He knew he should have volunteered for the Forlorn Hope. If he had led it, and survived, then no one could have denied him the Captaincy. He would have proved himself, captured the rank, and the pox-scarred bureaucrats of Whitehall could scratch themselves into a well-ordered eternity because nothing they could do, nothing, could have taken the Captaincy away from him. A pox on the bloody lot of them!

'Richard Sharpe! A quiet voice behind him, full of pleasure, and Sharpe twisted round.

'Sir!

'I could feel a pricking in my thumbs! I knew you had to be back with the army. Major Michael Hogan slithered on the snow towards him. 'How are you?

'I'm well. Sharpe scrambled to his feet. He beat the snow off his greatcoat and shook Hogan's gloved hand.

The Engineer laughed at him. 'You look like a drowned tinker, so you do, but it's good to see you. The Irish voice was rich and warm. 'And how was England?

'Cold and wet.

'Ah well, it's a Protestant country. " Hogan conveniently ignored the freezing dampness of the Spanish countryside around them. 'And how is Sergeant Harper? Did he enjoy England?

'He did, and most of what he enjoyed was plump and giggled.

Hogan laughed. 'A man of sense. You will give him my best wishes?

'I will. The two men stared at the town. The British siege guns, long, iron twenty-four-pounders, were still firing, their reports muffled by the snow, and their shots erupting flurries of snow and stone from the walls either side of the main breach. Sharpe glanced at Hogan. 'Is it a secret we're attacking tonight?

'It is a secret. Everyone knows, of course, they always do. Even before the General. Rumor has it for seven o'clock.