Free Send Me Safely Back Again by Adrian Goldsworthy Page B

so calm and that his choice of words was so banal. He reached out his hand to pull the major up behind him.
    Wickham saw him and sprang up, running fast to grasp the offered hand.
    Something hit Hanley hard from behind and he was pitched down from the saddle, the wind knocked out of him as he landed badly on his face. There was movement all round him, boots on the ground, and horses rushing. He felt rather than saw his own mount spurred away.
    Hanley pushed himself up. His left arm hurt where he had fallen, and he reached with the right to feel his shoulder. There was no wound, no sign of blood, but he was sure a bruise wasswelling. Turning, he saw Wickham riding hard to the rear on his horse, and beside him was Velarde in his round hat.
    The Englishman winced as he turned back and it was almost too late because a French hussar was bearing down, his arm raised across his body preparing to cut.
    ‘I am an English officer!’ he bellowed in fluent French, and just at the last instant the man checked his blow, and the sabre merely flicked across an inch or two above Hanley’s dark hair. An officer was following, his wounded horse making it hard for him to keep up the pace. The battle flowed on past them and Hanley was a prisoner.
    Hours later he was still a prisoner and feeling lonely and isolated. He guessed that it was his own fault. If he had not stopped for Wickham then no doubt he would have escaped. Williams would be sure to tell him that the major was a scoundrel and not worth such a sacrifice. The thought made him smile, for he knew with absolute certainty that Williams himself would have gone back, for the man was as devout a worshipper of honour as he was of God.
    ‘Long live Napoleon and his invincible troops!’ The cry went up again.
    This time the officer was less pleased. ‘No, no,’ he cried. ‘Long live King Joseph!’ The rider was dressed in a deep blue jacket smothered in gold decoration at the cuffs, collar and down the front. Beside him was a man dressed in a brown uniform, only a little less ornate, and Hanley suspected this man was Spanish.
    ‘Long live Napoleon and his invincible troops!’ The cry was taken up by more of the prisoners, including a few of the officers. This time it was a challenge.
    ‘No, I tell you, long live His Most Catholic Majesty King Joseph!’
    ‘Long live hunchbacks!’ came a muffled cry from somewhere in the column.
    ‘You, my man.’ The rider in brown pointed to one of the nearest prisoners, a boy of scarcely sixteen who wore a military waistcoat as his only uniform. ‘I’ll give you a silver dollar if youpraise your king.’ Listening to his speech, Hanley was now sure that the rider was Spanish.
    ‘And I’ll have you shot if you don’t!’ said the other officer, angrily twisting his brown moustache.
    ‘Long live King Joseph,’ said the soldier without any enthusiasm or real understanding. Until two weeks ago he had never strayed more than a few miles from a tiny village where no king ever visited.
    ‘Good fellow,’ said the man in brown. ‘Here is your dollar.’ He tossed the coin down.
    The man who called himself O’Donnell whipped out his sword in an instant. ‘And here’s the true payment of a traitor.’ He lunged from beside the young soldier, skewering his throat so that blood jetted down on to the front of his off-white waistcoat.
    A French grenadier marching on the edge of the column raised his musket and cocked the weapon, aiming at O’Donnell. The two riders shouted at him to hold his fire.
    ‘That was murder,’ said the man in blue. ‘If I give the word then the private will shoot you.’
    O’Donnell shrugged, but after freeing his sword he lowered it. ‘That was discipline,’ he said.
    ‘Barbarian.’ The Spaniard in brown was shaking his head. ‘So speaks the old Spain.’
    ‘Lower your musket, grenadier,’ ordered the Frenchman in blue, his gaze never leaving the captured officer. ‘Who are you, Sir?’
    ‘Major