The Rifle Captain looked villainous. His left eye was gone, the socket covered by a black patch that was green at the edges. Most of his right ear was missing, and two of his front teeth were clumsy fakes. The wounds had all been taken on battlefields.

He slammed to attention in front of Sharpe, saluted, and the military precision was diluted by the suspicion in his voice. 'Captain Frederickson, sir. Frederickson looked lithe as a whip, as hard as the brass furniture on his mens' rifles.

The second Captain, burlier and less confident, allowed a smile on his face as he saluted. 'Cross, sir. Captain Cross. Captain Cross wanted Major Sharpe to like him, Frederickson could not give a damn.

There had been elation in promotion, but now Sharpe was surprised by his nervousness. Just as Cross wanted Sharpe to like him, so Sharpe wanted to be liked by the men who had come under his command. He was being tempted to believe that if he was friendly and approachable, reasonable and kind, then men would follow him more willingly. But kindness was not the wellspring of loyalty and he knew the temptation had to be resisted. 'What are you smiling about, Captain?

'Sir? Cross's eyes darted to Frederickson, but the one-eyed man stared flintily ahead. The smile went.

These Captains, and their Companies, were the men whom Sharpe would lead into the Gateway of God, into a difficult night action, and that would be no place for a friendly, approachable, reasonable and kind man. They might like him eventually, but first they would have to dislike him because he imposed standards on them, because loyalty came from respect. 'What's your state?

Frederickson answered first, as Sharpe had thought he would. 'Seventy-nine men, sir. Four Sergeants and two Lieutenants.

'Ammunition?

'Eighty rounds, sir. The answer was too pat, it was a lie. British gunpowder was the best in the world and most soldiers made a few pence on the side by selling cartridges to villagers. Yet Frederickson's answer also implied that the shortfall was none of Sharpe's business. He, Frederickson, would make sure his men went into battle with a full pouch. I Sharpe looked at Cross. 'Captain?

'Fifty-eight men, sir. Four Sergeants and one Lieutenant.

Sharpe looked at the Companies that paraded in Frenada's square. They were tired, dishevelled, waiting for dismissal. They had just marched from the Coa and were looking forward to warm billets, drink, and a meal. Haifa dozen horses, the property of officers, stood in front of the green jacketed ranks. Sharpe looked up at the sun. Three hours of daylight left. 'We're taking extra ammunition. It's signed for. I'll tell your Sergeants where to fetch it.

Cross nodded. 'Sir.

'And we're going ten miles tonight. All officers' horses are to stay here. He turned away, turned back by an exclamation of surprise from Captain Cross.

'Captain?

'Nothing, sir.

Frederickson was smiling, just smiling.

They bivouacked that night, as cold as flogged skin in winter, making shelters from branches and cooking ration beef in the small camp kettles. No Riflemen ever carried the huge Flanders Cauldrons that were the army issue and had to be carried on a mule because of their weight. It took a whole tree-trunk to warm a Flanders Cauldron and so the Light troops of Wellington's army simply took the small cooking pots from the enemies they killed, as they took their comfortable packs, and Sharpe looked at the thirty small fires with satisfaction. His own Company was with him, a shrunken Company because the summer of 1812 had whittled his numbers down. Lieutenant Price, three Sergeants, and just twenty eight men were the South Essex's skirmishers, and only nine of the men, plus Harper, were Riflemen from Sharpe's old Company of the 95th that he had brought out of the retreat to Corunna four years before. Price shared a fire with Sharpe, looked at his Major and shivered. 'We can't go in with you, sir?

'You're wearing a red coat, Harry.

Price swore. 'We'll be all right, sir.

'No you won't. Sharpe raked a chestnut out of the fire with his knife. 'There'll be enough to do on Christmas Day, Harry. Trust me.’

Price's voice was resentful. 'Yes, sir. Then, unable to stay gloomy for long, he grinned and jerked his head at the camp-fires. 'You've cheered them up, sir. Don't know what's hit them.

Sharpe laughed. Two of the Lieutenants had been hobbling after a ten mile march, not used to being out of their saddles. The Riflemen were resigned. Sharpe was just another bastard who had denied them a warm bed, the chance of a warm girl, and forced them to sleep on a December night in an open field. Price swore as a chestnut burned his fingers. 'They're definitely intrigued, sir.

'Intrigued?

'Our lads have talked with them. Told them a thing or two. He grinned as, at last, the skin came off the chestnut. 'Told them how long people usually live when they fight for Major Sharpe.

'Christ, Harry! Don't lay it on too thick!

Price munched happily. 'They're tough lads, sir. They'll be all right.

They were tough, too. The 60th, the Royal American Rifles, a Regiment that had been raised in the Thirteen Colonies before the rebellion. They had been trained as sharp-shooters, stalkers, killers of the deep forest, but since the loss of America the Regiment's ranks had been filled by British and by exiled Germans. At least half these men were German and Sharpe had discovered that Frederickson was the son of an English mother and German father and spoke both languages fluently. Sergeant Harper had discovered the ironic nickname that Frederickson's Company had given to their Captain; Captain William Frederickson, as hard an officer as any in the army, had inevitably become Sweet William.

Sweet William crossed to Sharpe's fire. 'Speak to you, sir?

'Go ahead.

Frederickson squatted down, his one eye baleful. 'Is there a password tonight, sir?

'Password?

Frederickson shrugged. 'I wanted to take a patrol out, sir. He did not want to ask permission. It offended Captains of the 60th to ask permission. The Regiment did not fight in Battalions like other Regiments, but was split up into Companies that were attached to the army's Divisions to strengthen the skirmish line. Companies of the 60th were the army's orphans, tough and independent, proud of their solitary status.

Sharpe grinned. There was no need to patrol this country; safe, friendly Portugal. 'You want to take a patrol out, Captain.

'Yes, sir. Some of my men could do with some night training.

'How long?

The thin, eye-patched face looked at the flames, then back to Sharpe. 'Three hours, sir.

Time enough to go back to the village they had passed in the dusk and get into the big farm on the hill behind the church. Sharpe had heard the sounds too, and the sounds had made him just as hungry as Frederickson. So he wanted a password to get back past the picquet line? 'Pork chop, Captain.

'Sir?

'That's the password. And my price.

The faintest grin. 'Your men say you don't approve of stealing, sir.

'I never liked the sight of the provosts hanging men for looting. Sharpe felt in his pouch, threw Frederickson a coin. 'Leave that on the doorstep.

Frederickson nodded. 'I will, sir. He stood up.

'And Captain?

'Sir?

'I like the middle chops. The ones with the kidney.

The grin showed in the darkness. 'Yes, sir.

They ate the pork the next day at dusk, hidden in a grove of oak trees, a long day's march behind them. Tonight there would be no rest, only a difficult night march across the river and up into the hills. Sharpe paraded them formally, stripped them of packs, canteens, pouches, haversacks, greatcoats and shakoes, and he watched as the Sergeants searched each man and his equipment for drink. This was one night and a day when no man could risk being drunk, and the Riflemen watched sullenly as their liquor was poured onto the ground. Then Sharpe held up a cluster of canteens. 'Brandy. They cheered up a little. 'We'll dole it out tomorrow to see us through the cold. Once the job's done you can drink yourselves stupid.