“Don’t they teach you to salute in the Rifles?” The Lieutenant’s voice was as smooth and rich as his uniform. Sharpe said nothing. His epaulette was missing, torn off in the winter’s fighting, and he realised that the blond Lieutenant had mistaken him for a private. It was hardly surprising. The alleyway was deeply shadowed, Sharpe’s profile, with slung rifle, all helped to explain the Lieutenant’s mistake. Sharpe glanced up to the thin, blue-eyed face and was about to explain when the Lieutenant flicked his whip so that it slapped Sharpe’s face.

“Damn you, man, answer me!”

Sharpe felt the anger rise in him, but stayed still and waited for his moment. The Lieutenant drew the whip back.

“What Battalion? What Company?”

“Second Battalion, Fourth Company.” Sharpe spoke with deliberate insolence and remembered the days when he had no protection against officers like this. The Lieutenant smiled again, no more pleasantly.

“You will call me ”sir“, you know. I shall make you. Who’s your officer?”

“Lieutenant Sharpe.”

“Ah!” The Lieutenant kept his whip raised. “Lieutenant Sharpe whom we’ve all been told about. Came up from the ranks, didn’t he?”

Sharpe nodded and the Lieutenant drew the whip back further.

“Is that why you don’t say ”sir“? Has Mr Sharpe strange ideas on discipline? Well, I will have to see Lieutenant Sharpe, won’t I, and arrange to have you punished for insolence.” He brought the whip slashing down towards Sharpe’s head. There was no room for Sharpe to step back, but there was no need; instead he put both hands under the man’s stirrup and heaved upwards with all his strength. The whip stopped somewhere in mid stroke, the man started to cry out, and the next instant he was flat on his back on the far side of his horse where another horse had dunged earlier.

“You’re going to have to wash your uniform, Lieutenant.” Sharpe smiled.

The man’s horse had whinnied and gone forward a few paces, and the furious Lieutenant struggled to his feet and put his hand to the hilt of his sabre.