"Trick I learned in the islands."

"Bloody hell," Sharpe said, then collapsed the glass and put it into his pocket. "There are Frogs over there," he said, pointing southeast, "thousands of goddamn bloody Frogs."

He left the Lieutenant gazing at the distant army and went back to chivvy the redcoats who had formed a chain to sling the sacks out onto the hillside which now looked as though it were ankle deep in snow. Flour drifted like powder smoke from the summit, fell softly, made mounds, and still more sacks were hurled out the door. Sharpe reckoned it would take a couple of hours to empty the shrine. He ordered ten riflemen to join the work and sent ten of the redcoats to join Slingsby's piquet. He did not want his redcoats to start whining that they did all the work while the riflemen got the easy jobs. Sharpe gave them a hand himself, standing in the line and tossing sacks through the door as the collapsed telegraph burned itself out, its windblown cinders staining the white flour with black spots.

Slingsby came just as the last sacks were being destroyed. "Dragoons have gone, Sharpe," he reported. "Reckon they saw us and rode off."

"Good." Sharpe forced himself to sound civil, then went to join Harper who was watching the dragoons ride away. "They didn't want to play with us, Pat?"

"Then they've more sense than that big Portuguese fellow," Harper said. "Give him a headache, did you?"

"Bastard wanted to bribe me."

"Oh, it's a wicked world," Harper said, "and there's me always dreaming of getting a wee bribe." He slung the seven-barrel gun on his shoulder. "So what were those fellows doing up here?"

"No good," Sharpe said, brushing his hands before pulling on his mended jacket that was now smeared with flour. "Mister bloody Ferragus was selling that flour to the Crapauds, Pat, and that bloody Portuguese Major was in it up to his arse."

"Did they tell you that now?"