Sharpe waited for the head-shaking to cease. 'It seems to have taken you a long time to make any decision on this gazette.

'And still not made! The clerk said it proudly, making it seem that the length of time proved the gravity of the Horse Guards' wisdom. Then he seemed to relent and offered Sharpe a rueful smile. 'The truth is, Mr. Sharpe, that there was a mistake. A regrettable mistake and your visit has happily rectified the mistake. He peered over his glasses at the tall Rifleman. 'We are really most grateful to you for drawing it to our attention.

'Mistake?

'It was filed wrongly. The clerk plucked another piece of paper from his left hand. 'Under Lieutenant Robert Sharp, no «e», who died of the fever in 1810. His papers were, otherwise, in perfect order.

'Which mine are not?

'Indeed, no, but you are still alive. The clerk looked peevishly at Sharpe. 'We do have a chance of tidying up when an officer is translated to glory. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with Sharpe's folded gazette. 'It will be attended to, Mr. Sharpe, with expedition. I promise you. With expedition!

'Soon?

'That's what I said, isn't it? It would be wrong to say more. The clerk pushed his spectacles back into place. 'Now, if you'll pardon me, there is a war on and I have other duties!

It had been a mistake, Sharpe realized afterwards, to visit Whitehall, but it was done and he could only go on waiting. Surely, he told himself a dozen times each day, they could not disapprove the gazette. Not after he had taken the Eagle? After he had brought the gold out of the burning Almeida, and after he had savaged the finest French troops in the deathtraps of Fuentes de Onoro? He stared gloomily across the snow at the scar in Ciudad Rodrigo's defences.