 Sharp's Devil by Bernard Cormill, read by Shorne Bean. There were sixteen men and only twelve mules. None of the men was willing to abandon the journey, so tempers were edgy, not made any better by the day's oppressive and steamy heat. All but one of the sixteen men were uniformed. They stood, sweltering and impatient, in the shade of a heavily branched evergreen tree. While the twelve mules, attended by black slaves, drooped beside a briar hedge that was brilliant with small white roses. Two warships, as square-cut sails turned dirty grey by the long usage of wind and rain, patrolled far offshore. Closer, in the anchorage itself, a large Spanish frigate laid to twin anchors. The sixteen men had come ashore in the Spanish frigate's longboats. They waited in the oppressive windless heat. More mules being fetched. A few gentlemen would do as the honour of patience and accept our sincerest apologies. The speaker was a very young, red-coated British lieutenant. A dark-haired man who wore a faded uniformed jacket of the British ninety-fifth rifles turned to the lieutenant. Why can't we walk to the house? It's all a five-mile, sir, uphill and very steep. The lieutenant pointed to the hillside above the trees, where a narrow road could just be seen zigzagging perilously up the flax-covered slope. You really are best advice to wait for the mule, sir. The tall rifle officer made a grunting noise, which the young lieutenant took for acceptance of his wise advice. The rifleman was called Richard Sharp. His uniform, that might have looked shabby on a beggar's back, bore the faded insignia of a major. Though at the war's end, when he had fought at the greatest widow-making field of all, he had been a lieutenant colonel. Now, despite his uniform and the sword which hung at his side, he was just plain mister and a farmer. Sharp turned away to stare morosely across the sun-glinting sea at the far ships which guarded this lonely, god-forsaken coast. Sharp's scar gave him a sardonic and mocking look. His companion, on the other hand, had a cheerful and genial face. He was a very tall man, even taller than Sharp himself, and was the only man among the sixteen travelers not wearing a uniform. Instead, he was dressed in a brown wool coat and black breeches that were far too thick for this tropical heat. And, in consequence, the tall man, who was also hugely fat, was sweating profusely. The discomfort had evidently not affected his cheerfulness, for he gazed happily about himself at the dark cliffs, at the banyan trees, at the slave-huts, at the rain-clouds swelling above the black volcanic peaks, at the sea, at the small town, and at last delivered himself of his considered verdict. A rare old shit-heap of a place, wouldn't you say? The fat man, who was called Mr. Patrick Harper and was Sharp's companion on this voyage, had expressed the exact same sentiment at dawn when, as their ship crept on a small wind to the island's anchorage, the first light had revealed the unappealing landscape. It's more than the bastard deserves, Sharp replied. Harper fanned his face with the brim of his broad hat. I wish they'd bring the bloody mules. I'm dying at a bloody heat, so I am. Must be a fair bit cooler up in them hills. If you weren't so fat, Sharp said mildly, we could walk. Harper had been Sharp's sergeant for most of the French wars, and now, as then, Sharp could think of no one he would rather have beside him in a fight. But in the years since the wars, the Irishmen had run a hostelry in Dublin. Sharp had not seen his friend for over three years, and had been shocked when Harper arrived in France with a belly wobbling like a sack of live eels, a face as round as the full moon, and legs as thick as howitzer barrels. Sharp himself, five years after the Battle of Waterloo, could still wear his old uniform. Indeed, this very morning, taking the uniform from his sea chest, he had been forced to stab a new hole in the belt of his trousers to save them from collapsing round his ankles. He wore another belt over his jacket, but this one merely to support his sword. He felt very strange to have the weapon hanging at his side again. He had spent most of his life as a soldier from the age of six. Sample complete. Ready to continue?