Spoilage, Sharpe was thinking while his men boiled a cauldron of river water on a bullock-dung fire. That was the key to the next few days, spoilage. Say seven thousand cartridges lost to damp? No one in Seringapatam would argue with that, and Sharpe reckoned he could sell the seven thousand cartridges on to Vakil Hussein, so long, of course, as there were eighty thousand cartridges to begin with. Still, Major Crosby had not quibbled with the figure, but just as Sharpe was thinking that, so Major Crosby appeared from his tent with a cocked hat on his head and a sword at his side.

"On your feet!" Sharpe snapped at his lads as the Major headed towards them.

"Thought you were finding ox carts?" Crosby snarled at Sharpe.

"Dinner first, sir."

"Your food, I hope, and not ours? We don't get rations to feed King's troops here, Sergeant." Major Crosby was in the service of the East India Company, and though he wore a red coat like the King's army, there was little love lost between the two forces.

"Our food, sir," Sharpe said, gesturing at the cauldron in which rice and kid meat, both stolen from Crosby's stores, boiled. "Carried it with us, sir."

A Jemadar shouted from the fort gate, demanding Crosby's attention, but the Major ignored the shout.

"I forgot to mention one thing, Sergeant."

"Sir?"

Crosby looked sheepish for a moment, then remembered he was talking to a mere sergeant.

"Some of the cartridges were spoiled. Damp got to them."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Sharpe said straight-faced.

"So I had to destroy them," Crosby said. "Six or seven thousand as I remember."