rmed past the two silent guns towards the streets of the town。 A few shots came from doors and windows； but only a few； and the British horde flooded down the rubble to where the breach had smothered the old mediaeval wall。 It was over。
Or nearly。 A second mine had been put in the ruins of the old wall。 Black powder had been crammed into an old postern and now the French lit the fuse and ran back into the streets。 The mine exploded。 Flame streaked up from the darkness； old stones shattered outwards； boiling smoke and dust； and with it came the stench of roasted flesh and the head of the victorious column was uselessly decimated。 For a second there was a stunned silence； time just to draw breath； and then the shout was not for victory； but for revenge； and the troops took their anger into the defenseless streets。
Harper watched the howling mob flow into the city。 'You think we're invited？'
'Why not？'
The Frenchman was a slim man with a thin； fair moustache beneath a straight； hooked nose。 Sharpe could see the man's fear。 The Frenchman did not want to make a solo attack； but he had his pride； and he hoped his men would follow。 They did not。 Instead they called to him； told him not to be a fool； but he walked on； looking at Sharpe； and his sword was ridiculously slim as he lowered it to the guard。 He said something to Sharpe； who shook his head； but the Frenchman insisted and lunged at Sharpe； who was forced to leap back and bring up the huge sword in a clumsy parry。 Sharpe's anger had gone in the cool air； the fight was over； and he was irritated by the Frenchman's insistence。 'Go away！ Vamos！' He tried to remember the words in French； but he could not。
The Irish laughed。 'Put him over your knee； Captain！' The Frenchman was little more than a boy； ridiculously young； but brave。 He came forward again； the sword level； and this time Sharpe jumped towards him； growled； and the Frenchman rocked back。
Sharpe dropped his own blade。 'Give up！'
The answer was another lunge that came close to Sharpe's chest。 He leaned back and beat the sword aside。 He could feel his anger returning。 He swore at the man； jerked his head down the ramparts； but still the fool came forward； incensed by the Irish laughter； and again Sharpe had to parry and force him back。
Harper finished the farce。 He had worked his way behind the officer and； as the Frenchman looked at Sharpe for another attack； the Sergeant coughed。 'Sir？ Monsewer？' The officer looked round。 The giant Irishman smiled at him； came forward unarmed and very slowly。 'Monsewer？'
The officer nodded to Harper； frowned； and said something in French。 The huge Sergeant nodded seriously。 'Quite right； sir； quite right。 ' Then a giant fist traveled from some place low down； up； and straight on to the Frenchman's chin。 He crumpled； the Connaught men gave an ironic cheer； and Harper laid the senseless body beside the rampart。 'Poor wee fool。 ' He grinned at Sharpe； immensely pleased with himself； and looked over towards the breach。 The fight still went on。
CHAPTER 4
There was a scream from inside the town； shots as men blew open the doors of houses； and over it all the sound of triumphant voices。 After the fight； the reward。
Harper reached the body first； plucked the cloak to one side； and bent over the bloodied chest。 'He's alive； sir。 '
It seemed to Sharpe like a parody of life。 The explosion had sheared Lawford's left arm almost clean from his body； crushed the ribs and flicked them open so they protruded through the remnants of skin and flesh。 The blood was flowing beneath the once immaculate uniform。 Harper began tearing the cloak into strips； his mouth a tight line of anger and sorrow。 Sharpe looked towards the breach where men still clambered towards the houses。 'Bandsmen！'
The bands had played during the assault。 He remembered hearing the music and now； idiotically； he could suddenly identify the tune he had heard。 'The Downfall of Paris'。 By now the bandsmen should be doing their other job； of caring for the wounded； but he could see none。 'Bandsmen！'
Miraculously Lieutenant Price appeared； pale and unsteady； and with him a small group of the Light pany。 'Sir？'
'A stretcher。 Fast！ And send someone back to battalion。 '
Price saluted。 He had forgotten the drawn sword in his hand so that the blade； a curved sabre； nearly sliced into Private Peters。 'Sir。 ' The small group ran back。
Lawford was unconscious。 Harper was binding the chest； his huge fingers astonishingly gentle with the tattered flesh。 He looked up at Sharpe。 'Take the arm off； sir。 '
'What？'
'Better now than later； sir。 ' The Sergeant pointed at the Colonel's left arm； held by a single； glistening shred of tissue。 'He might live； sir； so he might； but the arm will have to go…'
A splintered piece of bone protruded from the stump。 The arm was bent unnaturally upwards； pointing towards the city； and Harper was binding the brief stump to stop the weakly pulsing blood。 Sharpe picked his way to Lawford's head； treading carefully for the ground was slick； though whether with blood or ice it was impossible to see。 The only light came from the burning timber。 He put the point of his sword down into the bloodied mess and Harper moved the blade till it was in the right place。 'Leave the skin； sir。 It'll flap over。 '
It was no different from butchering a pig or a bullock； but it felt different。 He could hear crashes from the city； punctuating the screams。 'Is that right？' He could feel Harper manipulating the blade。
'Now； sir。 Straight down。 '
Sharpe pushed down； with both hands； almost as if he was driving a stake into mud。 Human flesh is resilient； proof against all but the hottest stroke； and Sharpe felt the gorge rise in his throat as the sword met resistance and he heaved down so that Lawford tipped in the scarlet slush and the Colonel's lips grimaced。 Then it was done； the arm free； and Sharpe stooped to the dead fingers and pulled off a gold ring。 He would give it to Forrest to be sent home with the Colonel or； God forbid； to be sent to his relatives。
Lieutenant Price was back。 'They're ing； sir。 〃
'Who？'
〃The Major； sir。 '
'A stretcher？'
Price nodded； looking sick。 'Will he live； sir？'
'How the hell do I know？' It was not fair to vent his anger on Price。 'What was he doing here anyway？'
Price shrugged miserably。 'He said he was going to find you； sir。 '
Sharpe stared down at the handsome Colonel and swore。
Lawford had no business in the breach。 The same； perhaps； could have been said of Sharpe and Harper； but the tall Rifleman saw a difference。 Lawford had a future； hopes； a family to protect； ambitions that were within his grasp； and soldiering was not where those ambitions finally lay。 They might all be thrown away for one mad moment in a breach； a moment to prove something。 Sharpe and Harper had no such future； no such hopes； only the knowledge that they were soldiers； as good as their last battle； useful as long as they could fight。 They were both； Sharpe thought； adventurers； gambling with their lives。 He looked at the Colonel。 It was such a waste。
Sharpe listened to the great noise ing from the city； a noise of rampage and victory。 Once； perhaps； he thought； an adventurer had a future； back when the world was free and a sword was the passport to any hope。 Not now。 Everything was changing with a suddenness and pace that was bewildering。 Three years before； when the army had defeated the French at Vimiero； it had been a small army； almost an intimate army； and the General could inspect all his troops in a single morning and have time to recognize them； remember them。 Sharpe had known most officers in the line by face； if not by name； and was wele at their evening fires。 Not now。 Now there were generals of this and generals of that； of division and brigade； and provost…marshals and senior chaplains； and the army was far too large to see on a single morning or even march on a single road。 Wellington； perforce； had bee remote。 There were bureaucrats with the army； defenders of files； and soon； Sharpe knew； a man would be less important than the pieces of paper lik