 Sharps Triumph, by Bernard Cornwell, read by Paul McGahn. It was not Richard Sharps' fault. He was not in charge. He was junior to at least a dozen men, including a major, a captain, a subedar, and two gemadars. Yet he still felt responsible. Responsible. Angry. Hot. Bitter and scared. Blood crusted on his face where a thousand flies crawled. There were even flies in his open mouth. But he dared not move. The air stank of blood, and the last thing he remembered doing was thrusting his pack, have a sack and cartridge box into the glowing ashes of a fire. And now the ammunition from the cartridge box exploded, fountaining sparks and ashes into the hot air. A couple of men poked at the nearby bodies with their muskets, then walked on. Sharpe blinked, fearing that the small motion would attract one of the killers. But no one noticed. Chasal Gaon. That's where he was. A miserable thorn walled fort on the frontier of Hyderabad. Sharpe had come from Serringa Patam, leading a detail of six privates, and had been greeted by Major Crosby. The Major had read Sharps' orders and grunted. Bloody responsible job for a sergeant, wouldn't you say? Won't let you down, sir, Sharpe said, woodenly. He bloody well better not, and you look bloody young to be a sergeant. I was born late, sir, Sharpe said. He was twenty-six, or thirty was, and most sergeants were much older. Crosby stared up at Sharpe, but there was nothing insolent on the sergeant's face. And how the devil do you expect to get the ammunition back to Serringa Patam? Higher ox cart, sir? With what? Promises? Money, sir. Sharpe tapped his haversack. Christ! I trust you with money. I suppose you expect me to arrange the ox carts? I'll do it myself, sir. Find your damned carts, Crosby snapped, and let me know when you're ready to load up. Very good, sir. Sharpe about turned and marched from the tent to find his errand boy, Dabi Lal, and the six privates waiting in the shade of one of the barracks. We'll have dinner, Sharpe told him, then sort out carts. Their job was to fetch eighty-thousand rounds of prime musket cartridges that had been stolen from the East India Company armory in Madras. The thieves who stole them knew exactly who would pay the highest price for the ammunition. The princetums of the Maratha Confederation were forever at war with each other, or raiding neighbouring states. But now, in the summer of eighteen-hundred and three, they faced an imminent invasion by British forces. Two of the biggest Maratha rulers had made an alliance to repel the British, and those rulers had promised the thieves a king's ransom for the cartridges, but the thieves had been betrayed, and the caravan carrying the cartridges had been ambushed not far from Chassalgalan. The recaptured ammunition had been brought to the fort's small magazine for safekeeping. Now it was to be taken to the armory at Serringapattam. Spoilage, Sharpe was thinking. Say, seven-thousand cartridges lost a damp? No one in Serringapattam would argue with that, and Sharpe could sell the cartridges on to Vakil Hussein. Just as Sharpe was thinking that, Major Crosby appeared. Thought you were finding ox carts, Crosby snarled. Dinner first, sir. Your food, I hope, are not ours. We don't get rations to feed King's troops here, Sergeant. Major Crosby was in the service of the East India Company, and though he wore a red coat like the King's army, there was little love lost between the two forces. Our food, sir, Sharpe said. Gesturing at the rice and kid meat, both stolen from Crosby's stores. Ahabildar shouted from the gate, but the Major ignored him. One thing, Sergeant, some of the cartridges were spoiled, so I had to destroy them. Six or seven-thousand, as I remember. Spoilage, sir, Sharpe said. Happens all the time, sir. Exactly so, Crosby said. Then he turned towards the gate. Ahabildar? Company troops approaching Saib. Where's Captain Leonard, Crosby demanded? Here, sir, I'm here. A tall gangling captain hurried from a tent and headed for the gate. You'll give me a note, sir. I have to account for the cartridges, sir. Later, Crosby said. Captain Leonard clambered up to the platform beside the gate where Crosby joined him. Upon the skyline, Crosby could see red-coated troops led by a European officer mounted on a black horse. And it... Sample complete. Ready to continue?