You've done me a good turn, Sergeant Sharpe. Now I'm about to do you a damn bad one. The threat/reward still rung in his ears; he'd just slaughtered near a dozen Indian soldiers. He'd been in a haze, knowing only violence and the need to protect the man on the ground. Wellington -- then simply known as Arthur Wellesley -- had spared him the brunt of a whipping, once. And it was his duty to protect the chain of command. But in the wake, the Duke's gratitude had taken the shape of a battlefield promotion. From that moment, he'd become the newly minted Ensign Sharpe. Bloody old for an ensign, certainly, but now commanding more of a lot in life than he'd ever done before.

"I suppose...you try to give him a future. A chance, in life, he might not already have. No matter the challenges."

Because there had been challenges. Still often were.