He wagged a finger at Sharpe. 'That bears some truth, but not the whole truth. Some people will tell you that the Peer chose this benighted town because it is bloody miles from Lisbon and no snivelling place-seekers and bum-lickers will bother to make the journey up here to annoy him. Now that, too, might contain a grain of the eternal truth, except that the Peer's down there half the time which makes life bloody easy for the sycophantic bastards. No, Sharpe, we must look for the real reason elsewhere.

'Yes, sir.

Nairn groaned as he stretched himself out. 'The real reason, Sharpe, the immaculately conceived reason, is that this God-damned excuse for a bloody miserable little hovel of a crippled town being chosen is that it is right in the centre of the best God-damned fox-hunting in Portugal.

Sharpe grinned. 'Yes, sir.

'And the Peer, Sharpe, likes to chase foxes. Thus are the rest of us consigned to the eternal torments of this bloody place. Sit down, man!

'Yes, sir.

'And stop saying ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’ like a bloody bumlicker.

'Yes, sir. Sharpe sat in the chair opposite Major General Nairn. The Scotsman had huge grey eyebrows that seemed to be trying to grow upwards to meet his shock of grey hair. The face was good and strong, shrewd-eyed and humorous, spoilt only by his cold-reddened nose. Nairn returned the gaze, looking Sharpe up and down from the French cavalry boots to the Rifleman's black hair, then he twisted round in the armchair.

'Chatsworth! You scum! You varlet! Chatsworth! Heel! You hear me? Heel!

An orderly appeared who grinned happily at Nairn. 'Sir?’

’Tea, Chatsworth, tea! Bring me strong tea! Something that will rekindle my military ardour. And kindly try to bring it before the New Year.

'I've already wet it, sir. Something to eat, sir?

'Eat? I've got a cold, Chatsworth. I'm nigh unto death and you blather at me about eating! What have you got?