“Ah! That’s better!” Sir Henry closed his eyes and smiled momentarily. A trickle of blood ran down his arm and escaped the towel that the doctor was dabbing at the flow.

“Again, Parton, again!”

The doctor shook his head. “But, Sir Henry… “

Simmerson cuffed the doctor with his free hand. “Don’t argue with me! Damn it, man, bleed me!” He looked at Hogan. “Always too much spleen after a flogging, Captain.”

“That’s very understandable, sir,” Hogan said in his Irish brogue, and Simmerson looked at him suspiciously. The box clicked again, the blades gouged into the plump arm, and more blood trickled onto the sheets. Hogan caught Sharpe’s eye and there was the glimmer of a smile that could too easily turn into laughter. Sharpe looked back to Sir Henry Simmerson, who was pulling on his shirt.

“You must be Captain Hogan?”

“Yes, sir.” Hogan nodded amiably.

Simmerson turned to Sharpe. “And who the devil are you?”

“Lieutenant Sharpe, sir. 95th Rifles.”

“No, you’re not. You’re a damned disgrace, that’s what you are!”

Sharpe said nothing. He stared over the Colonel’s shoulder, through the window, at the far blue hills where the French were gathering their strength.

“Forrest!” Simmerson had stood up. “Forrest!”

The door opened and the Major, who must have been waiting for the summons, came in. He smiled timorously at Sharpe and Hogan and then turned to Simmerson. “Colonel?”

“This officer will need a new uniform. Provide it, please, and arrange to have the money deducted from his pay.”

“No.” Sharpe spoke flatly. Simmerson and Forrest turned to stare at him. For a moment Sir Henry said nothing; he was not used to being contradicted, and Sharpe kept going. “I am an officer of the 95th Rifles and I will wear their uniform so long as I have that honour.”

Simmerson began to go red and his fingers fluttered at his side. “Damn you, Sharpe! You’re a disgrace! You’re not a soldier, you’re a crossing sweeper! You’re under my orders now and I’m ordering you to be back here in fifteen minutes… “

“No, sir.” This time Hogan had spoken. His words checked Simmerson in full flow but the Captain gave the Colonel no time to recover. He unleashed all his Irish charm, starting with a smile of such sweet reasonableness that it would have charmed a fish out of the water. “You see, Sir Henry, Sharpe is under my orders. The General is quite specific. As I understand it, Sir Henry, we accompany each other to Valdelacasa but Sharpe is with me.”

“But… “ Hogan raised a hand to Simmerson’s protest.

“You are right, sir, so right. But of course you would understand that conditions in the field may not be all that we would want, and it may be as well, sir, I need hardly tell you, that I should have the dispositions of the Riflemen.”

Simmerson stared at Hogan. The Colonel had not understood a word of Hogan’s nonsense but it had all been stated in such a matter-of-fact way, and in such a soldier-to-soldier way, that Simmerson was desperately trying to find an answer that did not make him sound foolish. He looked at Hogan for a moment. “But that would be my decision!”

“How right you are, sir, how true!” Hogan spoke emphatically and warmly. “Normally, that is. But I think the General had it in his mind, sir, that you would be so burdened with the problems of our Spanish allies and then, sir, there are the exigencies of engineering that Lieutenant Sharpe understands.” He leaned forward con-spiratorially. “I need men to fetch and carry, sir. You understand.”

Simmerson smiled, then gave a bray of a laugh. Hogan had taken him off the hook. He pointed at Sharpe. “He dresses like a common labourer, eh Forrest? A labourer!” He was delighted with his joke and repeated it to himself as he pulled on his vast scarlet and yellow jacket. “A labourer! Eh, Forrest?” The Major smiled dutifully. He resembled a long-suffering vicar continually assailed by the sins of an unrepentant flock, and when Simmerson’s back was turned he gave Sharpe an apologetic look. Simmerson buckled his belt and turned back to Sharpe. “Done much soldiering then, Sharpe? Apart from fetching and carrying?”

“A little, sir.”

Simmerson chuckled. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two, sir.” Sharpe stared rigidly ahead.

“Thirty-two, eh? And still only a Lieutenant? What’s the matter, Sharpe? Incompetence?”

Sharpe saw Forrest signalling to the Colonel but he ignored the movements. “I joined in the ranks, sir.”

Forrest dropped his hand. The Colonel dropped his mouth. There were not many men who made the jump from Sergeant to Ensign, and those who did could rarely be accused of incompetence. There were only three qualifications that a common soldier needed to be given a commission. First he must be able to read and write, and Sharpe had learned his letters in the Sultan Tippoo’s prison to the accompaniment of the screams of other British prisoners being tortured. Secondly the man had to perform some act of suicidal bravery and Sharpe knew that Simmerson was wondering what he had done. The third qualification was extraordinary luck, and Sharpe sometimes wondered whether that was not a two-edged sword. Simmerson snorted.

“You’re not a gentleman then, Sharpe?”

“No, sir.”

“Well you could try to dress like one, eh? Just because you grew up in a pigsty that doesn’t mean you have to dress like a pig?”

“No, sir.” There was nothing else to say.

Simmerson slung his sword over his vast belly. “Who commissioned you, Sharpe?”

“Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir.”

Sir Henry gave a bray of triumph. “I knew it! No standards, no standards at all! I’ve seen this army, its appearance is a disgrace! You can’t say that of my men, eh? You cannot fight without discipline!” He looked at Sharpe. “What makes a good soldier, Sharpe?”

“The ability to fire three rounds a minute in wet weather, sir.” Sharpe invested his answer with a tinge of insolence. He knew the reply would annoy Simmerson. The South Essex was a new Battalion and he doubted whether musketry was up to the standard of other, older Battalions. Of all the European armies only the British practised with live ammunition but it took weeks, sometimes months, for a soldier to learn the complicated drill of loading and firing a musket fast, ignoring the panic, just concentrating on out-shooting the enemy.

Sir Henry had not expected the answer and he stared thoughtfully at the scarred Rifleman. To be honest, and Sir Henry did not enjoy being honest with himself, he was afraid of the army he had encountered in Portugal. Until now Sir Henry had thought soldiering was a glorious affair of obedient men in drill-straight lines, their scarlet coats shining in the sun, and instead he had been met by casual, unkempt officers who mocked his Militia training. Sir Henry had dreamed of leading his Battalion into battle, mounted on his charger, sword aloft, gaining undying glory. But staring at Sharpe, typical of so many officers he had met in his brief time in Portugal, he found himself wondering whether there were any French officers who looked like Sharpe. He had imagined Napoleon’s army, despite their conquest of Europe, as a herd of ignorant soldiers shepherded by foppish officers and he shuddered inside at the thought that they might turn out to be lean, hardened men like Sharpe who might chop him out of his saddle before he had the chance to be painted in oils as a conquering hero. Sir Henry was already afraid and he had yet to see a single enemy, but first he had to get a subtle revenge on this Rifleman who had baffled him.

“Three rounds a minute?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how do you teach men to fire three rounds a minute?”

Sharpe shrugged. “Patience, sir. Practice. One battle does a world of good.”

Simmerson scoffed at him. “Patience! Practice! They aren’t children, Sharpe. They’re drunkards and thieves! Gutter scourings!” His voice was rising again. “Flog it into them, Sharpe, flog! It’s the only way! Give them a lesson they won’t forget. Isn’t that right?”