish Sergeant to run the defence. Frederickson held Sharpe's right, Harper his left, and in the centre, the Castle. Sharpe had forty of Cross's Riflemen with two hundred and thirty-five Fusiliers. The Rocket Troop had gone south, hidden over the crest, the men nervous on their saddles with the strange lances in their hands.

'Sir? An Ensign in the stairway that went up towards the gate-tower top called down to Sharpe.

'Yes?

'One man riding to the watchtower, sir.

Sharpe swore quietly. He had tried so hard to convince the enemy that the positions were deserted. Harper had led a group of Riflemen away from the watchtower, waited by the gatehouse as one Company of Fusiliers had conspicuously lowered the Colours and formed up outside the Castle, and then all of them had dropped beneath the lip of the pass before turning right and entering the Convent through the hole hacked for Pot-au-Feu's gun. The officer, one of the Fusilier's brighter men, had ridden south and scrambled his horse up steep slopes to join Gilliland's nervous men.

'And sir?

'Yes?

'One Battalion coming towards us. On the road, sir.