'What have you heard?

'Not much. She went south for a long time, by herself, but I heard she was back up here. Her brother is leading the band, not herself, but they still call her "La Aguja".

Sharpe smiled. He had given her the nickname himself; the needle. 'Why did she go south?

'I don't know. Hogan smiled at him. 'Cheer yourself up. You'll see her again. Besides, I'd like to meet her!

Sharpe shook his head. It had been a long time and she had made no effort to find him. 'There must be a last woman, sir, like a last battle.

Hogan whooped with laughter. 'God in heaven! A last woman. You gloomy bastard! You'll be telling me next that you're training for the Priesthood. He wiped a tear from his eye. 'A last woman, indeed! He turned to stare once more at the town. 'Listen, my friend, I must be busy, or I'll be the last Irishman on Wellington's staff. Will you look after yourself now?

Sharpe grinned and nodded. 'I'll survive.

'That's a useful delusion. It's good you're back. He smiled and began trudging through the snow towards Wellington's headquarters. Sharpe turned back towards Ciudad Rodrigo. Survival. It was a bad time to be fighting. The turn of a year was when men looked ahead, dreamed of far-away pleasures, of a small house and a good woman, and friends of an evening. Winter was a time when armies stayed in their quarters, waiting for the spring sunshine to dry the roads and shrink the rivers, but Wellington had marched in the first days of the New Year, and the French garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo had woken one cold morning to find that war and death had come early in 1812.