'Seven-barrelled gun, sir. Harper's voice was full of pride in his new weapon.

'Where did you get it?

'Christmas present, sir.

Sharpe grinned. It had been a present, given at Christmas time, from Sharpe to his Sergeant, but it was obvious that the provost, with his two silent companions, did not believe it. He was still staring at the gun, one of Henry Nock's less successful inventions, and Sharpe realized that the provost had probably never seen one before. Only a few hundred had ever been made, for the Navy, and at the time it had seemed like a good idea. Seven barrels, each twenty inches long, were all fired by the same flintlock, and it was thought that sailors, perched precariously in the fighting tops, could wreak havoc by firing the seven barrels down on to the enemy's crowded decks. One thing had been overlooked. Seven half-inch barrels fired together made a fearful discharge, like a small cannon's, that not only wreaked havoc but also broke the shoulder of any man who pulled the trigger. Only Harper, in Sharpe's acquaintance, had the brute strength to use the gun, and even the Irishman, in trying it out, had been astonished by the crashing recoil as the seven bullets spread from the flaming muzzles.

The provost sniffed. 'A Christmas present.

'I gave it to him, Sharpe said.

'And you are?

'Captain Richard Sharpe. South Essex. You?

The provost stiffened. 'Lieutenant Ayres, sir. The last word was spoken reluctantly.

'And where are you going, Lieutenant Ayres?

Sharpe was annoyed by the man's suspicions, by the pointless display of his power, and he edged his questions with a touch of venom.