Sharpe spat. He had no water, for an enemy bullet had smashed his canteen open. 'Sergeant Harper!

'Sir? The huge Irishman walked towards him. Perhaps alone in the Battalion this Rifleman would not fear Richard Sharpe's anger, for Harper had fought beside Sharpe in every battle of this long war. They had marched the length of Spain until, in this summer of 1813, they were close to the French frontier itself. 'How's Dan, sir?

'He'll live. Do you have any water?

'I did, but someone worked a miracle on it. Harper, who illicitly had red wine in his canteen, offered it to Sharpe. The Major drank, then pushed the cork home.

'Thank you, Patrick.

'Plenty more if you need it, sir.

'Not for that. For being here. Harper had married just two days before and Sharpe had ordered the huge Irishman to stay with his new Spanish wife when the order to fight had come, but Harper had refused. Now Harper stared northwards at the empty horizon. 'What were the buggers doing here?

'They were lost. Sharpe could think of no other explanation. He knew that a number of French units, cut off by the defeat of Joseph Bonaparte at Vitoria, were straggling back to France. This one had outnumbered Sharpe, and he had been puzzled why they had broken off the fight when they did. The only explanation he could find was that the enemy must have suddenly realised that the South Essex did not bar the way to France and thus there was no need to go on fighting. The French had been lost, they had blundered into a useless fight, and they had gone. 'Bastards. Sharpe said it with anger, for his men had died for nothing.

Harper, who at six feet four inches, was taller even than Sharpe, frowned. 'Terrible about the RSM, sir.

'Yes. Sharpe was looking at the sky, wondering whether more rain was coming. This summer had been the worst in Spanish memory. 'You've got his job.