the Captain asked.

"Sometimes, sir."

"Here." Urquhart offered Sharpe a roughly rolled cigar, then struck a light in his tinderbox. He lit his own cigar first, then held the box with its flickering flame to Sharpe.

"The Major tells me a new draft has arrived in Madras."

"That's good, sir."

"It won't restore our strength, of course, but it'll help, " Urquhart said.

He was not looking at Sharpe, but staring at the British guns that steadily advanced across the grassland. There were only a dozen of the cannon, far fewer than the Mahratta guns. A shell exploded by one of the ox teams, blasting the beasts with smoke and scraps of turf, and Sharpe expected to see the gun stop as the dying beasts tangled the traces, but the oxen trudged on, miraculously unhurt by the shell's violence.

"If they advance too far, " Urquhart murmured, 'they'll become so much scrap metal. Are you happy here, Sharpe?"

"Happy, sir?" Sharpe was taken aback by the sudden question.

Urquhart frowned as if he found Sharpe's response unhelpful.

«Happy,» he said again, 'content?"

"Not sure a soldier's meant to be happy, sir."

"Not true, not true, " Urquhart said disapprovingly. He was as tall as Sharpe. Rumour said that Urquhart was a very rich man, but the only sign of it was his uniform which was cut very elegantly in contrast to Sharpe's shabby coat. Urquhart rarely smiled, which made it difficult to be easy in his company. Sharpe wondered why the Captain had sought this conversation, which seemed untypical of the unbending Urquhart.

Perhaps he was nervous about the imminent battle? It seemed unlikely to Sharpe after Urquhart had endured the cauldron of fire at Assaye, but he could think of no other explanation.

"A fellow should be content in his work, " Urquhart said with a flourish of his cigar, 'and if he ain't, it's probably a sign that he's in the wrong line of business."