Sharpe pulled his whistle from its holster, waited a few seconds, then blasted out the signal to form company. He heard the Sergeants repeat the signal, watched his men come running towards him for now their skirmishing task was done. Now they would form up on the left of the attacking line and go in like the other Companies. The men sprinted towards him, tugging out bayonets, and he clapped them on the shoulders, said they had done well. Then the Company was formed, marching, and they were climbing the knoll over the blood of their enemies.

The field gun had stopped firing. The smoke was drifting clear.

Sharpe walked in front of his men. The great sword scraped on the scabbard throat as it came clear.

The French line levelled their muskets.

Boots swished through the grass. It was hot. The powder smoke stung men’s nostrils.

“For what we’re about to receive,” a voice said.

“Quiet in the ranks! Close up!”

“Keep your dressing, Mellors! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get in line, you useless bastard!”

Boots in the grass, the French line seeming to take a quarter turn to the right as the muskets go back into the shoulders. The muzzles, even at eighty yards, look huge.

“Get your bayonet up, Smith! You’re not ploughing the bloody field!”

Sharpe listened to the Sergeants.

“Steady, lads, steady!”

The French officers had their swords raised. The cannon smoke had cleared now and Sharpe could see that the field gun had gone. It had been taken back, away from the infantry.

“Take it like men, lads!”

Seventy yards and the French swords swept down and Sharpe knew they had fired too soon. The smoke rippled from the hundreds of muskets, the sound was like the falling of giant stakes, and the air was thick with the thrumming of the balls.

The attacking line was jerked by the balls. Some men fell backwards, some stumbled, most kept stolidly on. Sharpe knew the enemy would be frantically reloading, fumbling with cartridges and ramrods, and he instinctively quickened his pace so that the South Essex might close the gap before the enemy had recharged their weapons. The other officers hurried too, and the attacking line began to lose its cohesion. The Sergeants yelled. “It’s not a sodding steeplechase! Watch your dressing!”

Fifty yards, forty, and Major Leroy, whose voice was twice as loud as Forrest’s, bellowed at the South Essex to halt.

Sharpe could see some enemy muskets being rammed. The Frenchmen were looking nervously at their enemy so close.

Leroy filled his lungs.

“Level your muskets!”

The Light Company alone was not loaded. The other companies levelled their muskets and beneath each muzzle the seventeen inch bayonet pointed towards the French.

“Fire!”

“And charge! Come on!”

The crash of that volley, the smoke, and then the redcoats were released from the Sergeants’ discipline and they were free to take the blades up the hill to savage the enemy who had been shattered by the close volley.

“Kill the bastards. Go on! Get in with them!” And the cheer carried them up the slope, screaming mad, wanting only to get at the men who had threatened them during the long approach march, and Sharpe ran ahead of his men with his long sword ready.

“Halt! Form up! Hurry!”

The enemy had gone. They had fled the bayonets as Sharpe had guessed they would. The enemy Battalions were running full tilt back towards the main army, and the redcoats were left holding the small knoll which bore the dead and wounded of their enemy. The looting had begun already, practised hands stripping the casualties of clothes and money. Sharpe sheathed his unblooded sword. It had been well done, but now he wondered what was next. Twelve hundred British troops held the small hill, the only British troops on a plain that was peopled with more than fifty thousand Frenchmen. That was not his concern. He settled down to wait.

“They’ve run away!” La Marquesa sounded disappointed.

Lord Spears grinned. “That was only a ten guinea battle, my dear. For two hundred you get the whole spectacle; slaughter, dismemberment, pillage, and even a little rape.”

“Is that where you come in, Jack?”

Spears laughed. “I’ve waited so long for that invitation, Helena.”

“You’ll have to wait a little longer, dear.” She smiled at him. “Was that Richard Sharpe?”

“It was. A genuine hero, and all for ten guineas.”

“Which I doubt I’ll ever see. Is he truly a hero?” Her huge eyes were fixed on Spears.

“Good Lord, yes! Absolutely genuine. The poor fool must have a death wish. He took an Eagle, he was first into Badajoz, and there’s a rumour he blew up Almeida.”

“How delicious.” She opened her fan. “You’re a little jealous of him, aren’t you?”

He laughed, because the accusation was not true. “I wish to have a long, long life, Helena, and die in the bed of someone very young and breathtakingly beautiful.”

She smiled. Her teeth were unusually white. “I rather want to meet a real hero, Jack. Persuade him to come to the Palacio.”

Spears twisted in his saddle, grimacing suddenly because the arm in its sling hurt. “You feel like slumming, Helena?”

She smiled. “If I do, Jack, I’ll come to you for guidance. Just bring him to me.”

He grinned and saluted. “Yes, Ma’am.”

The French would not be goaded into battle. They made no attempt to throw the British off the knoll. Marmont could not see beyond the great ridge and he feared, sensibly, to attack Wellington in a position of the Englishman’s choosing.

Smoke drifted from the knoll, dissipating into shimmering heat over the grass. Men lay on the ground and drank brackish warm water from their canteens. A few desultory fires burned from the musket fire, but no-one moved to stamp them out. Some men slept.

“Is that it?” Lieutenant Price frowned towards the French.

“You want more, Harry?” Sharpe grinned at his Lieutenant.

“I sort of expected more.” Price laughed and turned round to look at the ridge. A staff officer was riding his horse recklessly down the slope. “Here comes a fancy boy.”

“We’re probably being pulled back.”

Harper gave a massive yawn. “Perhaps they’re offering us free entrance to the staffbrothel tonight.”

“Isabella would kill you, Harps!” Price laughed at the thought. “You should be unattached, like me.”

“It’s the pox, sir. I couldn’t live with it.”

“And I can’t live without it. Hello!” Price frowned because the staff officer, instead of riding towards the Colours where the Battalion’s commanding officer would be found, was aiming straight for the Light Company. “We’ve got a visitor, sir.”

Sharpe walked to meet the staff officer who called out when he was still thirty yards away. “Captain Sharpe?”

“Yes!”

“You’re wanted at Headquarters. Now! Do you have a horse?”

“No.”

The young man frowned at the reply and Sharpe knew he was considering yielding up his own horse to expedite the General’s orders. The consideration did not last long in the face of the steep uphill climb. The staff officer smiled. “You’ll have to walk! Quick as you can, please.”

Sharpe smiled at him. “Bastard. Harry?”

“Sir?”

“Take over! Tell the Major I’ve been called to see the General!”

“Aye aye, sir! Give him my best wishes!”

Sharpe walked away from the Company, between the small fires, and up the hillside that was littered with the torn cartridge papers of his skirmishers. Leroux. It had to be Leroux who was pulling Sharpe back towards the city. Leroux, his enemy, and the man who possessed the sword Sharpe wanted. He smiled..He would have it yet.