He changed hands so that the bayonet was in his right hand and, wedging the stone between his knees, he spat on it and began on the point. It would be needle sharp when he had finished, so sharp that it would slide sweetly into a man's guts as if there was no skin to puncture on the way. Or a woman's! He cackled aloud at the thought, alarming the Company, and he thought of Teresa. Sharpe would know who had done it, but there was nothing he could do about it! Hakeswill could not be killed! He looked up at the Company. They wanted to kill him, he knew, but so had the men of a dozen other companies and all had tried. He could remember the musket balls going past him in battle, fired from behind, and once he had seen a man taking deliberate aim. He stroked the bayonet, remembering his revenge, and then thought of the night ahead.

He had planned his assault carefully. The South Essex, with the rest of the Fourth Division, would be attacking the breached face of the Trinidad bastion, but Hakeswill would take care in the ditch. He would hang back, let others do the fighting, so that he was fresh when the cheers came from the top of the breach. Then, when the chaos started, he would cross the wall and go up into the dark streets that led to the Cathedral. He only needed two minutes' lead, which was all he was likely to get, but he knew, as he tested the perfectly prepared blade in his hands, that he would succeed. He always did succeed. He had been touched by death, released, and he felt in his soul that he had been inspired to succeed ever since. He looked up. 'Clayton!

The Company froze and stared at Clayton. The young Private grinned, as if he was not worried. 'Sergeant?

'Oil, get me oil.

'Yes, Sergeant.

Hakeswill cackled as the boy walked away. He would save him for after Badajoz, after the killing, for the time when he would have to pick up the other problems that he had deferred. There was the oilskin bundle that was buried beneath a boundary stone two miles down the Seville Road. Hakeswill had visited the spot last night, heaved the stone off the field embankment, and rummaged through the stolen goods. It was all safe and he had left most of it there because there would be no point in trying to sell anything in the next few days. Badajoz would be stuffed with loot, prices would drop to rock-bottom. It could all wait. He had taken only Sharpe's telescope, with its distinctive brass plate, which he planned to leave beside Teresa's body. He picked up his hat, stared down into the interior. 'Then he'll be blamed, won't he? Or else that bastard Irishman!

'Sergeant?

The eyes rolled up. 'Private Clayton?

'The oil, Sergeant.

'Don't bloody stand there! Hakeswill held up his bayonet. 'Oil it. And be careful! Don't spoil the edge. He let Clayton walk away and then looked down into the hat. 'Nasty little boy! Perhaps he'll die tonight, and that will make things easier for us.

Harper watched the twitching, malevolent face and wondered what was inside the shako. The whole Company wondered, but no one dared ask. It was Harper's opinion that there was nothing inside, that the whole performance was a contrived demonstration of madness to unsettle the Company. The Irishman sharpened his own bayonet, the unfamiliar musket bayonet that lacked the rifle blade's handle, and he made his own plans for the night. There were still no orders, but the army, with its strange, collective instinct, knew that the assault was planned and if, as seemed likely, the South Essex were ordered into the breach, Harper intended staying close to Hakeswill. If a chance came to kill the Sergeant, he would, or else he would try to make sure that Hakeswill did not slip alone into the city. Harper had decided not to volunteer for the Hope, not unless Hakeswill volunteered, and he thought that unlikely. Harper's job was to protect Teresa, as it was Sharpe's, the whole Company's, even Captain Robert Knowles's, who had visited his old Light Company and listened seriously as Harper told of Hakeswill's threat. Knowles had grinned, reassured Harper, but still the Irishman feared the consequences of the chaos in a breach.

He leaned back and listened to the guns.

The gunners, with the same instinctive knowledge that the assault was imminent, served their guns with extra effort as if each stone shard chipped from the breaches would save an infantryman's life. The smoke from the twelve batteries hung like a sea-fog above the still waters of the flooded stream, smoke so thick that the city could hardly be seen, and more smoke was pumped relentlessly from the huge guns. The cannon were like bucking monsters that hissed and steamed between each shot as the blackened gunners sponged and rammed, then heaved the beasts back on to target. The gunners could not see the breaches, but the wooden recoil platforms were marked with deep cuts and the officers and Sergeants lined the gun trails on the cuts, checked the elevation screw. With a flick of the glowing match the gun would bellow again, leap back, and a heavy iron ball would vanish in the fog with a sudden whorl of smoke that was followed by the grinding crash of impact.

Perhaps it was the tempo of the guns that made the men so certain that the assault was this Sunday night, or else the sight of newly made siege ladders in the Engineers' park. Two of the attacks, the one on the castle, and the one by the river, at the San Vincente bastion, would carry ladders to try a surprise escalade. It could not work, of course, the walls were too high. The battle would be lost or won in the breaches.

'Company! Hakeswill's voice grated at them. 'On your feet! Hup, hup, hup!

They scrambled to their feet, pulling jackets straight, and Major Collett was there with Captain Rymer. The Major waved the men down again. 'You can sit.

This had to be the announcement, Harper thought, and he watched as Collett drew out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. There was a buzz of excitement in the Company, a shout for silence from Hakeswill, and Collett waited for quiet. He looked at them belligerently. The assault, he said, would be soon, but they knew that, and they waited for orders. The Major paused and looked down at the piece of paper. 'This order has come, and I will read it to you. You will listen. "I advert the army's attention to the events pursuant of the capture of Ciudad Rodrigo. " Collett read in a flat, hard voice. He could not pronounce Ciudad with the soft 'C', so instead pronounced it 'Quidad'. "The inhabitants of that town, citizens of Britain's ally, Spain, were offered every kind of insult and injury. There will be no repetition of that behavior in Badajoz. Any attacks on civilian property will be swiftly and condignly punished by death, the apprehended perpetrators being hung at the place of their crime." He folded the paper. 'You understand? Keep your thieving hands to yourself and your breeches buttoned. That's all. He glared at them, turned on his heel, and marched away to the next company. The Light Company looked at each other, shrugged, and laughed at the message. Who would do the hanging? The provosts would not be far to the front in any fighting, it would be pitch dark in the streets, and a soldier deserved some loot for fighting through a breach. They were the ones who would do the fighting, and the dying, and who did not need a drop of drink after that? Not that they intended any harm to any civilians. The Spanish, most of whom in Badajoz were on the enemy's side, could choose for themselves how they welcomed the victors. They could leave their doors open and the drink on the table, or they could choose to be unfriendly, in which case? They grinned and went back to sharpening the seventeen-inch blades.

A few moments later a second rumor arrived, as strong as the first which had announced the assault, and this rumor, flashing through the camp, brought relief and frustration. Everything was postponed. They had all been given another twenty-four hours to live.