The lieutenant stared down at the Spaniard.
“Cretin!” he spat and withdrawing the sword he drove the blade down through Leon’s throat. Leon’s legs kicked convulsively and then stilled. The dragoon placed his boot on Leon’s chest, freed the blade and wiped it on the Spaniard’s jacket before returning it to its scabbard and calmly remounting his horse.
It took a second for the shock to sink in.
“You utter shit! God damn your eyes, you bastard! He was no threat to you!”
He screamed the words in English.
The dragoons made no attempt to stop him as he ran to the body. Other figures were hurrying towards them through the trees; the infantry from the ridge had arrived.
He sank to his knees, ignoring the wetness soaking into his breeches, and gripped Leon’s hand in his own. He stared down at the man who had been his friend and at the blood-stained, rain-dampened moss beneath the ruined throat. He heard footsteps approaching from behind.
A voice spoke in English, with a marked French accent.
“Get up, Major.”
The rage bloomed in his chest. He started to turn.
“Get up, Major.” The order was given again.
And his eyes opened.
“Time to get up, Major.”
The hand was still on his shoulder as he reached for the pistol beneath the saddle he’d been using for a pillow, forgetting, not for the first time, that the weapon had been taken from him. The memory caused his face to harden. He moved his arm and felt for his sword. At least they had left him that. He traced the hilt reassuringly. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the man gazing down at him.
Dressed in the uniform of chasseur, the insignia at collar and cuff indicated he held the rank of captain. He was young, in his early twenties, with dark hair and soulful eyes. He looked concerned at having interrupted his charge’s sleep.
“There’s coffee by the fire. It’s still hot.” The captain, whose name was Fosse, gave a small, almost boyish smile. “But I apologize in advance. The taste is execrable.”
Pushing the blanket aside, he watched the officer walk away and thought about the dream. It wasn’t the first time it had come to him and he doubted it would be the last. He’d relived the nightmare a lot over the six weeks since his capture. During that time the anger he’d felt at Leon’s death had not diminished.
They had returned his horse. It had been caught by one of the foragers on their way down from the ridge. He’d been allowed to mount up, only to have a sergeant of dragoons take the reins. Then, leaving Leon’s corpse where it had fallen, they’d escorted him out of the woods. The infantry had returned to their foraging. The dragoons and their red-coated charge had retraced their path towards the village before turning north. He’d known immediately where they were taking him.
Sabugal.
Marmont’s headquarters; the army commander whose manoeuvres he and Leon had been tracking for the past two months. It occurred to him that Leon would have found that amusing.
The forty-mile ride along rutted, water-logged tracks, through wooded hills and valleys and across tarns swollen by rainfall, had been hard going. He’d travelled most of the way in silence, wrapped in his cloak, fighting the chill in his bones brought on by the weather, his grief at Leon’s murder and an increasing awareness of the gravity of his situation.
When he arrived at Sabugal he’d discovered that word of his capture had preceded him. A small crowd had gathered; mostly officers who knew of his work and who, despite his being the enemy, had been anxious to make his acquaintance; to be able to say that they had shaken his hand.
The French were billeted in the citadel; a Moorish castle, the ramparts of which had been visible from miles away, long before he and his escort crossed the old stone bridge and entered the town. There he’d been questioned; first by Marmont’s bloated, bad-tempered chief of staff, de la Martinière, and then by the marshal himself. He’d given them nothing, other than his name and rank; which they’d known anyway.
De la Martinière had wanted him shot as a spy. Marmont, an urbane man with a liking for the finer things in life and, fortunately, the antithesis of his subordinate, had asked him for his parole.
There was no doubt that both of them believed he’d been engaged in spying activities, but Marmont, unlike his foulmouthed general and in adherence to the articles of war, had been unprepared to execute a British officer in uniform, accepting his word that he was not a spy but a field intelligence officer, a fine distinction but one which, nevertheless, reflected the acceptance of the code that existed between the two opposing armies.
He’d given his parole willingly for the advantages it allowed. Parole meant he’d still be a prisoner, but at least he would enjoy some freedom of movement so long as he agreed not to attempt to escape, not to pass intelligence to the British army or its allies, nor to serve against the armies of France, until such time as he had been exchanged, rank for rank. The agreement didn’t say anything about gathering intelligence during his captivity and passing it on later.
It transpired, however, that the marshal’s idea of parole bore little resemblance to the accepted interpretation of the term, for he had been granted no freedom or privacy beyond that accorded to a regular prisoner. Instead, they had secured him in a room and placed a sentry on permanent duty outside his door.
Well, he’d thought, two could play at that game. If the French commander was prepared to ride roughshod over their agreement then surely that invalidated his pledge not to pass on intelligence. In his mind he was therefore free to relay as much information as possible back to Wellington’s headquarters.
The opportunity to do that had arisen when Marmont and his staff, with their British parolee in tow, had transferred their headquarters to Salamanca. There were British agents in Salamanca, notably one Dr Patrick Curtis, Rector of the Irish College and regius professor of astronomy and natural history at Salamanca University. Curtis had been running an intelligence organization from the college for years. Stretching all the way from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees and beyond, it was composed for the most part of priests and alcaldes, all linked by a spider’s web of runners. And it had been providing Wellington with information since the outbreak of the war.
Even the officers assigned to guard him had expressed disgust at their commander’s decision to deny their captive the privileges allowed under the terms of parole, one of which was the right to receive visitors. They had viewed it as a stain on their honour and in defiance of their orders had turned a blind eye to members of the local populace who wanted to pay their respects.
Curtis and his agents had made contact two days after his arrival.
It hadn’t taken Marmont long to suspect that messages were being passed between his prisoner and the wily old Irishman, and he’d summoned Curtis for questioning. He’d even considered placing him under arrest and imprisoning him, but he had no proof and Curtis was well respected in the city, particularly within the church’s hierarchy, so Marmont had had little option but to give the priest the benefit of the doubt and let him go. But the incident had been enough to convince the marshal to take prompt remedial action against his prisoner.
“You’re to be transferred,” Marmont had told him. “I’ve two companies of infantry returning to France. They’ll escort you as far as Bayonne. From there you’ll be taken north, to the prison depot at Verdun, where you will be assigned a place of internment, there to await an offer of exchange.”
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