'Bloody country. Bloody stench. Bloody people. Major General Nairn punctuated each remark by tossing an orange out of the window. He paused, waiting hopefully for a cry of pain or protest from beneath, but there was only the sound of the fruit thumping onto the cobbles. 'You must be bloody disappointed, Sharpe.

Sharpe shrugged. He knew that Nairn referred to the task of guarding the storehouses. 'Someone has to do it, sir.

Nairn scoffed at Sharpe's meekness. 'All you can do here is stop the bloody Spanish from pissing in our broth. I'm disappointed for you! He lumbered to his feet and crossed to the window. He watched two high-booted Spanish Customs officers slowly pace the wharves. 'You know what those bastards are doing to us?

'No, sir.

'We liberate their bloody country and now they want to charge us bloody Customs duty on every barrel of powder we bring to Spain! It's like saving a man's wife from rape, then being asked to pay for the privilege! Foreigners! God knows why God made foreigners. They aren't any bloody use to anyone. He glared at the two Customs men, debating whether to shy his last orange at them, then turned back to Sharpe. 'What's your strength?

'Two hundred and thirty-four effectives. Ninety-six in various hospitals.

'Jesus! Nairn stared incredulously at Sharpe. He had first met the Rifleman at Christmas and the two men had liked each other from the first. Now Nairn had ridden to Pasajes from the army headquarters in search of Sharpe. The Major General grunted and went back to his chair. He had white, straggly eyebrows that grew startlingly upwards to meet his shock of white hair. 'Two hundred and thirty-four effectives?