'Sir?

'Two Sergeants! Twenty men! Collect rocks!

'Rocks, sir?

'Do it! Sharpe turned and bellowed the order. In this mood men were foolish who crossed the tall, dark-haired officer who had risen from the ranks. His face, always savage, was tight with anger.

He walked to the sheltered place by the big rocks where the wounded were sheltered from wind's knife-edge. Sharpe's scabbard, which held the big, Heavy Cavalry blade that he wielded with the force of an axe, clanged on the ground as he crouched. 'Dan?

Daniel Hagman, Rifleman and ex-poacher, grinned at him. 'I ain't bad, sir. His left shoulder was bandaged, his jacket and shirt draped over the bound wound like cloaks. 'I just can't fill my pipe, sir.

'Here. Sharpe took the short clay stump, fished in Hagman's ammunition pouch for the plug of dark, greasy tobacco, and bit a lump free that he crumbled and pushed into the bowl. 'What happened?

'Bloody skirmisher. I thought the bastard was dead, sir. Hagman was the oldest man in the Battalion; perhaps he was over fifty, no one really knew. He was also the best marksman in the regiment. He took the pipe from Sharpe and watched as the officer brought out a tinder-box. 'I shot the bugger, sir. Went forward, and he cracks me. Bastard. He sucked on the pipe, blew smoke, and sucked again. 'Angel got him. Knifed the bastard proper. He shook his head. 'I'm sorry, sir.

'Don't be a fool, Dan. Not your fault. You'll be back.

'We beat the buggers, sir. Hagman, like Sharpe, was a Rifleman; one of a Company who, like flotsam in this ocean of war, had ended up in the red-jacketed ranks of the South Essex. Yet, out of cussedness and pride, they still wore their green jackets. They were Riflemen. They were the best. 'We always beat the buggers, sir.

'Yes. Sharpe smiled, and the sardonic, mocking look that his face wore because of the scar on his left cheek suddenly disappeared. 'We beat the bastards, Dan. They had, too. The South Essex, a Battalion under half its full strength, worn down by war the way a bayonet is thinned by use and sharpening, had beaten the bastards. Sharpe thought of Leroy, the American who had been the Battalion's commanding officer. Leroy would have been proud of them today.