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remarkable, someone who had risen this far, this quickly, and Nairn wondered what drove a man like Sharpe. Sitting by the fire, the Commission in his hand, he seemed a quiet, contained man, yet Nairn knew of this soldier. Few people in the army did not know of Sharpe. The Peer called him the best leader of a Light Company in the army and perhaps, Nairn wondered, that was why Wellington had been angered by the Prince of Wales’ interference. Sharpe was a good Captain, but would he be a good Major? Nairn shrugged to himself. This Sharpe, this man who still insisted on wearing the green uniform of the 95th Rifles, had not let the army down yet, and making him into a Major was hardly likely to still the ferocity of his fighting power.
    Sharpe read through the Commission to the bottom. He would well discipline both inferior officers and soldiers, he would observe and follow such orders as were given him. Dear God! A Major!
    ‘Given at Our Court at Carlton House the Fourteenth day of November 18 12 in the Fifty - Third Year of Our Reign.’ The words ‘By His Majesty’s Command’ had been crossed out. In their place the Commission read; ’By the Command of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, in the Name and on the Behalf of His Majesty‘.
    Nairn smiled at him. ‘Prinny heard about Badajoz, then about Garcia Hernandez, and he insisted. It’s against the rules, of course, absolutely against the rules. The damned man has no business promoting you. Throw it on the fire!’
    ‘Would you take it hard if I disobeyed that order, sir?’
    ‘Congratulations, Sharpe! You’re beginning as you mean to go on.’ The last words were hurried as a sneeze gathered in his nose and Nairn grabbed his handkerchief and trumpeted into it. He shook his head, bullied and blew his nose, and smiled again. ‘My real congratulations.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    ‘Don’t thank me, Major. Thank all of us by making sure that little Gilliland’s rockets go fizz-plop. D’you know the beggar’s got over a hundred and fifty horses for his toys? A hundred and fifty! We need those horses, Sharpe, but we can’t bloody touch them as long as Prinny thinks we’re going to knock Boney bum over tip with them. Prove him wrong, Sharpe! He’ll listen to you.‘
    Sharpe smiled. ‘So that’s why I was chosen?’
    ‘Good! You’re not a fool. Of course that’s why you were chosen, and as a punishment, of course.’
    ‘Punishment?’
    ‘For being promoted before your time. If you’d have had the grace to wait for one of your own Majors to die in the South Essex you’d have landed Regimental rank. It’ll come, Sharpe, it’ll come. If 1813 is anything like this year we’ll all be Field Marshals by next Christmas.’ He pulled the dressing gown tight round his chest. ‘If we live to see next Christmas, which I doubt.’ Nairn stood up. ‘Off you go, Sharpe! You’ll find Gilliland playing fireworks on the Guarda road. Here’s your orders. He knows you’re coming, poor lamb. Pack him back to Prinny, Sharpe, but keep the bloody horses!’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe stood up, took the proffered orders, and felt the elation again. A Major!
    Bells suddenly clanged from the church, jangling the still air, frightening birds into hurried flight. Nairn flinched at the sound and crossed to the window. ‘Get rid of Gilliland, then we can all have a quiet Christmas!’ Nairn rubbed his hands together. ‘Except for those bloody bells, Major, there’s nothing, thank the Good Lord, that is disturbing His Majesty’s Army in Portugal and Spain.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ God! The ‘Major’ sounded good in his ears.
    The bells rang on, marking the feastday, while, fifty miles north and east, the first English soldiers, red coats untidy, filed into the quiet village of Adrados.

CHAPTER 2
    The rumour reached Frenada soon enough, yet in its passing through the Portuguese countryside the story twisted and curled in the same manner that Congreve’s rockets