The Captain opened his eyes and shrugged. “God knows. Four? Five hundred miles?” He flinched from a stab of pain. “It’s probably nearer six hundred on these roads. D’you think we’ve still got troops there?”

“We can at least find a ship.”

“If the French don’t get there first. What about Vigo?”

“The French are more likely to be there than Lisbon.”

“True.” The Light Division had been sent to Vigo on a more southerly road. Only a few light troops, like these Riflemen, had been retained to protect Sir John Moore’s retreat. “Maybe Lisbon would be best.” Murray looked past Sharpe and saw how the men were brushing and oiling their rifle locks. He sighed. “Don’t be too hard on them.”

“I’m not.” Sharpe was instantly defensive.

Murray’s face flickered with a smile. “Were you ever commanded by an officer from the ranks?”

Sharpe, smelling criticism, bridled for an instant, then realized that Murray was trying to be helpful. “No, sir, never.”

“The men don’t like it. Stupid, really. They believe officers are born, not made.” Murray paused to take a breath that made him shudder with pain. He saw Sharpe about to enjoin him to silence, but shook his head. “I haven’t got much time. I might as well use what there is. Do you think I’m being damnably rude?”

“No, sir.”

Murray paused to sip at his tea. “They’re good lads.”

“Yes.”

“But they have an odd sense of what’s proper. They expect officers to be different, you see. They want them to be privileged. Officers are men who choose to fight, they aren’t forced to it by poverty. Do you understand that?”