“You can’t?”

“He might last two days. He might last a week.” The surgeon pulled on his jacket that he had shed before opening one of Hogan’s veins. “He’s wrapped in red flannel, bled regular, and we’re feeding him gunpowder and brandy. Can’t do more, Major, except pray for the Lord’s tender mercies.”

The sickroom stank of vomit. The heat of the huge fire pricked sweat on Sharpe’s face and steamed rain-water from his soaking uniform as he stepped closer to the bed, but it was obvious Hogan could not recognize him. The middle-aged Irishman, who was Wellington’s Chief of Intelligence, shivered and sweated and shook and muttered nonsenses in a voice that had so often amused Sharpe with its dry wit.

“It’s possible,” the surgeon spoke grudgingly from the outer room, “that the next convoy might bring some Jesuit’s bark.”

“Jesuit’s bark?” Sharpe turned towards the doorway.

“A South American tree-bark, Major, sometimes called quinine. Infuse it well and it can perform miracles. But it’s a rare substance, Major, and cruelly expensive!”

Sharpe went closer to the bed. “Michael? Michael?”

Hogan said something in Gaelic. His eyes flickered past Sharpe, closed, then opened again.

“Michael?”

“Ducos,” the sick man said distinctly, “Ducos.”

“He’ll not make sense,” the surgeon said.

“He just did.” Sharpe had heard a name, a French name, the name of an enemy, but in what feverish context and from what secret compartment of Hogan’s clever mind the name had come, Sharpe could not tell.

“The Field Marshal sent me,” the surgeon seemed eager to explain himself, “but I can’t work miracles, Major. Only the Almighty’s providence can do that.”

“Or Jesuit’s bark.”

“Which I haven’t seen in six months.” The surgeon still stood at the door. “Must I insist you leave, Major? God spare us a contagion.”