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undying glory.

But staring at Sharpe, typical of so many officers he had met in his brief time in Portugal, he

found himself wondering whether there were any French officers who looked like Sharpe. He had

imagined Napoleon's army, despite their conquest of Europe, as a herd of ignorant soldiers

shepherded by foppish officers and he shuddered inside at the thought that they might turn out to

be lean, hardened men like Sharpe who might chop him out of his saddle before he had the chance

to be painted in oils as a conquering hero. Sir Henry was already afraid and he had yet to see a

single enemy, but first he had to get a subtle revenge on this Rifleman who had baffled

him.
    "Three rounds a minute?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "And how do you teach men to fire three rounds a minute?"
    Sharpe shrugged. "Patience, sir. Practice. One battle does a world of good."
    Simmerson scoffed at him. "Patience! Practice! They aren't children, Sharpe. They're drunkards

and thieves! Gutter scourings!" His voice was rising again. "Flog it into them, Sharpe, flog!

It's the only way! Give them a lesson they won't forget. Isn't that right?"
    There was silence. Simmerson turned to Forrest. "Isn't that right, Major?"
    "Yes, sir." Forrest's answer lacked conviction. Simmerson turned to Sharpe.

"Sharpe?"
    "It's the last resort, sir."
    "The last resort, sir." Simmerson mimicked Sharpe, but secretly he was pleased. It was the

answer he had wanted. "You're soft, Sharpe! Could you teach men to fire three rounds a

minute?"
    Sharpe could feel the challenge in the air but there was no going back. "Yes, sir."
    "Right!" Simmerson rubbed his hands together. "This afternoon. Forrest?"
    "Sir?"
    "Give Mr Sharpe a company. The Light will do. Mr Sharpe will improve their shooting!"

Simmerson turned and bowed to Hogan with a heavy irony. "That is if Captain Hogan agrees to lend

us Lieutenant Sharpe's services."
    Hogan shrugged and looked at Sharpe. "Of course, sir."
    Simmerson smiled. "Excellent! So, Mr Sharpe, you'll teach my Light Company to fire three shots

a minute?"
    Sharpe looked out of the window. It was a hot, dry day and there was no reason why a good man

should not fire five shots a minute in this weather. It depended, of course, how bad the Light

Company were at the moment. If they could only manage two shots a minute now, then it was next to

impossible to make them experts in one afternoon, but trying would do no harm. He looked back to

Simmerson. "I'll try, sir."
    "Oh you will, Mr Sharpe, you will. And you can tell them from me that if they fail then I'll

flog one out of every ten of them. Do you understand, Mr Sharpe? One out of every ten."
    Sharpe understood well enough. He had been tricked by Simmerson into what was probably an

impossible job, and the outcome would be that the Colonel would have his orgy of flogging and he,

Sharpe, would be blamed. And if he succeeded? Then Simmerson could claim it was the threat of the

flogging that had done the trick. He saw triumph in Simmerson's small red eyes and he smiled at

the Colonel. "I won't tell them about the flogging, Colonel. You wouldn't want them distracted,

would you?"
    Simmerson smiled back. "You use your own methods, Mr Sharpe. But I'll leave the triangle where

it is; I think I'm going to need it."
    Sharpe clapped his misshapen shako onto his head and gave the Colonel a salute of

bone-cracking precision. "Don't bother, sir. You won't need a triangle. Good day, sir."
    Now make it happen, he thought.

CHAPTER 3
    "I don't bloody believe it, sir. Tell me it's not true." Sergeant Patrick Harper shook his

head as he stood with Sharpe and watched the South Essex Light Company fire two volleys to the

orders of a Lieutenant. "Send this Battalion to Ireland, sir. We'd be a free country in two

weeks! They couldn't fight off a church choir!"
    Sharpe gloomily agreed. It was not that the men did not know how to load and fire their

muskets; it was simply that they