Стрелок Додд

The man who fired it sprang up and dashed ahead of them up the hill. The line of skirmishers bulged for a minute as some of the hotheads made as though to run after him, and then settled down again to a steady advance. Higher up there were more men in ambush, more shots fired. Someone in the skirmishing line fell with a crash and a clatter. Here and there men fired back.

'Wait until you are sure,' shouted Godinot to his section. Some of them looked round at him and gri

'There's an Englishman there!' suddenly shouted Fournier.

'A green Englishman!'

They all caught sight of him; he was calling and gesticulating to the men gathered at the summit. Everyone recognized his uniform, and, further, everyone realized the purport of his gesticulations. The captain, waving his sword, rushed to the front and called to his men to follow him in a final dash, but the green-coated soldier had timed his stand to a nicety. He and his band turned and ran helter-skelter along the summit, neatly avoiding being driven down into the river.

Without orders, the French inclined to their right and ran to head them off, while the advance guard with whom the Portuguese had originally been engaged followed in hot pursuit. One of the Portuguese missed his footing and fell rolling down the slope, and before he could regain his feet Godinot's bayonet was through him. Fournier at Godinot's side, wild with excitement, stabbed him too, and the man died writhing with rage and pain.

The skirmish lost all trace of order up here on the wild mountain top. When a skirmishing line begins to run in broken country and with frequent changes of direction it soon ceases to be a line. The two French companies broke into little groups ranging hither and thither over the hillside, while the sky grew dark and torrents of rain poured down to add to the confusion. In that nightmare country of tall rocks and scrubby trees and low bushes the battle was fought out to an indecisive end. The timorous and the weary among the French found ample opportunity of withdrawing from the struggle, and crouching for shelter and concealment in clefts in the rock, while the brave and the headstrong lost their way. Yet there were still musket shots spitting out here and there in the gathering gloom. Men were still meeting their deaths in the disordered battle. Godinot, pushing up a little ravine with two or three followers, met Lebrun and Fournier coming down it, and between them they were half leading, half carrying someone else- Godron.

'The Englishman shot him,'

'The Englishman?'

'Yes, by God!'

'Where's he wounded?'

'In the stomach.'

There was a pause at that. Everyone knew what a stomach wound involved, and everyone knew- it had been enjoined upon them so often- that only the cowards withdrew from a fight to help the wounded home. Yet everyone knew, too, that they could not leave a wounded man- not even a dying man- where Portuguese irregulars might reach him.

Godinot was saved from the dilemma by the long roll of a drum far behind him. Then the drum beat to a new rhythm, a long roll and three beats followed by a short roll and three beats, repeated. It was the retreat. A greatcoat with two muskets thrust through the sleeves and pocket slits made some sort of stretcher for Godron, and between them they carried him back to where the two companies were re- assembling on the crest above the lane. The sun had set now, but the clouds had parted in the west, and permitted a little watery, dying light. The captain was a sad man as the sergeants made their reports. So-and-so was missing, and someone else. And someone else was dead-they had seen him fall, and brought back his things from his pack. The captain looked darkly up the hill, and over to the fading west. This was a defeat, and he could not avenge it as yet. He could not think of plunging his weary men into that tangle of rocks in darkness. He could not even think of trying to find the missing men. He hoped that they were dead rather than in Portuguese hands. He kept the company waiting while darkness fell, to be rewarded by the return of one or two of the missing, and then, reluctantly, he led the company down the hill and down the lane to where a cluster of stone cottages marked the billets of the battalion. That evening, while little Godron was dying under the surgeon's hands, there was rejoicing in the battalion. Not merely did everyone have a roof over his head- were it only the roof of a filthy cowshed- but everyone had enough to eat. There was a field of potatoes between the village and the river, and although, apparently, efforts had been made to dig them up and throw them into the Tagus there were still great quantities to be found for the digging. And as they had marched in, a na

It was sad about the wine. Someone had smashed in all the casks of wine in the cellar of the i

No one gave a second thought to the fact that the goats and the chicken were the only living creatures to be found in the village: they were used to that. Of course it would have added to their enjoyment if a woman or two had been kind enough to remain to help in their entertainment. But that was not important at present; the men had marched too fast and too far lately to have many thoughts to devote to that subject. They were all very happy eating and drinking and revelling in the warmth.

Fournier came and sat down heavily beside Sergeant Godinot.

'Godron's going to die, I suppose?' he began.

'I'm afraid so, poor devil,' said Godinot.

Fournier hesitated a while before he continued: 'Do you remember that day when we were rejoining battalion after that fatigue we were left behind to do?' 'You mean the day Boyel was killed? Yes.'

'Boyel was Godron's friend.'

'He was my friend too.'

'The same man killed them both,' said Fournier.

'Not likely. How do you know?' asked Godinot.

'It is. I swear it. I saw him as plain as my hand when he killed Boyel. And today- I saw him twice along my musket barrel. How did I come to miss him? How did we all come to miss him the other time? Tell me that.'

'Gently, gently,' said Godinot, noticing the expression on Fournier's face.

'More bullets miss than hit, you know.'

'It will take a lot of bullets to hit that one,' said Fournier.

'Go to sleep and forget about it,' said Godinot. 'You will feel better in the morning.'

Yet it took more than that kindly offhandedness to soothe the superstitious Fournier; it was late when Godinot succeeded.

The fires died down. The battalion slept while the sentries paced their beats round the village. The sentries were on the alert, as well men may be whose lives depend upon it. But no sentry's beat extended down to the river beach, and no one saw a score of dark shadows creep along the water's edge across the mouth of the ravine, leaving the hill of that day's battle for the other one beyond the ravine.