“A land of slaves,” Cromwell said derisively.

Lord William Hale might have been expected to contribute to this conversation for, as one of the six members of the East India Company’s Board of Control, he must have been familiar with the thinking of the British government, but he was content to listen with a faintly amused smile, though he did raise an eyebrow at Cromwell’s assertion that the Russians were a nation of slaves.

“The French, sir,” Cromwell went on hotly, “face a rabble of enemies on their eastern frontiers, but none on their west. They can therefore concentrate their armies, sure in the knowledge that no British army will ever touch their shore.”

“Never?” the merchant, a solid man called Ebenezer Fairley, asked sarcastically.

Cromwell swung his heavy gaze on this new opponent. He contemplated Fairley for a while, then shook his head. “The British, Fairley, do not like armies. They keep a small army. A small army can never defeat Napoleon. Ergo, Napoleon is safe. Ergo, the war is lost. Good God, man, they might already have invaded Britain!”

“I pray not,” Major Dalton said fervently.

“Their army was ready,” Cromwell boomed with a strange relish in this talk of British defeat, “and all they needed was for their navy to command the channel.”

“Which it cannot do,” the barrister intervened quietly.

“And even if they did not invade this year,” Cromwell went on, ignoring the lawyer, “then in time they will succeed in building a navy fit to defeat ours, and when that day comes Britain will have to seek peace. Britain will revert to its natural posture, and its natural posture is to be a small and insignificant island poised off a great continent.”

Lady Grace spoke for the first time. Sharpe had been pleased and surprised to see her at supper, for Captain Chase had suggested that she eschewed company, but she seemed content to be in the cuddy though so far she had taken as little part in the conversation as her husband. “So we are doomed to defeat, Captain?” she suggested.

“No, ma’am,” Cromwell answered, softening his pugnacity now that he addressed a titled passenger. “We are doomed to a realistic settlement of peace just as soon as the jackanapes politicians recognize what is plain in front of their faces.”

“Which is?” Fairley demanded.

“That the French are more powerful than us, of course!” Cromwell growled. “And until we make peace the prudent man makes money, for we shall need money in a world run by the French. That is why India is important. We should suck the place dry before the French take it from us.” Cromwell snapped his fingers to instruct the stewards to remove the plates which had held a ragout of salted beef. Sharpe had eaten clumsily, finding the thick silverware unwieldy, and wishing he had dared take out his folding pocket knife which he used at meals when his betters were not present.

Mathilde, the Baroness von Dornberg, smiled gratefully as the captain replenished her wine glass. The baroness, who was almost certainly nothing of the sort, sat on Captain Cromwell’s left while opposite her was Lady Grace Hale. Pohlmann, resplendent in a lace-fringed silk coat, sat next to Lady Grace while Lord William was to the left of Mathilde. Sharpe, as the least important person present, was at the lower end of the table.

The cuddy was an elegant room paneled with wood that had been painted pea-green and gold, while a brass chandelier, bereft of candles, hung from a beam alongside the wide skylight. If the room had not been gently rocking, sometimes shifting a wine glass on the table, Sharpe might have thought himself ashore.

He had said nothing all evening, content to gaze at Lady Grace who, white-faced and aloof, had ignored him since the moment he had been named to her. She had politely offered him a gloved hand, given him an expressionless glance, then turned away. Her husband had frowned at Sharpe’s presence, then imitated his wife by pretending the ensign did not exist.

A dessert of oranges and burned sugar was served. Pohlmann eagerly spooned the rich sauce into his mouth, then looked at Sharpe. “You think the war is lost, Sharpe?”

“Me, sir?” Sharpe was startled at being addressed.

“You, Sharpe, yes, you,” Pohlmann said. “Do you think the war is lost?”

Sharpe hesitated, wondering whether the wisest course was to say something harmless and let the conversation go on again without him, but he had been offended by Cromwell’s defeatism. “It certainly isn’t over, my lord,” he said to Pohlmann.

Cromwell recognized the challenge. “What do you mean by that, sir, eh? Explain yourself.”

“A fight ain’t lost till it’s finished, sir,” Sharpe said, “and this one ain’t done.”

“An ensign speaks,” Lord William murmured scornfully.

“You think a rat has a chance against a terrier?” Cromwell demanded, just as scornfully.

Pohlmann held up a hand to stop Sharpe from responding. “I think Ensign Sharpe knows a good deal about fighting, Captain,” the German said. “When I first met him he was a sergeant, and now he is a commissioned officer.” He paused, letting that statement cause its stir of surprise. “What does it take for a sergeant to become an officer in the British army?”

“Damned luck,” Lord William said laconically.

“It takes an act of outstanding bravery,” Major Dalton observed quietly. He raised his wine glass to Sharpe. “Honored to make your acquaintance, Sharpe. I didn’t place the name when we were introduced, but I recall you now. I’m honored.”

Pohlmann, enjoying his mischief, toasted Sharpe with a sip of wine. “So what was your act of outstanding bravery, Mister Sharpe?”

Sharpe reddened. Lady Grace was staring at him, the first notice she had taken of him since the company had sat to dinner.

“Well, Sharpe?” Captain Cromwell insisted.

Sharpe was tongue-tied, but was rescued by Dalton. “He saved Sir Arthur Wellesley’s life,” the major said quietly.

“How? Where?” Pohlmann demanded.

Sharpe caught the German’s eye. “At a place called Assaye, sir.”

“Assaye?” Pohlmann said, frowning slightly. It had been at Assaye that his army and his ambitions had been wrecked by Wellesley. “Never heard of it,” he said lightly, leaning back in his chair.

“And you were first over the wall at Gawilghur, Sharpe,” the major said. “Isn’t that right?”

“Me and Captain Campbell were first across, sir. But it were lightly defended.”

“Is that where you fetched the scar, Sharpe?” the major inquired, and the whole table gazed at Sharpe. He looked uncomfortable, but there was no denying the power of his face, nor the suggestion of violence that was contained in the scar. “It wasn’t a bullet, was it?” the major insisted. “No bullet makes that kind of scar.”

“It were a sword, sir,” Sharpe answered. “Man called Dodd.” He looked at Pohlmann as he spoke and Pohlmann, who had once commanded and heartily disliked the renegade Dodd, half smiled.

“And does Mister Dodd still live?” the German asked.

“He’s dead, sir,” Sharpe said flatly.

“Good.” Pohlmann raised his glass to Sharpe.

The major turned to Cromwell. “Mister Sharpe is a very considerable soldier, Captain. Sir Arthur told me that if you find yourself in a bad fight then you can ask for no one better at your side.”

The news that General Wellesley had said any such thing pleased Sharpe, but Captain Cromwell had not been deflected from his argument and was now frowning at the ensign. “You think,” the captain demanded, “that the French can be defeated?”

“We’re at war with them, sir,” Sharpe retorted, “and you don’t go to war unless you mean to win.”

“You go to war,” Lord William said icily, “because small-minded men can see no alternative.”

“And if every war has a winner,” Cromwell said, “it must by ineluctable logic also have a loser. If you want my advice, young man, leave the army before some politician has you killed in an ill-considered attack on France. Or, more likely, the French invade Britain and kill you along with the rest of the redcoats.”