“Well, Sharpe?” Captain Cromwell insisted.

Sharpe was tongue-tied, but was rescued by Dalton. “He saved Sir Arthur Wellesley’s life,” the major said quietly.

“How? Where?” Pohlmann demanded.

Sharpe caught the German’s eye. “At a place called Assaye, sir.”

“Assaye?” Pohlmann said, frowning slightly. It had been at Assaye that his army and his ambitions had been wrecked by Wellesley. “Never heard of it,” he said lightly, leaning back in his chair.

“And you were first over the wall at Gawilghur, Sharpe,” the major said. “Isn’t that right?”

“Me and Captain Campbell were first across, sir. But it were lightly defended.”

“Is that where you fetched the scar, Sharpe?” the major inquired, and the whole table gazed at Sharpe. He looked uncomfortable, but there was no denying the power of his face, nor the suggestion of violence that was contained in the scar. “It wasn’t a bullet, was it?” the major insisted. “No bullet makes that kind of scar.”

“It were a sword, sir,” Sharpe answered. “Man called Dodd.” He looked at Pohlmann as he spoke and Pohlmann, who had once commanded and heartily disliked the renegade Dodd, half smiled.

“And does Mister Dodd still live?” the German asked.

“He’s dead, sir,” Sharpe said flatly.

“Good.” Pohlmann raised his glass to Sharpe.

The major turned to Cromwell. “Mister Sharpe is a very considerable soldier, Captain. Sir Arthur told me that if you find yourself in a bad fight then you can ask for no one better at your side.”

The news that General Wellesley had said any such thing pleased Sharpe, but Captain Cromwell had not been deflected from his argument and was now frowning at the ensign. “You think,” the captain demanded, “that the French can be defeated?”

“We’re at war with them, sir,” Sharpe retorted, “and you don’t go to war unless you mean to win.”