His finger curled round the trigger. The smoke was entirely gone from Bampfylde now and was nothing more than a tenuous scrap of distant mist that was being whirled high off the bluffs edge to sail inland.

“Fire, damn you!” Bampfylde blurted the words aloud, and Sharpe, who had been about to fire, saw that the Naval Captain was visibly shaking.

“Fire, God damn you!” Bampfylde called again, and Sharpe knew he had won utterly, for he had reduced this proud man to a quivering coward. Sharpe had accused Bampfylde of cowardice, and now he was proving the allegation.

“Fire!” Bampfylde called the word in despair.

Sharpe lowered the pistol’s muzzle to compensate for the upward pull, then fired.

Sharpe’s pistol did not pull up at all, but had a slight tendency to fire leftwards, rather than right, and the result, instead of a belly shot, was to sear the ball through both checks of Bampfylde’s bottom. It ripped his white naval breeches open, then scored bloody gouges in his flesh. Bampfylde squealed like a stuck pig and lurched forward. He dropped his pistol, fell to his knees and Sharpe felt the exultation of a job well done. He could see blood bright on the white breeches. The doctor was running clumsily with his black bag, but Ford was already kneeling beside the wounded Bampfylde. “It’s only a flesh wound, sir.”

“He’s broken my back!” Bampfylde hissed the words as evidence of his pain.

“He’s creased your arse.” Frederickson was grinning.

Ford looked up at Frederickson. “You agree honour is served, sir?”

Frederickson was finding it hard not to laugh. “Eminently served, Lieutenant. I bid you good day.“

The doctor knelt beside the Naval Captain. “A flesh wound, nothing more. It will only need a bandage. There’ll be some bruising and soreness. You’re a lucky man.”