 Sharp's Escape, by Bernard Cornwell, read by Paul McGahn, Mr. Sharp was in a bad mood. I see your uniform's been mended, sir, Sergeant Harper said cheerily. Sharp marched on, climbing the bare Portuguese slope under the searing sun. It was September, 1810, yet the heat of late summer hammered the landscape like a furnace. At the top of the hill a stone barn stood next to a telegraph station. A timber scaffolding supporting a high mast from which the signaling arm hung motionless in the afternoon's heat. It's a rare nice piece of stitching on that jacket. It looks like a woman's work, so it does. Was it someone you met in Lisbon now? Harper persisted. Sharp's uniform jacket was green. He was a rifleman, one of the elite, but the tides of war had stranded him and his men in a redcoat regiment, and now he commanded the light company of the South Essex who were following him up the hill. Most wore the red jackets of the British infantry, but handful, like Sergeant Harper, still kept their old green jackets and fought with the rifle. So who was she? Harper asked. Sergeant Harper! Sharp has finally goaded into speaking. If you want bloody trouble, then keep bloody talking. Yes, sir, Harper said, grinning. He was an Ulsterman, a Catholic, and a sergeant, and as such he was not supposed to be friends with an Englishman, a heathen, and an officer, but he was. Sharp stepped aside from the path and stared back down the column of fifty-four rank and file, seeking out Lieutenant Slingsby. That was the cause of his foul mood, Lieutenant Bloody Cornelius Bloody Slingsby. Sharp walked back down the company to where Lieutenant Slingsby brought up the rearguard. No straggler's sharp, Slingsby said with the eagerness of a terrier. He was a short man, bristling with efficiency. Mr. Illif and I coaxed them on. Everything about the man annoyed Sharp. The back of the man's head, which was as flat as a shuffle, his protuberant eyes, his black mustache, the broken veins on his nose, the snort of his laughter, the strut of his gait. Sharp had come back from leave to discover that Slingsby had replaced his Lieutenant, the reliable Robert Knowles, who had been appointed adjutant to the regiment. Cornelius is a relation, Lieutenant Colonel the Honourable William Lawford had told Sharp. A very fine fellow joined the army late, which is why he's still a lieutenant, while he was breveted captain, of course. I joined the army early, sir, Sharp had said, and I'm still a lieutenant, breveted captain, of course. Oh, Sharp! Lawford had sounded exasperated. There is no one more cognizant of your virtues than I. Sharp had been made into a lieutenant, and that was something of a miracle for a man who had joined the army as an illiterate private. And he'd been breveted a captain, which meant he was paid as such, even though his true rank remained lieutenant. But he could only get the real promotion, if he either purchased a vacant captaincy, or, much less likely, was promoted by Lawford. I value you, Sharp, the Colonel had continued, but I also have hopes for Cornelius. He's thirty-one keen as Mustard, Sharp, and has experience. Before joining the South Essex, Slingsby had been in the 55th Regiment in the West Indies. The Yellow Fever had decimated its officers, so Slingsby had been breveted a captain of the 55th Light Company, and as a result, reckoned he knew as much about soldiering as Sharp, which might have been true, but he did not know as much about fighting. I want you to take him under your wing, the Colonel had finished. Bring him on, Sharp, eh? Bring him to an early grave, Sharp had thought, sourly. Slingsby pointed up to the telegraph station. Mr. Illiff and I saw men up there, Sharp, and one was wearing a blue uniform. Sharp had noticed the men and their horses fifteen minutes earlier, and he'd been wondering what the strangers were doing on the hilltop, for officially the telegraph station had been abandoned. The French had already cut the chain further north, and the British had retreated away from these hills. Somehow this station had not been destroyed, and Sharp's company had been given the job of burning it. Could it be a Frenchman, Slingsby asked? He sounded eager, as if he wanted to charge uphill. Doesn't matter if it is a bloody crapo, Sharp said, sourly. There's more of us than there are in them. Sergeant Harper, march on. It took another half hour to reach the hilltop. The barn was evidently a shrine. Sample complete. Ready to continue?