They might kill a gunner or two, not much, but something. He heard the first shots, fired himself when the smoke showed a target, but the attack was done. The British did not know it. The men still went forward, shoulders hunched as if pushing into a storm, and they left their dead and wounded on the ground. Screams pierced the harsh sound of guns and Sharpe prayed with each new discharge of canister that a ball might end the screaming. Bowes was still up, still going ahead, taking his sword against the artillerymen and, behind and to each side, the survivors refused to give up. They were scattered now, less susceptible to the rain of lead, but too few to hope for victory. A ladder party actually made the ditch. Sharpe saw them jump in, heard the muskets fire from the palisade, and then he saw the Brigadier, limned against the spreading pall of smoke, and Bowes was hit. He seemed to dance on the spot, feet skittering to keep him upright and his sword fell as his hands clutched at his stomach. His head went back in a silent scream, more shots threw him forward and still he tried to stand, and then it was as if a whole barrel load of canister slammed the quivering figure, threw it flat, and the wasteland was suddenly empty of running men.

The attackers had gone to ground, defeated, and the French jeered at them, shouted insults, and the cannon fire died away.

There were no more men to throw into the attack, except Sharpe’s Company and he was not going to sacrifice them to the gunners. At Badajoz the army had gone on attacking, again and again into worse fire than this, in a smaller space, until it had seemed to Sharpe that all the canister in all the world could not go on killing the stream of men that had poured at the breaches. This attack had started with three hundred and fifty men, and there were no more. It was done.

The cannon smoke turned the dusk into false night and the French threw a lighted carcass, packed straw soaked with oil and bound in canvas, over their parapet. Shouts came from the wasteland. “Back! Back!”

Some men risked the fire, stood up, and ran. The French stayed silent. More men plucked up courage and the survivors, bit by bit, began their retreat. Still the French held their fire, happy that the British had given up, and men stopped to pick up their wounded. Sharpe looked at his Riflemen. “Back you go, lads.”

They were silent, depressed. They were used to victory, not defeat, but Sharpe knew they had been betrayed. He looked at Harper. “They knew we were coming.”

“Like as not.” The huge Irishman was easing the flint of his rifle, unfired, into the safe position. “They had the guns double-loaded. They knew.”

“I’d like to get the bastard who told them.”

Harper did not reply. He gestured ahead of them and Sharpe saw a man, staggering in the rubble, coming towards them. He had the red facings of the 53rd, the Shropshires, and his face was the colour of his uniform. Sharpe stood up, slung his rifle, and called to the man. “Here! Over here!”

The man seemed not to hear. He was walking, almost drunkenly, weaving on the stones, and Sharpe and Harper ran towards him. The man was moaning. Blood poured from his skull. “I can’t see!”

“You’ll be all right!” Sharpe could not see the man’s face through the blood. His hands, musket discarded, were clutched at his stomach. He seemed to hear Sharpe, the blood-soaked head quested towards the sound, and then he fell into Sharpe’s-arms. The hands came away and blood pumped onto Sharpe’s jacket and overalls. “It’s all right, lad, it’s all right!”

They laid him down and the man began to choke. Harper twisted his torso over, cleared the man’s throat with his finger, and shook his head at Sharpe. The Shropshire man vomited blood, moaned, and muttered again that he could not see. Sharpe undid his canteen, poured water on his eyes, and the blood, soaked there from a canister wound on his forehead, cleared slowly away. “You’ll be all right!”

The eyes opened, then shut immediately as a pain spasm shook him and blood seemed to well from his midriff. Harper tore at the man’s uniform. “God save Ireland!” It was a miracle he was still alive.

“Here!” Sharpe undid his officer’s sash, handed it across, and Harper pushed it beneath the body, caught the end, and tied it as a crude bandage round the horrid wound. He looked at Sharpe. “Head or legs?”

“Legs.”

He took the man’s ankles, they lifted him, and struggled with the burden back towards the houses. Other men were limping on the stones. The French were silent.

They put the man down in the street, full now once again with men, and Sharpe bellowed for bandsmen. The soldier was fighting for his life, the air scraping in his throat, and it seemed impossible that he could survive the wounds. Sharpe shouted again. “Bandsmen!”

An officer, his uniform unstained by dust or blood, his red facings and gold lace new and pristine, looked past Sharpe. “Dale. No musket.” He was dictating to a bespectacled clerk.

“What?” Sharpe turned and looked at the Lieutenant. Harper raised his eyes to heaven, then looked at Sergeant McGovern. The two Sergeants grinned. They knew Sharpe and knew his anger.

“Equipment check.” The Lieutenant looked at Sharpe’s rifle, then at the great sword, then at the Rifleman’s shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

“No.” Sharpe jerked his head towards the wounded man. “Are you planning to charge him?”

The Lieutenant looked round for escape or support, then sighed. “He has lost his musket, sir.”

“It was broken by French shot.” Sharpe’s voice was quiet.

“I’m sure you’ll put that in writing, sir.”

“No. You will. You were out there, weren’t you?”

The Lieutenant swallowed nervously. “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Sir! I was ordered to stay here, sir!”

“And no one ordered you to make life a bloody misery for the men who went out, did they? How many battles have you been in, Lieutenant?”

The Lieutenant’s eyes looked round the circle of grim, interested faces. He shrugged. “Sir?”

Sharpe reached over to the clerk-Corporal and took the notebook out of his hand. “You write ”destroyed by enemy“ against everything, understand? Everything. Including the boots they lost last week.”

“Yes, sir.” The Lieutenant took the notebook from Sharpe and gave it to the clerk. “You heard the man, Bates. ”Destroyed by enemy“.” The Lieutenant backed away.

Sharpe watched him go. His anger had not vented itself and he wanted to strike out at something, at someone, because the men had died through treachery. The French had been ready, warned of the attack, and good men had been thrown away, and he bellowed again. “Bandsmen!”

Two musicians, doing their battlefield job offending the wounded, came and crouched by the injured Dale. They lifted him clumsily onto a stretcher. Sharpe stopped one of them as they were about to go. “Where’s the Hospital?”

“Irish College, sir,”

“Look after him.”

The man shrugged. “Yes, sir.”

Poor bloody Dale, Sharpe thought, to be betrayed in his first battle. If he survived he would be invalided out of the army. His broken body, good for nothing, would be sent to Lisbon and there he would have to rot on the quays until the bureaucrats made sure he had accounted for all his equipment. Anything missing would be charged to the balance of his miserable wages and only when the account was balanced would he be put onto a foul transport and shipped to an English quayside. There he was left, the army’s obligation discharged, though if he was lucky he might be given a travel document that promised to reimburse any parish overseer who fed him while he travelled to his home. Usually the overseers ignored the paper and kicked the invalid out of their jurisdiction with an order to go and beg somewhere else. Dale might be better offdead than face all that.

Lieutenant Price, wary of Sharpe’s anger, saluted. “Dismiss, sir?”