'Seasick, sir. Could never stand up straight.

'You can't do that on land.

Price had taken a few moments to understand, then his round, friendly, misleadingly innocent face had grinned. 'Very good, sir. Droll. But still, sir, on land, if you follow me, there's always something solid underneath. I mean if you fall over, then at least you know it's the drink and not the bloody ship.

The dislike had not lasted. It was impossible to dislike Lieutenant Price. His life was a single-minded pursuit of the debauchery denied him by his stern, God-fearing family, and he retained enough sense to make sure that when he was supposed to be sober he was, at the very least, upright. The men of Sharpe's Company liked him, were protective towards him because they believed he was not long for this world. They reasoned that if a French bullet did not kill him, then the drink would, or the mercury salts he took for the pox, or a jealous husband, or, as Harper said admiringly, sheer bloody exhaustion. The big Sergeant looked up from his hay-bag, nodded down the trench. 'Here he is now, sir.

Price grinned weakly at them, winced as twenty-four pounds of round shot hammered overhead towards the city, then stared agape at Harper. 'What are you sitting on, Sergeant?

'Hay-bag, sir.

Price shook his head in admiration. 'Christ! They should issue them every day. Can I borrow it?

'My pleasure, sir. Harper stood up and courteously waved the Lieutenant to the bag.

Price collapsed, groaned in satisfaction. 'Wake me when glory calls.

'Yes, sir. Which one's Glory?

'Irish wit, oh God, Irish wit. Price closed his eyes.

The sky was darkening, the grey clouds turning sinister, bringing on the inexorable moment. Sharpe pulled his huge sword a few inches from the scabbard, tested the honed edge, and pushed it back.