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　'No。　We　don't　go　beyond　the　glacis。　'
　
　Harper　grunted。　'There's　always　hope。　'　He　was　loading　his　seven…barreled　gun；　a　weapon　of　extreme　unorthodoxy。　Each　of　the　barrels　was　a　half　inch　wide　and　all　seven　were　fired　by　a　single　charge　that　punched　out　a　spray　of　death。　Only　six　hundred　had　been　made　by　the　gunsmith；　Henry　Nock；　and　delivered　to　the　Royal　Navy；　but　the　massive　recoil　had　smashed　men's　shoulders　and　the　invention　had　been　quietly　discarded。　The　gunsmith　would　have　been　pleased　to　see　the　huge　Irishman；　one　of　the　few　men　strong　enough　to　handle　the　weapon；　meticulously　loading　each　twenty…inch　barrel。　Harper　liked　the　weapon；　it　gave　him　a　distinction　similar　to　Sharpe's　sword；　and　the　gun　had　been　a　present　from　his　Captain；　purchased　from　a　chandler　in　Lisbon。
　
　Sharpe　pulled　the　greatcoat　tight　and　peered　over　the　parapet　towards　the　city。　There　was　little　to　see。　The　snow；　glinting　with　a　myriad　of　metallic　sparks；　led　to　the　slope　of　the　glacis　which　was　a　continuation　of　the　hill　on　which　Ciudad　Rodrigo　was　built。　He　could　see　where　the　breach　was　hidden　behind　the　glacis　because　of　the　dark　scars　in　the　snow　where　the　siege　artillery　had　fired　short。　The　glacis　was　not　designed　to　stop　infantry。　It　was　an　earthen　slope；　easily　climbed；　that　was　banked　in　front　of　the　defences　to　bounce　the　round　shot　screaming　over　the　defenders；　and　it　had　forced　Wellington　to　capture　the　French　forts　on　nearby　hills　so　that　the　British　artillery　could　be　placed　high　up　and　fire　down；　over　the　glacis；　into　the　walls。　Beyond　the　glacis　was　a　ditch；　hidden　from　Sharpe；　that　would　be　stone…faced　and　wide　and；　beyond　the　ditch；　the　modern　walls　that　masked；　in　their　turn；　the　old　mediaeval　wall。　The　guns　had　pierced　both　walls；　old　and　new；　and　turned　them　into　a　stretch　of　rubble；　but　the　defenders　would　have　prepared　horrid　traps　to　guard　the　gap。
　
　It　was　nine　years　since　Sharpe　had　been　part　of　a　besieging　force；　yet　he　could　remember　clearly　the　fierceness　of　the　fight　as　the　British　had　climbed　the　hill　to　Gawilghur　and　plunged　into　the　maze　of　walls　and　ditches　that　the　Indians　had　defended　with　ferocious　bravery。　Ciudad　Rodrigo　should；　he　knew；　be　more　difficult；　not　because　the　men　who　defended　this　town　were　better　soldiers；　but　because；　like　Badajoz；　it　was　defended　with　the　science　of　modern　engineering。　There　was　something　horridly　precise　about　the　defences；　with　their　false　walls　and　ravelins；　their　mathematically　sited　bastions　and　hidden　cannons；　and　only　passion；　anger；　or　screaming　desperation　would　force　the　science　to　yield　to　the　bayonets。　The　desperation　would　not　subside　quickly。　Sharpe　knew　that　once　the　attackers　broke　through　the　breach；　their　blood　raised　to　a　desperate　pitch；　the　men　would　be　ungovernable　in　the　town's　streets。　It　had　always　been　so。　If　a　fortress　did　not　surrender；　if　its　defenders　forced　the　attackers　to　shed　their　blood　in　an　assault；　then　old　custom；　soldiers'　custom；　dictated　that　all　inside　the　fortress　belonged　to　the　attackers'　vengeance。　Ciudad　Rodrigo's　only　hope　lay　in　a　short；　easy　fight。
　
　Bells　rang　the　Angelus　in　the　town。　The　Catholics　in　the　pany；　all　Irish；　made　sketchy　crosses　and　scrambled　to　their　feet　as　Lieutenant…Colonel　the　Honorable　William　Lawford；　the　South　Essex's　manding　Officer；　came　into　sight。　He　waved　the　men　down；　grinned　at　the　sight　of　the　snoring　Price；　nodded　amicably　to　Harper；　and　came　and　stood　beside　Sharpe。　'All　well？'
　'Yes；　sir。　'
　
　They　were　the　same　age；　thirty…five；　but　Lawford　had　been　born　to　the　Officers'　Mess。　When　he　had　been　a　Lieutenant；　lost　and　frightened　in　his　first　battle；　Sergeant　Richard　Sharpe　had　been　with　him；　guiding　him　as　Sergeants　often　guide　young　officers。　Then；　when　both　men　had　been　in　the　torture　chambers　of　the　Sultan　Tippoo；　Lawford　had　taught　Sharpe　to　read　and　write。　The　skills　had　made　it　possible　for　Sharpe；　once　he　had　performed　an　act　of　suicidal　bravery；　to　be　made　into　an　officer。　Lawford　stared　over　the　parapet　at　the　glacis。　'I'll　e　with　you　tonight。　'
　
　'Yes；　sir。　〃　Sharpe　knew　that　Lawford　had　no　need　to　be　there；　but　also　knew　he　could　not　dissuade　him　from　ing。　He　glanced　at　his　Colonel。　As　usual；　Lawford　was　immaculately　uniformed；　gold　lace　glinting　above　the　clean；　yellow　facings　of　the　scarlet　jacket。　'Wear　a　greatcoat；　sir。　'
　Lawford　smiled。　'You　want　me　to　disguise　myself？'
　'No；　sir；　but　you　must　be　bloody　cold；　and　we　all　like　a　shot　at　a　fancy　Colonel。　'
　'I'll　wear　this。　'　Lawford　held　up　a　cavalry　cloak；　fur　trimmed　and　lavish。　The　fastening　was　a　gold　chain　at　the　neck　and　Sharpe　knew　the　cloak　would　billow　open　and　leave　the　uniform　exposed。
　'It　won't　hide　the　uniform；　sir。　'
　'No；　Sergeant。　'　Lawford　smiled。　He　had　spoken　softly　and　the　remark　was　an　acknowledgement　that　their　relationship　was　still　the　same；　despite　the　promotions。　Lawford　was　a　good　officer　who　had　turned　the　South　Essex　from　a　frightened　Regiment　into　a　hardened；　confident　unit。　But　soldiering　was　not　Lawford's　life；　instead　it　was　a　means　to　his　ends；　political　ends；　and　he　wanted　success　in　Spain　to　pave　the　way　to　power　at　home。　In　war　he　still　relied　on　Sharpe；　the　natural　soldier；　and　Sharpe　was　grateful　for　the　trust　and　the　freedom。
　
　Beyond　the　river；　towards　Portugal；　the　fires　of　the　British　camp　glowed　bright　in　the　dusk。　In　the　trenches　the　battalions　waiting　for　the　assault　shivered；　gratefully　drank　the　rum　that　was　issued；　and　went　through　the　tiny　rituals　that　always　preceded　battle。　Uniforms　were　pulled　straight；　belts　made　fortable；　weapons　obsessively　checked；　and　men　felt　in　pockets　or　pouches　for　the　talismans　that　kept　them　alive。　A　lucky　rabbit's　foot；　a　bullet　that　had　nearly　killed　them；　a　memento　of　home；　or　just　a　plain　pebble　that　had　caught　their　eye　as　they　lay　under　heavy　fire　on　a　battlefield。　The　clocks　moved　up　from　the　half　hour　towards　the　hour。
　
　Generals　fidgeted　as　they　tried　to　persuade　themselves　their　plans　were　as　near　perfect　as　possible；　Brigade　Majors　fussed　over　last　minute　orders；　while　the　men　themselves　wore　that　wary；　stretched　look　that　soldiers　have　before　an　event　that　demands　their　deaths　to　make　it　memorable。　Packs　were　piled；　to　be　guarded　by　men　who　would　wait　in　the　trenches；　and　bayonets　were　slotted　and　twisted　on　to　musket　barrels。　The　job；　General　Picton　said；　would　be　done　with　cold　iron；　and　there　would　be　no　time　to　reload　a　musket　in　the　breach；　just　to　push　on；　bayonet　out；　reaching　for　the　enemy。　They　waited　for　night。　Made　small　jokes；　fought　with　the　imagination。
　
　At　seven　it　was　dark。　The　big　church　clock　in　the　tower　that　had　been　chipped　and　scarred　by　cannon　balls；　whirred　as　it　geared　itself　to　strike　the　hour。　The　sound　was　clearly　audible　over　the　snow。　The　orders　must　e　soon。　The　siege　guns　stopped　firing；　a　sudden　silence　that　seemed　unnatural　after　the　days　of　hammering　at　the　defences。　Sharpe　could　hear　men　coughing；　stamping　their　feet；　and　the　little　noises　were　terrible　reminders　of　how　small　and　frail　men　were　against　the　defences　of　a　fortress。
　
　'Go！'　The　Brigade　Majors　had　the　orders。　'Go！'
　Lawford　touched　Sharpe's　shoulder。　'Good　luck！'
　
The　Rifleman　noticed　the　Colonel　was　still　uncloaked；　but　it　was　too　late　now。　
　There　was　a　stirring　in　the　trenches；　a　rustle　as　the　hay…bags　were　pushed　out　of　the　trench；　and　then　Harper　was　beside　him　and；　beyond　the　Sergeant；　Lieutenant　Price；　wide…eyed　and　pale。　Sharpe　grinned　at　them。　'e　on。　'
　
　They　climbed　up　on　the　fire…step；　over　the　parapet；　and　went　in　silence　towards　the　breach。
　
　1812　had　begun。　
　
　
　CHAPTER　3
　
　The　snow　was　brittle；　crunching　beneath　Sharpe's　boots；　while　behind　him　he　could　hear　the　sounds　of　men　slipping　in　the　whiteness；　their　breath　rasping　in　the　cold　air；　their　equipment　clinking　as　they　started　up　the　hill　towards　the　glacis。
　
　The　crest　of　the　defences　were　limned　by　a　faint；　red　haze　where　the　lights　in　the　town；　fires　and　bracketed　torches；　glowed　in　the　night　mist。　It　seemed　unreal；　but　to　Sharpe　battles　often　seemed　unreal；　especially　now　as　he　climbed　the　snow…slope　towards　the　silent；　waiting　town　and　with　each　step　he　expected　the　sudden　eruption　of　cannon　and　the　shriek　of　grape。　Yet　the　defenders　were　quiet；　as　if　they　were　oblivious　of　the　mass　of　men　who　churned　the　snow　towards　Ciudad　Rodrigo。　In　two　hours　at　the　most；　Sharpe　knew；　it　would　all　be　over。　Talavera　had　taken　a　day　and　a　night；　Fuentes　de　Onoro　all　of　three　days；　but　no　man　could　endure　the　hell　of　a　breach　for　more　than　a　couple　of　hours。
　
　Lawford　was　beside　him；　the　cloak　still　held　over　one　arm　and　the　gold　lace　reflecting　the　dim；　red　light　ahead。　The　Colonel　grinned　at　Sharpe；　he　looked；　the　Rifleman　thought；　very　young。
　
　'Perhaps　we're　surprising　them；　Richard。　'
　
　The　answer　was　instant。　From　ahead；　from　the　left　and　right；　the　French　gunners　put　matches　to　the　priming　tubes；　the　cannons　banged　back　on　their　trails；　and　the　canisters　were　spat　over　the　glacis。　The　crest　of　the　defences　seemed　to　erupt　in　great；　boiling　clouds　of　smoke　that　were　lit　by　internal　lances　of　Same　that　reached　from　the　wall；　over　the　ditch；　to　spear　their　tongues　of　light　o