“Congratulations, sir.”

“What? Oh, thank you. That’s generous of you.” Moon did seem touched by Sharpe’s praise. “It went better than I dared hope. There’s tea on the boil over there. Let your lads have some.”

The French prisoners were sitting in the fort’s center. A dozen horses had been found in the stables and they were now being saddled, presumably because Moon, who had marched from the Tagus, reckoned he had earned the privilege of riding back. A captured officer was standing beside the well, disconsolately watching the victorious British troops who were gleefully searching the French packs captured in the barracks. “Fresh bread!” Major Gillespie, one of Moon’s aides, tossed Sharpe a loaf. “Still warm. The bastards live well, don’t they?”

“I thought they were supposed to be starving.”

“Not here they’re not. Land of milk and honey, this place.”

Moon climbed to the eastern firestep, which faced the bridge, and began looking into the ready magazines beside the guns. The artillerymen in Fort Josephine saw his red coat and opened fire. They were using canister and their shots rattled on the parapet and whistled overhead. Moon ignored the balls. “Sharpe!” he called, then waited as the rifleman climbed to the rampart. “Time you earned your wages, Sharpe,” he said. Sharpe said nothing, just watched as the brigadier peered into a magazine. “Round shot,” Moon announced, “common shell and grapeshot.”

“Not canister, sir?”

“Grapeshot, definitely grapeshot. Naval stores, I suspect. Bastards haven’t got any ships left so they’ve sent their grapeshot here.” He let the magazine lid drop and stared down at the bridge. “Common shell won’t break that brute, will it? There are a score of women down below. In the barracks. Have some of your fellows escort them over the bridge, will you? Deliver them to the French with my compliments. The rest of your men can help Sturridge. He says he’ll have to blow the far end.”