Sharpe's Trafalgar by Bernard Cornwell Page A

the room had not been gently rocking, sometimes shifting a wine glass on the

    table, Sharpe might have thought himself ashore.
    He had said nothing all evening, content to gaze at Lady Grace who, white-faced and

    aloof, had ignored him since the moment he had been named to her. She had politely offered

    him a gloved hand, given him an expressionless glance, then turned away. Her husband had

    frowned at Sharpe’s presence, then imitated his wife by pretending the ensign did not

    exist.
    A dessert of oranges and burned sugar was served. Pohlmann eagerly spooned the rich

    sauce into his mouth, then looked at Sharpe. “You think the war is lost, Sharpe?”
    “Me, sir?” Sharpe was startled at being addressed.
    “You, Sharpe, yes, you,” Pohlmann said. “Do you think the war is lost?”
    Sharpe hesitated, wondering whether the wisest course was to say something harmless

    and let the conversation go on again without him, but he had been offended by Cromwell’s

    defeatism. “It certainly isn’t over, my lord,” he said to Pohlmann.
    Cromwell recognized the challenge. “What do you mean by that, sir, eh? Explain

    yourself.”
    “A fight ain’t lost till it’s finished, sir,” Sharpe said, “and this one ain’t done.”
    “An ensign speaks,” Lord William murmured scornfully.
    “You think a rat has a chance against a terrier?” Cromwell demanded, just as

    scornfully.
    Pohlmann held up a hand to stop Sharpe from responding. “I think Ensign Sharpe knows a

    good deal about fighting, Captain,” the German said. “When I first met him he was a

    sergeant, and now he is a commissioned officer.” He paused, letting that statement cause

    its stir of surprise. “What does it take for a sergeant to become an officer in the British

    army?”
    “Damned luck,” Lord William said laconically.
    “It takes an act of outstanding bravery,” Major Dalton observed quietly. He raised

    his wine glass to Sharpe. “Honored to make your acquaintance, Sharpe. I didn’t place the

    name when we were introduced, but I recall you now. I’m honored.”
    Pohlmann, enjoying his mischief, toasted Sharpe with a sip of wine. “So what was your

    act of outstanding bravery, Mister Sharpe?”
    Sharpe reddened. Lady Grace was staring at him, the first notice she had taken of him

    since the company had sat to dinner.
    “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