In the night, Lieutenant Sharpe took a patrol westwards along the high crest. He had hoped to determine whether the French held the place where the road crossed the ridge, but in the freezing darkness and among the jumble of rocks, he lost his bearings and grudgingly went back to the hollow where the Riflemen sheltered.

The cloud lifted before dawn, letting the first wan light reveal the main body of the French pursuit in the valley which lay to the south. The enemy cavalry was already gone to the west, and Sharpe stared down at Marshal Soult’s infantry which marched in dogged pursuit of Sir John Moore’s army.

“We’re bloody cut off.” Sergeant Williams offered his pessimistic assessment to Sharpe who, instead of replying, went to squat beside the wounded men. Captain Murray slept fitfully, shivering beneath a half-dozen greatcoats. The Sergeant who had been slashed across the neck and shoulders had died in the night. Sharpe covered the man’s face with a shako.

“He’s a jumped-up bit of nothing.” Williams stared malevolently at Lieutenant Sharpe’s back. “He ain’t an officer, Harps. Not a real one.”

Rifleman Harper was sharpening his sword-bayonet, doing the job with the obsessive concentration of a man who knows his life depends on his weapons.

“Not a proper officer,” Williams went on. “Not a gentleman. Just a jumped-up Sergeant, isn’t he?”

“That’s all.” Harper looked at the Lieutenant, seeing the scars on the officer’s face and the hard line of his jaw.

“If he thinks he’s giving me orders, he’s a bugger. He ain’t no better than I am, is he?”

Harper’s reply was a grunt, and not the agreement which would have given the Sergeant the encouragement he wanted. Williams waited for Harper’s support, but the Irishman merely squinted along the edge of his bayonet, then carefully sheathed the long blade.