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barn and flickered the flames of the small fire.

Murray smiled sadly. “Let me think of some more practical advice for you. Something that will get

you to Lisbon.” He frowned for an instant, then turned his red-rimmed eyes to Sharpe. “Get

Patrick Harper on your side.”
    Sharpe turned to glance at the men who were crowded at the barn’s far end. The big Irishman

seemed to sense that his name had been mentioned for he offered Sharpe a hostile

glance.
    “He’s a troublemaker, but the men listen to him. I tried to make him a Chosen Man once,”

Murray instinctively used the Rifle’s old term for a Corporal, “but he wouldn’t have it. He’d

make a good Sergeant. Hell! Even a good officer if he could read, but he won’t have any of it.

But the men listen to him. He’s got Sergeant Williams under his thumb.”
    “I can manage Harper.” Sharpe said the words with a false conviction. In the short time that

he had been with this Battalion, Sharpe had often noticed the Irishman, and he had seen for

himself the truth of Captain Murray’s assertion that he was a natural leader. Men crowded to

Harper’s campfire, partly to relish his stories, and partly because they wanted his approval. To

the officers he liked the Irishman offered a humorous allegiance, while to those he disliked he

offered nothing but scorn. And there was something very intimidating about Rifleman Harper; not

just because of his size, but because of his air of knowing self-reliance.
    “I’ve no doubt Harper thinks he can manage you. He’s a hard man,” Murray paused, then smiled,

“but he’s filled with sentimentality.”
    “So he has a weakness,” Sharpe said harshly.
    “Is that a weakness?” Murray shrugged. “I doubt it. But now you’ll think I’m weak. When I’m

dead, you see,” and again he had to shake his head to stop Sharpe interjecting, “when I’m dead,”

he repeated, “I want you take my sword. I’ll tell Williams you’re to have it.”
    Sharpe looked at the Heavy Cavalry sword that was propped in its metal scabbard against the

wall. It looked an awkward and clumsy weapon, but Sharpe could not make any such objection to the

gift now. “Thank you.” He said it awkwardly. He was not used to receiving personal favours, nor

had he learned to be gracious in accepting them.
    “It isn’t much of a sword,” Murray said, “but it’ll replace the one you lost. And if the men

see you carrying it…“ he was unable to finish the sentence.
    “They’ll think I’m a real officer?” The words betrayed Sharpe’s resentment.
    “They’ll think I liked you,” Murray spoke in gentle correction, “and that will

help.”
    Sharpe, reproved by the tone in the dying man’s voice, again muttered his thanks.
    Murray shrugged. “I watched you yesterday. You’re good in a fight, aren’t you?”
    “For a Quartermaster?”
    Murray ignored the self-pity. “You’ve seen a lot of battles?”
    “Yes.”
    “That wasn’t very tactful of you,” Murray smiled, “new Lieutenants aren’t supposed to be more

experienced than their seniors.” The Captain looked up at the broken roof. “Bloody silly place to

die, isn’t it?”
    “I’m going to keep you alive.”
    “I suspect you can do many things, Lieutenant Sharpe, but you’re not a miracle

worker.”
    Murray slept after that. All the Riflemen rested that day. The rain was insistent and, in

mid-afternoon, turned to a heavy, wet snow which, by nightfall, was settling on the shoulders of

the closest hills. Hagman had snared two rabbits, thin fare, but something to flavour the few

beans and scraps of bread that the men had hoarded in their knapsacks. There were no cooking

cauldrons, but the men used tin mugs as saucepans.
    Sharpe left the barn at dusk and went to the cold shelter of the ruined farmhouse to watch the

night fall. It was not much of a house, merely four broken stone walls that had once held up a

timber