Two galloper guns, light six-pounder cannons, followed them, bouncing dangerously on the uneven ground behind their teams of horses. Every other cannon in the army was drawn by oxen, but the galloper guns had horse teams that were three times as fast as the plodding draught cattle. The lone enemy cannon fired again, its brutal sound punching the warm air with an almost palpable impact. Sharpe could see more enemy guns on the ridge, but they were smaller than the gun that had just fired and Sharpe presumed they did not have the long range of the bigger cannon. Then he saw a trace of grey in the air, a flicker like a vertical pencil stroke drawn against the pale blue sky and he knew that the big gun's shot must be coming straight towards him, and he knew too that there was no wind to carry the heavy ball gently aside, and all that he realized in the second or so that the ball was in the air, too short a time to react, only to recognize death's approach, but then the ball slammed into the ground a dozen paces short of him and bounced on up over his head to run harmlessly into a field of sugar cane. 'I reckon the bastards have got your mother laying the gun now, Dick, Garrard said.

'No talking now! Sergeant Hakeswill's voice screeched suddenly. 'Save your godless breath. Was that you talking, Garrard?

'Not me, Sarge. Ain't got the breath.

'You ain't got the breath? Sergeant Hakeswill came hurrying down the company's ranks and thrust his face up towards Garrard. 'You ain't got the breath? That means you're dead, Private Garrard! Dead! No use to King or country if you's dead, but you never was any bleeding use anyway. The Sergeant's malevolent eyes flicked to Sharpe. 'Was it you talking, Sharpie?

'Not me, Sarge.

You ain't got orders to talk. If the King wanted you to have a conversation I'd have told you so. Says so in the scriptures. Give me your firelock, Sharpie. Quick now!

Sharpe handed his musket to the Sergeant.