'It can't be true! There are recruits! We had eight recruiting parties!

Nairn grunted. 'In a covering letter, Sharpe, dictated by his bloody Lordship himself, but which I won't offend you by showing to you, he recommends that your Battalion be broken up.

For a few seconds Sharpe thought he had misheard Nairn. A Spanish muleteer shouted outside the window, from the harbour came the cranking sound of a windlass, and in Sharpe's head echoed the words 'broken up'.

'Broken up, sir? Sharpe felt a chill in this warm room.

'Lord Fenner suggests, Sharpe, that your men be given to other Battalions, that your Colours be sent home, that your officers either exchange into other regiments, sell their commissions, or make themselves available for our disposal.

Sharpe was incredulous. 'They can't do it!

Nairn gave a sour laugh. 'Sharpe! They're politicians! You can't expect sense from the bastards! He leaned forward. 'We're going to need all the experienced units we can scrape together; all of them, but don't expect Lord Fenner to understand that! He's the Secretary of State at War and he wouldn't know a bayonet from a ram-rod. He's a civilian! He controls the army's money, which is why there isn't any.

Sharpe said nothing. He was thinking of the Battalion's Colours laid up in some English church, hanging high in a dusty chancel while the men who had fought for them were scattered in penny-packets around the army. He was feeling anger, bitter anger, that his men, who had fought for those flags, who had suffered, whose comrades were in unmarked graves on a dozen battlefields would be broken up, disbanded. He was thinking of a Battalion that, like a family, had its quarrels and laughter, its warmth and pride, all to be sacrificed!

'Breaking you up. Nairn said it brutally. 'Bloody shame. Busaco, Talavera, Fuentes d'Onoro, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vitoria, hell of a way to finish! Like sending a pack of hounds to the shambles, eh?