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Certainly these moves indicated a concentration, and a concentration could only mean one of two things-an attack on the Lines or a retreat. Dodd knew far too much about the condition of the French army to consider an attack on the Lines in the least possible. There only remained a retreat-and he can hardly be blamed for believing, with a modest pride, that it was he who had caused the French army to retreat. And a retreat meant that he would soon have his path cleared for rejoining his regiment, and that prospect caused him far more excitement than did the consideration of his achievements. He had to compel himself to remain where he was until next day, and then, with all due precaution, he started back across country- over much the same route as he had previously followed largely on his hands and knees-back towards Santarem. What he saw confirmed him in his theory of an immediate retreat. The French had burned the villages and hamlets in which they had found shelter through the winter, just as the Germans were to do in France one hundred and six years later. They burnt everything, destroyed everything; the smoke of their burnings rose to the sky wherever one looked. In truth, the area which the French had occupied was horrible with its burnt villages and its desolate fields, ruined and overgrown, where not a living creature was to be seen. There were dead ones enough to compensate- dead men and dead animals, some already skeletons, some bloated corpses, with a fair sprinkling of dead men- and women- swinging from trees and gallows here and there.

Yet it was all just a natural result, even if a highly coloured one, of war, and war was a natural state, and so the horrible landscape through which Dodd trudged did not depress him unduly-how could it when he was on the way back to his regiment?

As for the wake of death which Dodd had left behind him- the Frenchmen whose deaths he had caused or pla

Santarem when Dodd reached it was a mere wreck of a town-only as much remained of it as there remains of a fallen leaf when spring comes round. And just beyond Santarem Dodd met the first English patrol; the English were out of the Lines. Great minds sometimes think alike: the conclusions reached by Marshal the Prince of Essling and General Lord Wellington had been identical. The former had judged that his army was too weak to remain where it was on the very day that the latter had issued orders for his army to sally forth and fall upon the weakened French.

Advance and retreat exactly coincided. The Light Dragoons came pushing up the road on the heels of the French from one direction just when Dodd came down it in the other. The lieutenant in command of the patrol looked at Dodd curiously. 'Who in God's name do you think you are?' he asked. Dodd thrilled at the sound of the English language, yet when he tried to speak he found difficulty; he had spent months now struggling with a foreign language.

'Dodd,' he said at length. 'Rifleman, Ninety Fifth, sir.'

The lieutenant stared down at him; he had seen some strange sights during this war, but none stranger than this.

An incredibly battered and shapeless shako rested precariously on the top of a wild mane of hair; beneath it a homely English face burned to a red-black by continual exposure, and two honest blue English eyes looked out through a bristling tangle of beard all tawny-gold. With the British army Dodd shared the use of a razor with Eccles, his front rank man; with the Portuguese Dodd had never once set eyes on a razor. The green tunic and trousers were torn and frayed so that in many places the skin beneath could be seen, and only fragments of black braid remained, hanging by threads, and there were toes protruding through the shoes. Yet the lieutenant's keen eye could detect nothing important as missing. The rifle in the man's hand looked well cared for, the long sword bayonet was still in its sheath. His equipment seemed intact, with the cartridge pouches on the belt and what must have been the wreck of a greatcoat in its slings on his back. The lieutenant's first inward comment on seeing Dodd had been 'Deserter' -desertion being the plague of a professional army -but deserters do not come smiling up to the nearest patrol, nor do they bring back all their equipment. Besides, men did not desert from the Ninety Fifth. 'Are you trying to rejoin your battalion?' asked the lieutenant.

'Yessir,' said Dodd.

'M'm,' said the lieutenant, and then, slowly making up his mind. 'They're only two miles away, on the upper road. Sergeant Casey!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Take this man up to the Ninety Fifth. Report to Colonel Beckwith.' The sergeant walked his horse forward, and Dodd stood at his side. The lieutenant snapped an order to the rest of the patrol, and he and his men went jingling forward along the main road, leaving Dodd and his escort to take the by-lane up to the other wing of the advance guard.



The sergeant sat back in his saddle well contented, and allowed his horse to amble quietly up the lane, while Dodd strode along beside him. They exchanged no conversation, for the sergeant was more convinced than his officer had been that Dodd was a deserter, while Dodd's heart was far too full for words. The sun was breaking through the clouds, and it bore a genial warmth, the certain promise of the coming Spring. Away to their left a long column of troops was forming up again after a rest; it was the First Division, for the leading brigade were the Guards in their bearskins and scarlet. Dodd saw the drum-major's silver staff raised, he saw the drummers poise their sticks up by their mouths. and he heard the crash of the drums as the sticks fell, 'Br-rr-rrm. Br-rr-rm' went the drums.

Then faintly over the ravaged fields came the squealing of the fifes

Some talk of Alexander,

And some of Hercules,

Of Hector and Lysander,

as the river of scarlet and black and gold came flooding down the lane. Farther off more troops were in movement; a kilted regiment headed a column marching over a low rise of ground. The sun gleamed on the musket barrels, and the plumes fluttered as the long line of kilts swayed in unison. Dodd breathed in the sunshine with open mouth as he looked about him; he was well content. They found the Ninety Fifth on the upper road, just as the lieutenant had said. They were drawn up on the roadside waiting for the word to move, because for once in a way the foremost skirmishing line had been entrusted to the Fifty Second and the Portuguese. Sergeant Casey brought his man up to where Colonel Beckwith with his adjutant and other officers stood at the side of the column, with their horses held by orderlies.

'What's this? What's this?' demanded the colonel. Beckwith, the beloved colonel of the Ninety Fifth, was popularly known as 'Old What's this?' because that was how he prefaced every conversation.

The sergeant told him as much as he knew.

'Very good, sergeant, that'll do,' said Beckwith, and the sergeant saluted and wheeled his horse and trotted back, while Beckwith watched him go. If there was any dirty linen to wash, the Ninety Fifth would not do it in front of strangers.

'Well, who the devil are you?' demanded Beckwith, at last.

'Dodd, sir. Rifleman. Mr. Fotheringham's company.'