"Spoilage, sir," Sharpe said. "Happens all the time, sir."

"Exactly so," Crosby said, unable to hide his relief at Sharpe's easy acceptance of his tale, "exactly so," then he turned towards the gate.

"Jemadar?"

"Company troops approaching, sahib."

"Where's Captain Leonard? Isn't he officer of the day?" Crosby demanded.

"Here, sir, I'm here." A tall, gangling captain hurried from a tent, tripped on a guy rope, recovered his hat, then headed for the gate.

Sharpe ran to catch up with Crosby who was also walking towards the gate.

"You'll give me a note, sir?"

"A note? Why the devil should I give you a note?"

"Spoilage, sir," Sharpe said respectfully. "I'll have to account for the cartridges, sir."

"Later," Crosby said, "later."

"Yes, sir," Sharpe said. "And sod you backwards, you miserable bastard," he added, though too softly for Crosby to hear.

Captain Leonard clambered up to the platform beside the gate where Crosby joined him. The Major took a telescope from his tail pocket and slid the tubes open. The platform overlooked the small river that should have been swollen by the seasonal rains into a flood, but the failure of the monsoon had left only a trickle of water between the flat grey rocks. Beyond the shrunken river, up on the skyline behind a grove of trees, Crosby could see red-coated troops led by a European officer mounted on a black horse, and his first thought was that it must be Captain Roberts returning from patrol, but Roberts had a piebald horse and, besides, he had only taken fifty sepoys whereas this horse man led a company almost twice that size.

"Open the gate," Crosby ordered, and wondered who the devil it was. He decided it was probably Captain Sullivan from the Company's post at Milladar, another frontier fort like Chasalgaon, but what the hell was Sullivan doing here? Maybe he was marching some new recruits to toughen the bastards, not that the skinny little brutes needed any toughening, but it was uncivil of Sullivan not to warn Crosby of his coming.