Rebellion. James McGee

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СКАЧАТЬ hauled themselves into the trees, the dragoons were less than a hundred paces away. The drumming of hooves was as loud as thunder and he could feel the earth vibrating beneath his feet.

      The Spaniard drew a pistol from his bandolier and a knife from the sash at his waist. “Run!” he urged. “Save yourself!” His features contorted.

      “No, we go together!” As if a pistol and a knife would have made a difference, anyway, he thought.

      They staggered on, shoulder to shoulder.

      Leon was the first to go down. One moment he was in motion, the next it was as if the Spaniard’s legs had turned to porridge. The transition was almost leisurely, bordering on comical; as if someone had slipped him a slow-acting sleeping draught. He managed to keep going for another dozen steps before his legs finally gave way and he collapsed on to his knees, chest heaving.

      They had separated and he was ten paces in front when Leon fell. He heard the Spaniard’s exclamation of defeat and turned back in time to see the first of the dragoons explode into view, followed swiftly by half a dozen more.

      Leon raised his pistol. A shot sounded and he fell back clutching his shoulder, the pistol dropping from his hand.

      “NO!”

      Running back, he started to pull the sword from its scabbard and found himself confronted by a semi-circle of plume-helmeted horsemen, their carbines aimed unerringly at his head.

      He halted and gazed back resignedly at the look of triumph on their faces. It was over. There was nowhere else to run, nowhere to hide. He slid the sword into its scabbard and waited as the dragoon lieutenant got down from his horse and held out his hand. He handed the sword over. The lieutenant took it, nodded wordlessly then walked over to Leon, who had raised himself to a sitting position. His face had lost its colour. Blood from his wound was oozing from between his fingers. He let the knife drop to the ground.

      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, СКАЧАТЬ