'No, Sharpe shrugged. 'But they have to be!

Nairn stared into his brandy as though it was a fortune-teller's bauble. 'Tell me, Sharpe, have you ever heard of a man called Lord Fenner? Lord Simon Fenner?

'No, sir.

'Bastard politician, Sharpe. Bloody bastard politician. I've always hated politicians. One moment they're grovelling all over you, tongues hanging out, wanting your vote, the next minute they're too bloody pompous to even see you. Insolent bastard jackanapes! Hate them! Hope you hate politicians, Sharpe. Not fit to lick your jakes out.

'Lord Fenner, sir? Sharpe knew bad news was coming. He knew that Major Generals, however friendly, did not ride long distances to share brandy with Majors.

'Foul little pompous bastard, he is. Nairn spat the insult out. 'Secretary of State at War, works to the Secretary of State of War, and probably neither would know what a war was even if it stuck itself in their back passages. So he wrote to us. Nairn took a piece of paper from his sabretache. 'Or rather one of his poxed clerks wrote to us. He was staring at Sharpe rather than the letter. 'He claims, Sharpe, that there are no reinforcements available to the South Essex. That none have been sent, and none are going to be sent. None. There. He handed the letter to Sharpe.

Sharpe could not believe it. He took the letter, fearing it, to find that it was a long list, sent by the War Office via the Horse Guards, of the replacements that could be expected in the next few weeks. At the end of the list was the South Essex, against whose name was written; 2nd Batt now Hold'g Batt. No Draft available. That was all and, if it was true, it meant that the South Essex's Second Battalion had become a mere Holding Battalion; a place where boys of thirteen and fourteen, too young to fight, waited for their birthdays, or where men in transit or wounded men were put to wait for new postings. A rag-tag Battalion, without pride and of small purpose.