Стрелок Додд

'But we must-the battalion has nothing.'

'You must not. I will not have it. We need all we can find here for ourselves.

Take your miserable recruits away out of my district.'

The captain refused to be browbeaten. 'I have orders from my colonel to forage here. I insist upon going on.'

'You insist, do you?'

The colonel turned and bawled an order to his waiting battalion. There was a long ripple of steel down the line as they fixed bayonets.

'Now, sir,' said the colonel, 'please do not waste any more of my time or my men's. I mean every word I say. Take your blues away out of my district.' The men of the Second Corps-veterans of Austerlitz, who had fought in four campaigns in Spain-would use their bayonets on their own fathers if it came to a question of food, and both sides knew it. All that the captain could say was that his colonel would protest to headquarters about this outrage. 'He can protest as much as he likes,' shrugged the colonel.

'Meanwhile my Captain Gauthier will escort you back to the high road just in case you are thinking of looking for another way into my territory after leaving us. Good day to you, captain.'

All that the company could do was to march back with their tails between their legs, while oaths rippled along the ranks- oaths which were re-echoed when the rest of the battalion in the village turned out to welcome them on their return and heard the news that they had come back empty- handed. They saw the captain after making his report ride off on the colonel's horse- the only animal the battalion possessed- and they saw him come back late in the day dejected and unhappy. Headquarters had confirmed the order regarding the foraging area allotted to the fourth battalion of the Forty Sixth.

Still, there remained the mountain by the river for them to seek food upon-not a very hopeful prospect, apparently, at sight of the rocks and gullies which was all it seemed to consist of. Next morning four companies were paraded to search the mountain. There were little, straggling paths winding here and there up the mountain side, goat tracks where men could walk in single file. 'We ought to find goats up here,' grumbled Lebrun, slipping and stumbling as he made his way up the path behind Godinot. 'They are the only creatures who could live here.'

'Goats will be good enough for me,' said Bernhard the optimist. 'A nice collop of goat, with onions.'

'The people we chased away when we first came here must be somewhere near,' said Dubois, joining in the conversation. 'And their sheep and their cattle. I would rather have a beefsteak than any collop of goat.'

'Beefsteak! Listen to the man!' said Lebrun. 'Served on silver, I suppose, by attentive naked damsels?'

'That would be better,' agreed Dubois.

Somewhere ahead they heard a musket shot, beyond the head of the long, straggling column.

'That's one of Dubois' damsels,' said Lebrun. 'Out with her blunderbuss. She wants a collop of Frenchman for di

The column still pushed on up the path. Occasionally a shot or two sounded at the head of the column. After a while they passed a dead man lying at the side of the path-a dead Frenchman, with a blue hole in his forehead and his brains ru

'I was right about my goats,' muttered Lebrun, pointing to the ground. 'Goats be damned!' said Fournier. 'That's sheep, man. Sheep! Stewed mutton for di

There were sheep's footprints and sheep's dung all along the path, and the men pressed forward eagerly.

There was more firing away to the left. Godinot strove to see what was happening there, but he could see nothing at all. Then a shot or two were heard to the right; clearly the battalion was extended over the hill, but still they could see nothing, neither friends nor enemies. Now the path through the bushes began to descend. It was no fortuitous dip, either: the descent was too prolonged and too steep for that. At one corner they had a glimpse of the wide, green Tagus below them, before a turn in the path hid it again from view. Then they went on down the descent until the river came in view again, closer this time. And in the end the path ceased abruptly at the water's edge, and Godinot and his men looked at each other.

'The sheep seem to have found another way round, sergeant,' said Fournier.

'We'll find them all the same,' said Godinot. 'Up this path, boys.' They turned their backs on the river and plunged up the hill again. Right ahead of them they heard more firing.

Godinot halted his men and listened carefully. It seemed as if they must have penetrated the enemy's skirmishing line by some unguarded gap. They must be in the rear of the Portuguese. Then they heard a shot from close ahead. Godinot beckoned to Fournier and Bernhard and the three of them crept cautiously forward, leaving the others behind.

They tried to move silently up the stony path and through the thorny undergrowth. They heard something moving ahead of them, and crouched silently by the path. Then someone came ru

Fournier and Bernhard came up to them and helped secure the prisoner-an old Portuguese peasant, very old, very wrinkled. His face was like an old potato, brown and lumpy.

And it was as expressionless as a potato too. He crouched while the Frenchmen stood round him, gazing before him without moving a feature. They dragged him back to where the rest of the section awaited them.

'Get out and scout,' said Godinot. 'You, and you, and you.'

Three of the men seized their muskets and plunged up and down the path to guard against surprise while Godinot turned to the prisoner, raking through his mind for the few words of Portuguese which he had picked up. He wanted to ask for food, for sheep, for cattle, for corn.

'Alimento,' said Godinot, bending over the prisoner. 'Ovelha. Gado. Garo.' The prisoner said nothing; he merely sat on his haunches gazing out into infinity. Godinot repeated himself; still the prisoner said nothing. Godinot set his teeth and cocked his musket, and thrust the muzzle against the peasant's ear.

'Alimento,' said Godinot.

The prisoner drew a long shuddering breath, but otherwise he made no sound. 'Alimento,' said Godinot again, jogging the man's head with his musket barrel, but it was still unavailing.

'Here,' said somebody. 'I'll do it, sergeant. Where are those sheep, curse you?' The man's bayonet was fixed; he stuck an inch of the point into the peasant's arm and twisted it. This time a groan escaped the prisoner's lips, but he said nothing articulate.

'That's enough,' snapped Godinot, his gorge rising. 'We'll take him back with us. Bring him along.'

Someone fastened the man's wrists behind him, and, dragging him with them, they climbed the path. So broken and overgrown was the hillside that they could see nothing of the rest of the battalion, and it was only with difficulty that they found their way over the hill back to the village, where the old man gazed broken-hearted at the ruin the invaders had caused.