“A little, sir.”

Simmerson chuckled. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two, sir.” Sharpe stared rigidly ahead.

“Thirty-two, eh? And still only a Lieutenant? What’s the matter, Sharpe? Incompetence?”

Sharpe saw Forrest signalling to the Colonel but he ignored the movements. “I joined in the ranks, sir.”

Forrest dropped his hand. The Colonel dropped his mouth. There were not many men who made the jump from Sergeant to Ensign, and those who did could rarely be accused of incompetence. There were only three qualifications that a common soldier needed to be given a commission. First he must be able to read and write, and Sharpe had learned his letters in the Sultan Tippoo’s prison to the accompaniment of the screams of other British prisoners being tortured. Secondly the man had to perform some act of suicidal bravery and Sharpe knew that Simmerson was wondering what he had done. The third qualification was extraordinary luck, and Sharpe sometimes wondered whether that was not a two-edged sword. Simmerson snorted.

“You’re not a gentleman then, Sharpe?”

“No, sir.”

“Well you could try to dress like one, eh? Just because you grew up in a pigsty that doesn’t mean you have to dress like a pig?”

“No, sir.” There was nothing else to say.

Simmerson slung his sword over his vast belly. “Who commissioned you, Sharpe?”

“Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir.”

Sir Henry gave a bray of triumph. “I knew it! No standards, no standards at all! I’ve seen this army, its appearance is a disgrace! You can’t say that of my men, eh? You cannot fight without discipline!” He looked at Sharpe. “What makes a good soldier, Sharpe?”