'Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, the words came uncertainly to Sharpe's lips. He did not know if he could remember the whole prayer. 'Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Sharpe had no belief, but perhaps when he died then he too would want the comfort of old phrases. 'Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. One pound of twice-baked bread a day and it had been the bastard French who had trespassed. What were the next words? The flints dug into his knee where he knelt. 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, Amen. He thought he had remembered it all, but it did not matter now. MacLaird was dead, killed by a piece of stone the size of a bayonet that had been driven from a rock by the strike of a French cannon ball. The blood had stopped flowing and there was no pulse in his neck.

Slowly Sharpe uncurled the fingers. He lay the hand on the breast, wiped the tears from the face, then stood. 'Captain Thomas?

'Sir?

'RSM's dead. Take him for burial. Captain d'Alembord!

'Sir?

'Push those picquets fifty yards further up the hill, this isn't a god-damn field-training day! Move! The picquets were perfectly positioned, and everyone knew it, but Sharpe was venting an anger where he could.

The ground was wet, soaked by overnight rain. There were puddles on the track, some discoloured with blood. To Sharpe's left, where the hillside fell away, a party of men hacked at the thin soil to make graves. Ten bodies, stripped of their jackets and boots that were too valuable to be buried, waited beside the shallow trench. 'Lieutenant Andrews!