Free Whose Business Is to Die by Adrian Goldsworthy

turquoise.
    ‘Sinclair!’ Hanley shouted, and he felt his blood racing again, but this was with a much more familiar excitement. Baynes’ informant had been right. Light green was the colour of the Irish Legion, and he had seen Sinclair in this uniform before. He kicked his horse hard, hit it again with the flat of his sword and yelled ‘Come on, lad!’ The gelding picked up the pace, leaping across the grass. With a scrape the two hussars drew their sabres – Hanley had not realised that they had sheathed them.
    They passed the wagon, the headless corpse lying next to the wheel and another man draped over the tailgate. A light dragoon was inside, another holding the reins of the man’s horse.
    ‘Empty bloody boxes!’ came a shout from under the high canopy. ‘Get the mules, Tom, at least there’s prize money there!’ The Army did not pay out rewards on the same scale as the Navy, but there would be a little for captured animals.
    Hanley kept going. They were among the leading light dragoons now, the knot of Frenchmen only three or four hundred yards in front of them. Just one of the 13th was ahead of the pack, closing rapidly on the fugitives. It was the officer on the bay, and the beast raced on. Hanley saw the man raise his sabre high and yell with sheer delight.
    The man with the bright white cloak looked back, and then spun his big black horse around with remarkable ease. He had a helmet much like the dragoons’, but steel rather than brass, and as he turned and flicked back his cloak, Hanley saw a gleaming cuirass.
    Dalmas! Hanley had never seen the man close up, but knewthat this was surely the cuirassier officer, and if he and Sinclair had both come to Campo Major then there was certainly something dirty going on.
    The light dragoon officer gave a flourish of his sabre as he and Dalmas sped towards each other at a gallop. His opponent already had his straight sword at the charge, arm raised in front of him and the point spearing forwards. The Frenchman was silent.
    They closed so fast that Hanley did not see clearly what happened. The light dragoon was screaming out a challenge; his sabre glinted as it cut and glanced off the Frenchman’s armour. There was a grunt and the officer arched his back. Dalmas was already past him when the Englishman slid from the saddle, sabre hanging from his lifeless wrist. He fell to the left, but his foot caught in the stirrup and so he was dragged along, head bumping on the ground as his terrified horse ran on. Dalmas raised his sword above his head and was turning again, no more than a hundred yards away. The closest light dragoons growled in anger and urged their mounts on to catch the Frenchman.
    A shot erupted, the noise of the discharge sudden and loud. One of the French horsemen dropped, and two of the others, the man in the dark uniform and the one in light blue, had turned and were rushing towards the British. Someone shouted. It was Sinclair, and Hanley could see the Irishman clearly as he turned and came after the other two. Another man in a plainer version of his green coat stopped his horse and jumped down, unslinging a firelock from his shoulder.
    ‘Prisonnier! Prisonnier! ’ shouted the leading rider as he flung his empty pistol back over his shoulder. He was dressed in very dark blue, breeches and jacket alike, with his cocked hat tied tightly around his chin. Hanley guessed he must be an engineer or artillery officer, and one who lived well given his plumpness. A few strides behind him was a slim figure in a hussar-style uniform of tight breeches and dolman and a round fur cap. The turquoise fabric was so covered with silver lace that he must be an ADC. The face beneath the cap was smooth and young, so nodoubt this was a relative of some important man. Dalmas was still turning away, unable for the moment to change direction again.
    Another shot, this time from Sinclair, who had stopped and aimed his pistol with care. The turquoise hussar’s horse