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n　and　gratitude
　〃Now　thou　art　e　unto　a　feast　of　death。〃
　William　Shakespeare　Henry　VI；　Part　I；　Act　4；　Scene　5。
　
　
　
　PART　ONE
　January　1812
　
　CHAPTER　1
　
　A　pale　horse　seen　a　mile　away　at　sunrise　means　the　night　is　over。　Sentries　can　relax；　battalions　stand　down；　because　the　moment　for　a　surprise　dawn　attack　has　passed。
　
　But　not　on　this　day。　A　grey　horse　would　hardly　have　been　visible　at　a　hundred　paces；　let　alone　a　mile；　and　the　dawn　was　shredded　with　dirty　cannon　smoke　that　melded　with　the　snow…clouds。　Only　one　living　thing　moved　in　the　grey　space　between　the　British　and　French　lines；　a　small；　dark　bird　that　hopped　busily　in　the　snow。　Captain　Richard　Sharpe；　huddled　in　his　greatcoat；　watched　the　bird　and　willed　it　to　fly　away。　Move；　you　bastard！　Fly！　He　hated　the　superstition　in　himself。　He　had　spotted　the　tiny　bird　and；　quite　suddenly　and　unbidden；　the　thought　had　e　to　him　that　unless　the　bird　took　wing　within　thirty　seconds；　then　the　day　would　end　in　disaster。
　
　He　counted。　Nineteen；　twenty；　and　still　the　damned　bird　hopped　in　the　snow。　He　could　not　tell　what　kind　of　bird　it　was。　Sergeant　Harper　would　know；　of　course；　the　huge　Irish　sergeant　knew　all　the　birds；　but　knowing　what　kind　of　bird　it　was　would　not　help。　Move！　Twenty…four；　twenty…five；　and　in　desperation　he　bundled　a　crude　snowball　and　skittered　it　down　the　slope　so　that　the　small　bird；　startled；　sprang　up　into　the　skeins　of　smoke　with　a　couple　of　seconds　to　spare。　A　man　must　sometimes　make　his　own　luck。
　
　God！　But　it　was　cold！　It　was　all　right　for　the　French。　They　were　behind　the　vast　defences　of　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　sheltered　in　the　town's　houses　and　warmed　by　wide　hearths；　but　the　British　and　Portuguese　troops　were　in　the　open。　They　slept　by　vast　fires　that　died　in　the　night　and　yesterday；　at　dawn；　four　Portuguese　sentries　had　been；　discovered　frozen；　their　greatcoats　iced　to　the　ground；　dead　by　the　river。　Someone　had　tipped　them　in；　breaking　the　Agueda's　thin　ice；　because　no　one　wanted　to　dig　graves。　The　army　had　taken　its　fill　of　digging；　for　twelve　days　they　had　done　nothing　else；　batteries；　parallels；　saps　and　trenches；　and　they　never　wanted　to　dig　again。　They　wanted　to　fight。　They　wanted　to　carry　their　long　bayonets　up　the　glacis　of　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　to　go　into　the　breach；　to　kill　the　French；　and　take　those　fires　and　houses　for　themselves。　They　wanted　to　be　warm。
　
　Sharpe；　Captain　of　the　South　Essex's　Light　pany；　lay　in　the　snow　and　stared　through　his　telescope　at　the　largest　breach。　He　could　not　see　much。　Even　from　the　hillside；　five　hundred　yards　from　the　town；　the　snow…covered　slope　of　the　glacis　hid　all　but　the　top　few　feet　of　Ciudad　Rodrigo's　main　wall。　He　could　see　that　the　British　guns　had　done　damage　and　knew　that　the　stones　and　rubble　must　have　cascaded　into　the　hidden　ditch　to　make　a　crude　ramp；　perhaps　a　hundred　feet　wide；　up　which　the　attackers　must　climb　to　get　into　the　heart　of　the　fortress　town。　He　wished　he　could　see　beyond　the　breach　to　the　alleyways　at　the　foot　of　the　shot…scarred　church　tower　that　was　so　close　to　the　walls。　The　French　would　be　busy　there；　building　new　defences；　siting　fresh　cannon；　so　that　when　the　attack　burst　over　the　rubbled　mound　of　the　breach　it　would　be　met　with　precisely　planned　horror；　flame　and　grapeshot；　death　in　the　night。
　
　Sharpe　was　afraid。
　
　It　was　a　strange　knowledge；　known　to　him　alone；　and　he　was　ashamed　of　it。　It　was　not　certain　that　the　attack　would　be　on　this　day；　but　the　army；　with　the　instinct　of　men　who　know　that　the　time　has　e；　were　confident　that　Wellington　would　order　the　assault　this　night。　No　one　knew　which　battalions　would　be　chosen；　but　whichever　units　were　to　brave　the　assault　they　would　not　be　the　first　attackers　to　climb　the　breach。　That　was　a　job　only　for　volunteers；　the　'Forlorn　Hope'；　whose　suicidal　task　was　to　draw　the　defenders'　fire；　force　them　to　spring　their　carefully　prepared　traps；　and　clear　a　bloody　path　for　the　battalions　that　followed。　Not　many　of　the　Forlorn　Hope　would　live。　The　Lieutenant　Who　manded；　if　he　was　still　alive；　would　receive　his　Captaincy　on　the　spot　and　his　two　Sergeants　would　be　made　Ensigns。　The　promises　of　promotion　were　easily　given　because　they　rarely　had　to　be　kept；　yet　there　was　never　a　shortage　of　volunteers。
　
　The　Forlorn　Hope　was　for　the　brave。　It　may　have　been　a　courage　born　of　desperation；　or　foolhardiness；　but　it　was　courage　just　the　same。　Men　who　survived　a　Hope　were　marked　for　life；　famous　among　their　rades；　envied　by　lesser　men。　Only　the　Rifle　Regiments　gave　a　badge　to　the　survivors；　a　laurel…wreath　that　was　sewn　to　the　sleeve；　but　Sharpe　did　not　hanker　after　medals。　He　simply　wanted　to　survive　a　test；　the　supreme　test　of　almost　certain　death　because　he　had　never　been　in　a　Forlorn　Hope。　It　was　a　foolish　desire；　and　he　knew　it；　but　it　was　there。
　
　It　was　not　just　a　test。　Richard　Sharpe　wanted　the　promotion。　He　had　joined　the　army　at　sixteen；　as　a　Private；　and　worked　his　way　through　the　ranks　until　he　was　a　Sergeant。　On　the　battlefield　of　Assaye　he　had　saved　the　life　of　Sir　Arthur　Wellesley　and　had　been　rewarded　with　the　telescope　and　a　mission。　Ensign　Sharpe　risen　from　the　gutter；　but　still　ambitious；　still　needed　to　prove；　day　after　day；　that　he　was　a　better　soldier　than　the　privileged　sons　who　purchased　their　promotions　and　climbed　the　officers'　ladder　with　monied　ease。　Ensign　Sharpe　became　Lieutenant　Sharpe　and；　wearing　a　new　uniform；　the　dark　green　of　the　95th　Rifles；　he　fought　his　way　through　Northern　Spain　and　Portugal；　the　Corunna　retreat；　Rolica；　Vimiero；　the　Douro　crossing；　and　Talavera。　He　had　taken　the　French　Eagle　at　Talavera　when　he　and　Sergeant　Harper　had　hacked　their　way　into　an　enemy　battalion；　cut　down　the　standard　bearer；　and　brought　the　trophy　back　to　Wellesley。　He　became　the　Viscount　Wellington　of　Talavera。　And　Sharpe　had　been　gazetted；　just　before　the　battle；　as　a　Captain。　It　was　the　promotion　he　most　wanted；　the　chance　to　lead　his　own　pany；　but　the　gazette　was　now　two　and　a　half　years　old　and　it　was　still　unapproved。
　
　He　could　hardly　believe　it。　In　July　he　had　gone　back　to　England　and　spent　the　last　six　months　of　1811　recruiting　in　London　and　the　Shires　for　the　shrinking　South　Essex　Regiment。　He　had　been　feted　in　London；　dined　by　the　Patriotic　Fund；　and　presented　with　a　fifty　guinea　sword　for　the　capture　of　the　French　Eagle。　The　Morning　Chronicle　had　dubbed　him　'the　scarred　Hero　of　the　Field　of　Talavera'　and　suddenly；　for　a　few　days　at　least；　everyone　had　wanted　to　meet　the　tall；　dark…haired　Rifleman　with　the　scar　that　gave　his　face　an　unnatural；　mocking　expression。　He　had　felt　out　of　place　in　the　draped　softness　of　London's　drawing　rooms　and　had　covered　his　disfort　by　shrinking　into　silent　watchfulness。　The　reticence　had　been　thought　dangerously　attractive　by　his　hostesses　who　had　kept　their　daughters　upstairs　and　the　Rifle　Captain　to　themselves。
　
　But　the　Hero　of　the　Field　of　Talavera　was　nothing　but　a　nuisance　to　the　Army　Headquarters　in　the　Horse　Guards。　It　had　been　a　mistake；　a　stupid　mistake；　but　he　had　visited　Whitehall　and　been　shown　to　a　bare　waiting　room。　The　autumn　rain　had　spattered　through　a　high；　broken　window　as　he　sat；　his　huge　sword　across　his　knees；　while　a　clerk　with　smallpox　scars　tried　to　find　what　had　happened　to　the　gazette。　Sharpe　simply　wanted　to　know　whether　he　was　a　real　Captain；　sanctioned　as　such　by　the　Horse　Guards'　approval；　or　merely　a　Lieutenant　in　borrowed　and　temporary　rank。　The　clerk　had　kept　him　waiting　three　hours；　but　at　last　returned　to　the　room。
　〃'Sharpe？　With　an　〃e〃　？　〃　
　
　Sharpe　nodded。　Around　him　a　group　of　half…pay　officers；　sick；　lame　or　half…blind；　listened　curiously。　They　were　all　seeking　appointments　and　hoping　Sharpe　would　be　disappointed。　The　clerk　blew　dust　off　the　papers　in　his　hand。
　
　〃'It's　irregular。〃　　He　peered　at　Sharpe's　dark　green　jacket。　'You　said　the　South　Essex　Regiment？'
　〃Yes。〃
　
　'But　that；　if　I'm　not　mistaken；　and　I　rarely　am；　is　the　uniform　of　the　95th？'　The　clerk　gave　a　small；　self…satisfied　laugh；　as　if　in　celebration　of　a　small　victory。　Sharpe　said　nothing。　He　wore　the　uniform　of　the　Rifles　because　he　was　proud　of　his　old　Regiment；　because　the　job　with　the　South　Essex　was　only　ever　intended　as　a　temporary　attachment；　and　how　was　he　to　tell　this　pinched　bureaucrat　about　leading　his　small　band　of　Riflemen　from　the　horrors　of　the　Corunna　retreat　down　to　join　the　army　in　Portugal　where　they　had　been　arbitrarily　joined　to　the　redcoats　of　the　South　Essex。　The　clerk　twitched　his　nose　and　sniffed。　'Irregular；　Mr。　Sharpe；　very　irregular。　'　He　selected　the　top　piece　of　paper　with　ink…stained　fingers。　'This　is　the　document。　'
　
　He　held　Sharpe's　gazette　as　if　the　document　might　re…infect　him　with　smallpox。　'You　were　given　a　Captaincy　in　1809？'
　
　'By　Lord　Wellington。　'
　
　The　name　cut　no　ice　in　Whitehall。　'Who　should　have　known　better。　Dear　me；　Mr。　Sharpe；　he　should　have　known　better！　It's　irregular。　'
　
　'But　not　unknown；　surely？'　Sharpe　had　suppressed　his　urge　to　vent　his　irritation　on　the　clerk。　'I　thought　it　was　your　job　to　approve　these　documents。　'
　
　'Or　disapprove　them！'　The　clerk　laughed　again　and　the　half…pay　officers　grinned。　'Approve；　Mr。　Sharpe；　or　disappro