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'You want to go?'

'What day is it?'

'Sunday, sir.'

'You want to go?'

The Irishman grinned. 'Wouldn't worry, sir. It doesn't offend me and if it offends Him then He's plenty of opportunity to punish you.'

Lossow's heels clicked in the side aisle; he came from behind a pillar, blinked in the sunlight. 'Where is he?' He disappeared again.

'What day is it?'

Sharpe felt ashamed. This was Harper's religion. 'I'm sorry.'

Sharpe shrugged. 'And who works it? Maybe, I don't know.' He glanced at the battery, its embrasure plugged, and he knew that the French gunners would be celebrating. They deserved it. He doubted if the gun would fire again, not today; the iron barrels had a limited life and the gun had achieved its purpose. 'Come on. Let's see Cox.'

Harper kicked the fallen beam. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?'

'Amen to that, sir.' Harper had infinitely more patience.

'Sunday, sir.'

Sharpe turned to him. 'We must persuade Cox to let us out.'

'Sweet Jesus.' Harper stood up, 'Are you all right, sir?'

'Amen to that, sir.' Harper had infinitely more patience.

'Amen to that, sir.' Harper had infinitely more patience.

'Yes.' Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?'

Sharpe turned to him. 'We must persuade Cox to let us out.'

'Sweet Jesus.' Harper stood up, 'Are you all right, sir?'

Harper looked over the ramparts, at the drifting smoke. 'Just four shots. That's good shooting.' There was a reluctant respect in his voice.

'Amen to that, sir.' Harper had infinitely more patience.

Sharpe felt ashamed. This was Harper's religion. 'I'm sorry.'

'What day is it?'

'What day is it?'

Sharpe turned round, blood flecking his uniform, and his face grim. 'We'll get out. With or without him, we'll get out.'

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