“Sharpe, sir, Prince of Wales’s Own…“

“I said I knew you,” the surgeon interrupted. “I took a musket-ball out of you after Fuentes d’Onoro. Had to truffle around for it, I remember.”

“Indeed, sir.” Sharpe could hardly forget. The surgeon had been half drunk, cursing, and digging into Sharpe’s flesh by the light of a guttering candle. Now the two men had met in the outer room of Lieutenant Colonel Michael Hogan’s lodgings.

“You can’t go in there.” The surgeon’s clothes were drenched in prophylactic vinegar, filling the small room with its acrid scent. “Unless you want to die.”

“But…“

“Not that I care.” The surgeon wiped his bleeding-cup on the tail of his shirt then tossed it into his bag. “If you want the fever, Major, go inside.” He spat on his wide-bladed scarifying gouge, smeared the blood from it, and shrugged as Sharpe opened the inner door.

Hogan’s room was heated by a huge fire that hissed where its flames met the rain coming down the chimney. Hogan himself was in a bed heaped with blankets. He shivered and sweated at the same time. His face was greyish, his skin slick with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed, and he was muttering about being purged with hyssop.

“His topsails are gone to the wind,” the surgeon spoke from behind Sharpe. “Feverish, you see. Did you have business with him?”

Sharpe stared at the sick man. “He’s my particular friend.” He turned to look at the surgeon. “I’ve been on the Nive for the last month, I knew he was ill, but…” He ran out of words.

“Ah,” the surgeon seemed to soften somewhat. “I wish I could offer some hope, Major.”