'I've some ham, sir, that you liked. Mustard. Bread and fresh butter? Chatsworth was solicitous, obviously liking Nairn.

'Ah, ham! Bring us ham, Chatsworth, ham and mustard, with your bread and butter. Did you steal the toasting fork from this mess, Chatsworth?

'No, sir.

'Then find which of your thieving comrades did take it, have them flogged, then bring the fork to me!

'Yes, sir. Chatsworth grinned as he left the room.

Nairn smiled at Sharpe. 'I'm a harmless old man, Sharpe, left in charge of this bloody madhouse while the Peer gallivants round half of the bloody Peninsula. I am supposed, God help me, to be running this Headquarters. Me! If I had time, Sharpe, I suppose I could lead the troops on a winter campaign! I could inscribe my name in glory, but I don't have bloody time! Look at this! He picked a paper from the pile beside him. 'A letter, Sharpe, from the Chaplain General. The Chaplain General, no less! Do you know that he is in receipt of a salary of five hundred and sixty-five pounds a year, Sharpe, and in addition is named advisor on the establishment of semaphore stations for which nonsensical bloody job he receives a further six hundred pounds! Can you believe that? And what does God's vicar to His Majesty's Army do with his well-paid time? He writes to me thus! Nairn held the letter in front of his face. ‘I require of you to report on the containment of Methodism within the Army.’ Good God Almighty, Sharpe! What's a man to do with such a letter?

Sharpe smiled. 'I wouldn't know, sir.

'I do, Sharpe, I do. That's why I'm a Major General. Nairn leaned forward and threw the letter onto the fire. 'That's what you do with letters like that. Nairn chuckled happily as the paper caught fire and flared brightly. 'You want to know why you're here, don't you?

'Yes, sir.

'You are here, Sharpe, because the Prince of Wales has gone mad.