'Yes, sir.

'And you will be back here in one hour. You have two tasks to perform.

Sharpe wondered if he was to be told what they were. 'Sir?

'First, Mr Sharpe, you will receive your orders. Not from me but from an old companion of yours. Wellington saw Sharpe's quizzical look. 'Major Hogan.

Sharpe's face betrayed his pleasure. Hogan, the engineer, the quiet Irishman who was a friend, whose sense Sharpe had leaned on in the difficult days leading to Talavera. Wellington saw the pleasure and tried to puncture it. 'But before that, Mr Sharpe, you will apologize to Lieutenant Ayres. He watched for Sharpe's reaction.

'But of course, sir. I had always planned to. Sharpe looked shocked at the thought that he might ever have contemplated another course of action and, through his innocently wide eyes, wondered if he saw a flicker of amusement behind the General's cold, blue gaze.

Wellington looked away, to Lawford, and with his usual disarming speed suddenly became affable. 'You're well, Colonel?

'Thank you, sir. Yes. Lawford beamed with pleasure. He had served on Wellington's staff, knew the General well.

'Join me for dinner tonight. The usual time. The General looked at Forrest. 'And you, Major?

'My pleasure, sir.

'Good. The eyes flicked at Sharpe. 'Captain Sharpe will be too busy, I fear. He nodded a dismissal. 'Good day, gentlemen.

Outside the headquarters the bugles sounded the evening and the sun sank in magnificent crimson. Inside the quiet room the General paused a moment before plunging back into the paperwork that must be done before the dinner of roast mutton. Hogan, he thought, was right. If a miracle were needed to save the campaign, and it was, then the rogue he had just seen was the best man for the job. More than a rogue: a fighter, and a man who looked on failure as unthinkable. But a rogue, thought Wellington, a damned rogue all the same.