The midshipman shouted orders, oars backed, the tiller was thrown across, and somehow the gig was laid alongside with scarce a bump of timber. Above Sharpe now, water dripping from its lower rungs, was a tumblehome ladder leading to the maindeck. “You’d like a sling lowered, sir?” the midshipman asked solicitously.

„I’ll manage.“ Sharpe waited as a wave lifted the gig, then jumped for the rain-slicked ladder. He clawed at it, held on, then scrambled ignominiously up to the greeting of a bosun’s whistle.

“Major Sharpe! Welcome aboard.”

Sharpe saw an eager, ingratiating lieutenant who clearly expected to be recognized. Sharpe frowned. “You were with…”

“With Captain Bampfylde, indeed, sir. I’m Ford.”

The elegantly clothed Ford made inconsequential conversation as he steered Sharpe towards the stern cabins. It was an honour, he said, to have such a distinguished soldier aboard, and was it possible that Sharpe was related to Sir Roderick Sharpe of Northamptonshire?

“No,” Sharpe was remembering Captain Bampfylde’s parting words in the Officer’s Club. Were those the reason for his summons here?

“One of the Wiltshire Sharpes, perhaps?” Ford seemed eager to place the Rifleman in a comforting social context.

“Middlesex,” Sharpe said.

“Do mind your head,” Ford smiled as he waved Sharpe under the break of the poopdeck. “I can’t quite place the Middlesex Sharpes.”

“My mother was a whore, I was born in a common lodging-house, and I joined the Army as a private. Does that make it easier?”

Ford’s smile did not falter. “Captain Bampfylde’s waiting for you, sir. Please go in.”