When he returned for the five companies he had found failure waiting for him.

Mr Collip, Quartermaster, had decided to make the crossing easier for the redcoats. He had made a rope out of musket slings, a great loop that could be endlessly pulled over the chasm, and on the rope he had slung across the ravine all the mens’ weapons, packs, canteens, and haversacks. On the last pass the knotted slings had come undone and all the South Essex’s musket ammunition had gone down into the stream.

When the French approached the bridge only Sharpe’s Riflemen had ammunition. The French could have taken the bridge with one volley of musketry because Sharpe had nothing with which to oppose them.

‘Never, Mr Collip, ever, separate a man from his weapons and ammunition. Do you promise me that?’

Collip nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I think you owe me a bottle of something, Mr Collip.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

‘Good day, Mr Collip.’

Sharpe walked away. He smiled suddenly, perhaps because the clouds in the west had parted and there was a sudden shaft of red sunlight that glanced down to the scene of his victory. He looked for Patrick Harper, stood with his old Riflemen, and drank tea with them. ‘A good day’s work, lads.’

Harper laughed. ‘Did you tell the bastards we didn’t have any ammunition?’

‘Always leave a man his pride, Patrick.’ Sharpe laughed. He had not laughed often since Christmas.

But now, with this first fight of the new campaign, he had survived the winter, had made his first victory of the spring, and he looked forward at last to a summer untrammelled by the griefs and tangles of the past. He was a soldier, he was marching to war, and the future looked bright.