Free Whose Business Is to Die by Adrian Goldsworthy Page B

hundred light dragoons left in the chase and half as many Portuguese. No one was yelling any more, or calling out hunting cries. Men and horses alike were panting, struggling with the effort, and pursuers and pursued went as fast as they still could in silence apart from the drumming of the hoofs. They were spread out, each going at his own pace and without the slightest order.
    After another mile the land began to rise gently up to a ridge. Hanley was about to give up, and go back to find out what he could learn from Jenny, when he spotted something white far ahead among the leading French. As he rode on he stared ahead of him, searching for men in green, and saw one not far from Dalmas, and another among the last of the French.
    Brandt, he thought, and wished Williams were here. Brandt was a soldier who had served in a foreign regiment recruited from prisoners and deserters. Williams caught him trying to rape the wife of a partisan chief, but the man had escaped, deserting again and fighting for the enemy. The man was an excellent shot, especially with the British Army’s issue rifle. Sinclair must haveenlisted him in his own regiment, hence the light green coat, the latest in a long succession of uniforms the man had worn.
    The French reached the crest of the ridge and spilled over, vanishing for the moment. Hanley’s horse revived as it went up the slope, bounding ahead, so that he was one of the first to reach the crest.
    ‘Bugger,’ he heard the light dragoon next to him say.
    To their left was a small fort, little more than a tower, but perched on a hillock and surrounded by ditches. Back some way from that was a much larger and more formidable fort, the San Cristoval, guarding this bank of the River Guadiana. Ahead was the defended bridge, crossing the great river on high Roman arches, and on the far bank, looming up on its hill, the great fortress city of Badajoz.
    They must have chased the French for almost eight miles, although Hanley could scarcely believe it. The sight of sanctuary stirred the French on to a last great effort. Some of the British and Portuguese slowed and stopped, but more did not, and pulled on their last resources of strength to catch the enemy.
    ‘Try to get the one in green.’ Hanley pointed at Brandt, whose horse was slowing and who was trying to get to the San Cristoval. ‘Kill him if you cannot take him.’
    The German nodded and set off. Dalmas and Sinclair were further off, probably too far to catch as they made for the bridge, but Hanley felt that he ought to try. His horse was trotting now, and the motion was uncomfortable after so long in the saddle. He tried to rise with each step, but got out of rhythm and bounced in the saddle before he sat, rocking with the motion and regaining his balance. There were light dragoons ahead of him, their horses foamy with sweat, the men bright red in the face.
    A gun fired, a big gun from the San Cristoval fort, and perhaps it was to sound the alarm because Hanley did not see a shot land. The dull boom echoed along the valley and in its wake British and Portuguese cavalry alike slowed or stopped. Hanley saw men slump in the saddle, weariness overcoming them as at last theall-absorbing elation of the chase faded away. He sheathed his sword, forcing it with all his strength when it started to stick.
    ‘Thirteenth, rally on me!’ Colonel Head of the light dragoons was waving his sword in the air and shouting at his men. ‘Form on me!’
    Other officers and NCOs were calling out to their men. Hanley saw the Irish corporal who had killed the French colonel gather a handful of men together. His own horse had stopped before the last echo of the cannon shot died and the gelding was hanging its head down and breathing hard. A few light dragoons still followed the enemy, but he could see Dalmas and Sinclair reach the gateway of the tête-de-pont protecting the bridge and knew that it was over. Muskets squibbed from the rampart and the leading light