Sharpe shook his head. He hadn't meant anything close to the literal act of thanking someone. Never -- not ever -- would he have turned to the Duke of Wellington and dared to have thanked him. Aloud. With words. No, there was now only on way in which Sharpe could repay him for his position: to consistently and unquestioningly lay his life down for the Duke's causes. To be the man who will go on the mission -- whatever mission -- without reservation. Or, at least, no spoken reservations. And to save his death for when it would be most convenient for Wellington.

"And how to do the thanking," he finally clarified, thinking about his position. And about his engraved spyglass.