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he had said five to me, I would not have spent the morning trying to achieve a lesser rate of fire.’

    Harris looked angry now. ‘Are you calling the adjutant a liar?’

    ‘No. But he is mistaken.’

    ‘On the contrary, Hart, it is you that is mistaken. Now carry on.’

    George looked at Wingfield, imploring him to intervene, but the second-in-command had no wish to face Harris’s ire and he averted his gaze. George was on his own . ‘Yes, sir,’ he said after a pause. ‘Would you care to select a soldier?’

    ‘That one will do,’ said Harris, pointing towards Trooper Penhaligon, who was standing among the average-to-good shots between the centre and the end of the line. Like the rest of the recruits, he was doing his best not to attract attention;

    his freckles must have singled him out. George breathed a sigh of relief: his ruse had worked. Penhaligon was not the best shot, but he was far from the worst, and had improved out of sight thanks to George’s instruction.

    ‘All right, Penhaligon,’ said George. ‘Five hits in a minute, if you please.’

    Penhaligon looked puzzled. ‘Did you say five hits, sir?’ ‘I did.’

    ‘Very well, sir. I’ll do my best.’ Penhaligon settled into the prone firing position, legs spread behind him, the barrel of his carbine supported by the palm of his left hand. In easy reach of his right hand he placed a pile of cartridges. George crouched down beside him and whispered, ‘Do your best, Penhaligon. And remember to take your time. Better to have four hits than five misses.’

    Penhaligon nodded.

    ‘When you’re quite ready,’ said Harris. ‘Adjutant Bell will time you.’

    Bell stepped forward, fob-watch in hand. ‘Trooper, you have one minute, starting from … now!’

    Penhaligon pulled the lever to open the breech and reached for the first cartridge, but he was too hasty and fumbled it before grabbing another and stuffing it into the breech. When lie tried to raise the lever, it refused to go. The bullet was not sitting squarely in the breech, and he wasted precious seconds realigning it. By now he had lost all composure and his hurried shot was high and wide.

    ‘Don’t worry,’ encouraged George. ‘Plenty of time.’

    Penhaligon reloaded, took careful aim and fired. A hit, followed by three more. As he reached for the sixth cartridge, Bell called time.

    ‘A gallant effort,’ said Harris to George, ‘and a shame about that first shot. But there’s no place in the KDG for substandard soldiers. All the other recruits are confined to barracks until they’ve attained the required musketry standard. The trooper who failed the test is discharged forthwith.’

    ‘Discharged?’ spluttered George, looking from Harris to the bewildered Penhaligon and back again. ‘For missing a single shot in five? He reached the standard asked for by Adjutant Bell yesterday. If I’d been told to achieve five aimed shots in a minute, I’d have said it was impossible. These are raw recruits, for heaven’s sake.’

    ‘Nothing’s impossible, Hart. Try to remember that. And if you persist in calling the adjutant a liar, I’ll have no option but to put you under arrest, pending a court martial.’

    ‘I never used the word liar, sir. I simply say the adjutant’s memory is playing him false.’ George turned towards the smirking Bell. ‘Will you swear on your mother’s life that you said five rather than four?’

    Bell hesitated, prompting Harris to intervene. ‘He will do no such thing. Your behaviour is insubordinate, Hart. Take your men back to barracks while I decide on your punishment.’

    George was shaking with fury. He had been set up, he was sure of that. And the end result: his men had been unfairly punished and, worse, a promising young soldier had been turned out into the street. Harris, he realized, was capable of just about anything, and he would have to tread extremely carefully in future. He was about to salute and take his leave when he