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Sharpe emerges from wherever he spent the night, probably a room in the staff quarters, looking slightly the worse for wear.

Without pausing, he heads straight across the room and out through the front door. Ten minutes or so later, he comes back in, dripping - apparently he felt the need to dunk his head in the trough at home.

With a brief stop at the Bar, he makes for a booth. And, slowly and with much crossing-out, he starts to write.

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Jack smiles and nods. "If there's a fight--which there probably will be--shall we look for you?"

That gets a savage grin.

"Count on it."

"Excellent. We will count on the strength of your arm."

"My arm, my sword, my guns..."

He smiles humourlessly.

"Guns, I think, will be useless except to slow her down, but yes."

"You'd be surprised how much good just slowing someone down will do."

"Oh, no, not at all. I've seen what guns can do."

Sharpe just nods.

So has he, and he's got the scars to prove it.

Jack watches him a moment, then says, "A man of few words. I can appreciate that."

He grins crookedly. "Got to be a habit, over the years. Not that I was ever much of a talker."

"Silence has its uses. I've never discovered them, though."

"You're not a fighting man, then."

It's not really a criticism.

"I make things grow."

"Good thing to do, for those as can."

"A necessary thing, becase everything stops otherwise."

"Aye, it is that."

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