30th May, evening in camp

It was probably best not to ask where Hallet had gotten wild fowl, Blackwood thought as he carefully lifted two slices of browned meat onto his plate. The same with the vegetables - it looked like cabbage and onions. Some things were better not known. As long as it was palatable.

Not that this was something he ever truly had to fear from his batman. He nodded slowly, mostly to himself. It was fine stuff. The dark gravy suited it nicely. That stew must be prime as well.

"I have it on good authority," Blackwood said, moistening his throat with some wine. "That the rabbit in yon stew was procured by Mister Graham himself. This very day, I believe?"

Graham beamed. "Just so, sir."

Olivia smiled at her husband. "Quite the catch, dear," she said. "Hunting has at least helped add a bit of flavour to our meal."

All this talk of hunting and war. Hunting, at least, Margaret could stand. But she found it tiresome to listen to men brag emptily about their adventures on the battlefield. For all her statement about being with the Coldstream for years, she was very bored with the life.

She glanced over toward her husband, who was busily working through an unseemly hefty plate of food. It was all she could do not to sigh. Insufferable pig. It didn't help that he had scarcely said a word all evening. Her fan twitched in her hand - far be from her to show even a fraction of George's lack of restraint.

Certainly there must be something... her gaze passed to the rumpled greenjacket at her other elbow. He looked as though he had never known the inside of a bath tub in his life, but she supposed common men were bound to be unrefined in that manner. Still. For want of any better diversion...

Her knee pressed lightly against the greenjacket's.

"Oh, aye. I've hunted Frenchmen in me time. And Indians, o' course." He ignored Mrs Tolliver. If she were a man, he could call her a boor, but being a woman...

He smiled at Miss Ross. "One gets to be good at soldierin', Miss. Or you get to be dead d... very quickly... and not very prettily, either."

"I know."

Something like a grunt came from Macgregor, who turned his reddened face toward the Rifles officer. "India, ye say? Who was ye - 'scuse me - was ye there with?"

It was all Margaret could do not to sigh. Apparently this scruffy good-for-nothing did not even appreciate the subtler gestures. She gazed fixedly at her half-filled plate and wondered how long it would be before this gathering was over.

"The 33rd, sir," Sharpe said, and lifted a forkful of meat to his mouth. At least it was cooked properly, which was something.

There was a noise of delight from Macgregor. "A Havercake lad, eh? Splendid, splendid. I reckon I heard of ye, to be sure!"

Sharpe managed not to choke on his food. "Didn't do no more'n anyone else would've," he managed once he'd finally swallowed.

The wine-sotted captain guffawed and slapped the table. "Damn me, boy, that's a good'un. D'ye know, m'fellows, this here's a rare sorta officer. Done our Sir Arthur a particular service. At a miserable wee place called Assaye. I were there too, laddie. Not sorry t'all to have left it, neither!"

Cobb lifted an eyebrow and regarded the Rifles officer thoughtfully. Really.

This was interesting. Blackwood regarded the two officers down the table intently. He had heard rumours, of course, but seldom considered such things as anything other than idle gossip. Perhaps this was one of those uncommon tales that had truth to it.

Had everyone heard of Assaye? Sharpe wished... No, he didn't. He'd do it all over again in an instant. But he did wish that folks wouldn't look at that miserable fight and what small part he'd played in it, and treat him like some damn hero.

"Did what I had to, is all," he said, and buried his grimace in his wineglass.

Jenny looked between Sharpe and MacGregor. The poor lieutenant was obviously uncomfortable, but the captain seemed to hold a high opinion of whatever it was that he had done. "Tell us what happened, captain," she prompted, flashing MacGregor a smile. "I should like to hear that story." Anything was better than letting Woodmarsh speak again.

"Indeed," Olivia Graham put in, flashing Sharpe a winning smile. "We are dying to hear the tale of your heroics, Mister Sharpe."

"It was a messy fight and General Wellesley got hissen into a spot o' bother, that's all, an' I were there to help him out of it," Sharpe said, wishing he was out checking the picquets or something.

Macgregor fortified himself with more wine, followed by a dripping spoonful of stew, before clearing his throat to speak again. "Too modest, laddie. Nothin' easy I'll tell ye. Them brown beggars an' their horses was nothin' to trifle with! They carved up me own lads like wheat at harvest."

He whet his throat again. "An' there's our fellow Sharpe, keepin' ol' Nosey from bein' carved up by them heathens, all by himself. A handy piece of work, Sharpe. Handy indeed!"

"You saved General Wellesley?"

Hadn't he just said that? "Yes, Miss. He'd bin dismounted - had a horse killed under him - and there was a whole crowd of Indians."

He didn't really remember that fight at all, apart from confused images of General Wellesley trying to stand by him with his stupidly slim sword, and the gun they'd sheltered by and the mad, shouting, yelling Mahrattas...

Olivia felt her eyebrows raise at the picture he was painting. Lieutenant Sharpe had saved General Wellesley from a group of Indians all by himself? Overly modest, indeed!

"Well," she said, "it would seem that you are quite the soldier, Mister Sharpe. Certainly the man to have in a tight spot."

This was comparable to the dinner conversation aboard Calliope that time, on his way home from India.

"Bin in th'Army since '93, ma'am," he said to the lady who'd just spoken. And with that length of service, he ought to be fairly good at it by now... though there was always the chance his luck could run out in the next battle.

"And how long with the 95th?" Jenny asked.

The other officers were looking at Sharpe with expressions varying from interest to suspicion. For Cobb's part, it was a mixture of curiosity and something close to awe.

"I hadn't known the Rifles were in India," he said.

Sharpe considered. "Four year, near enough," he said, finally. Though the vast majority of that had been as Quartermaster... and he wondered suddenly how long he'd last as a fighting officer when the 95th got back out here.

He looked across to the officer who'd just spoken. "They weren't. I joined the Rifles in the year five. The 33rd didn't come home till... think it were another two years."

Hrmm. Macgregor frowned in concentration. "Ye weren't... left without that lot, did ye? What'd they do with ye after ye helped ol' Nosey out? Reckon I've heard yer a favourite of his, even."

"Went to the 74th for a bit an' come home from them to join the Rifles," he said. As if it mattered - and Wellesley didn't have favourites. Unless you counted those puffed-up popinjays who were his aides, and not a serious soldier among them. No, that wasn't true - or fair, although he did have a lot of titled young gentlemen among his aides, and most of them were Guards officers and the like.

He took another mouthful of food, trying to fend off any more questions.