"Mister d'Alembord! Light Company out! Pick off those voltigeurs." The French were brave, Sharpe thought. As brave as could be, but also stupid.

They knew volley fire waited for them, but their general would not back down without more blood and Sharpe was ready to give it to him. He had already guessed that the enemy was inexperienced, because the voltigeurs were not forcing home their attack, but trying to stay out of range of the deadly rifles. They were just children, he thought, snatched from a depot and marched to war. It was cruel.

The French column advanced behind the voltigeurs. It looked formidable, but columns always did. This one was thirty files wide and sixty ranks deep: a great solid block of men who had been ordered to climb an impossible slope into a gale of fire. It would be murder, not war, but it was the French commander who was doing the murdering. Sharpe called in his Light Company, then sent them back to join Smith's picquet. If the French Dragoons rode ahead of the approaching garrison then the riflemen could pick off the horsemen.

"But you stay here, " Sharpe told d'Alembord. "I've got a job for you."

The column lost its cohesion as it tried to cut across the corners of the zig-zagging road. They were getting close now, little more than a hundred paces away, and Sharpe could see the men were sweating despite the day's cold.

They were wearing, too, and whenever they looked up they saw nothing except a group of officers waiting on the crest. The line of redcoats had pulled back out of sight of the enemy, and Sharpe did not plan to bring them forward until the very last moment.

"Cutting it fine, sir, " d'Alembord observed.

"Give it a minute yet, " Sharpe said. He could hear the drums in the column's centre now, thought whenever the drummers paused to let the men shout "Vive l'Empereur! " the response was feeble. These men were winded, wearing and wary.