'A looter, sir. Caught in the act. Ayres was smiling.

Batten, who grumbled incessantly, who moaned if it rained and made a fuss when it stopped because the sun was in his eyes. Private Batten, a one-man destroyer of flintlocks, who thought the whole world was conspiring to annoy him, and who now stood flinching beneath the grasp of one of Ayres's men. If there were any one member of the Company whom Sharpe would gladly have hanged, it would be Batten, but he was damned if any provost was going to do it for him.

Sharpe looked up at Ayres. 'What was he looting, Lieutenant?

'This.

Ayres held up a scrawny chicken as if it were the Crown of England. Its neck had been well wrung, but the legs still jerked and scrabbled at the air. Sharpe felt the anger come inside him, not at the provosts but at Batten.

'I'll deal with him, Lieutenant.

Batten cringed away from his Captain.

Ayres shook his head. 'You misunderstand, sir. He was talking with silky condescension. 'Looters are hung, sir. On the spot, sir. As an example to others.

There was a muttering from the Company, broken by Harper's bellowed order for silence. Batten's eyes flicked left and right as if looking for an escape from this latest example of the world's injustice. Sharpe snapped at him. 'Batten!

'Sir?

'Where did you find the chicken?"

'It was in the field, sir. Honest. He winced as his hair was pulled. 'It was a wild chicken, sir.

There was a rustle of laughter from the ranks that Harper let go. Ayres snorted. 'A wild chicken. Dangerous beasts, eh, sir? He's lying. I found him in the cottage.

Sharpe believed him, but he was not going to give up. 'Who lives in the cottage, Lieutenant?