the smell of the pelts, a smell that mingled with the heady aromas of saddles, tobacco, sweat, gun oil, powder and horses. “Brigadier,” she said politely.
“Madame,” Loup acknowledged her, then shamelessly looked up and down her skin- tight uniform, “or should it be Colonel?”
“Brigadier at least,” Juanita answered, “if not Maréchal.”
“Two men?” Ducos interrupted the flirtation. “How did you lose two men?”
Loup told the story of his day. He paced up and down the room as he spoke, biting into an apple he took from Ducos's desk. He told how he had taken a small group of men into the hills to find the fugitives from the village of
Fuentes de Onoro, and how, having taken his revenge on the Spaniards, he had been surprised by the arrival of the greenjackets. “They were led by a captain called Sharpe,” he said.
“Sharpe,” Ducos repeated, then leafed through an immense ledger in which he recorded every scrap of information about the Emperor's enemies. It was
Ducos's job to know about those enemies and to recommend how they could be destroyed, and his intelligence was as copious as his power. “Sharpe,” he said again as he found the entry he sought. “A rifleman, you say? I suspect he may be the same man who captured an eagle at Talavera. Was he with greenjackets only? Or did he have redcoats with him?”
“He had redcoats.”
“Then it is the same man. For a reason we have never discovered he serves in a red-jacketed battalion.” Ducos was adding to his notes in the book that contained similar entries on over five hundred enemy officers. Some of the entries were scored through with a single black line denoting that the men were dead and Ducos sometimes imagined a glorious day when all these enemy heroes, British, Portuguese and Spanish alike, would be black-lined by a rampaging French army. “Captain Sharpe,” Ducos now said, “is reckoned a famous man in Wellington's forces. He came up from the ranks, Brigadier, a rare feat in Britain.”
“I don't care if he came up from the jakes, Ducos, I want his scalp and I want his balls.”
Ducos disapproved of such private rivalries, fearing that they interfered with more important duties. He closed the ledger. “Would it not be better,” he suggested coldly, “if you allowed me to issue a formal complaint about the execution? Wellington will hardly approve.”
“No,” Loup said. “I don't need lawyers taking revenge for me.” Loup's anger was not caused by the death of his two men, for death was a risk all soldiers learned to abide, but rather by the manner of their death. Soldiers should die in battle or in bed, not against a wall like common criminals. Loup was also piqued that another soldier had got the better of him. “But if I can't kill him in the next few weeks, Ducos, you can write your damned letter.” The permission was grudging. “Soldiers are harder to kill than civilians,” Loup went on, “and we've been fighting civilians too long. Now my brigade will have to learn how to destroy uniformed enemies as well.”
“I thought most French soldiers would rather fight other regulars than fight guerrilleros,” the Dona Juanita said.
Loup nodded. “Most do, but not me, madame. I have specialized in fighting the guerrilla.”
“Tell me how,” she asked.
Loup glanced at Ducos as if seeking permission, and Ducos nodded. Ducos was annoyed by the attraction he sensed between these two. It was an attraction as elemental as the lust of a tomcat, a lust so palpable that Ducos almost wrinkled his nose at the stench of it. Leave these two alone for half a minute, he thought, and their uniforms would make a single heap on the floor.
It was not their lust that offended him, but rather the fact that it distracted them from their proper business. “Go on,” he told Loup.
Loup shrugged as though there was no real secret involved. “I've got the best- trained troops in the army. Better than the Imperial Guard. They
“Madame,” Loup acknowledged her, then shamelessly looked up and down her skin- tight uniform, “or should it be Colonel?”
“Brigadier at least,” Juanita answered, “if not Maréchal.”
“Two men?” Ducos interrupted the flirtation. “How did you lose two men?”
Loup told the story of his day. He paced up and down the room as he spoke, biting into an apple he took from Ducos's desk. He told how he had taken a small group of men into the hills to find the fugitives from the village of
Fuentes de Onoro, and how, having taken his revenge on the Spaniards, he had been surprised by the arrival of the greenjackets. “They were led by a captain called Sharpe,” he said.
“Sharpe,” Ducos repeated, then leafed through an immense ledger in which he recorded every scrap of information about the Emperor's enemies. It was
Ducos's job to know about those enemies and to recommend how they could be destroyed, and his intelligence was as copious as his power. “Sharpe,” he said again as he found the entry he sought. “A rifleman, you say? I suspect he may be the same man who captured an eagle at Talavera. Was he with greenjackets only? Or did he have redcoats with him?”
“He had redcoats.”
“Then it is the same man. For a reason we have never discovered he serves in a red-jacketed battalion.” Ducos was adding to his notes in the book that contained similar entries on over five hundred enemy officers. Some of the entries were scored through with a single black line denoting that the men were dead and Ducos sometimes imagined a glorious day when all these enemy heroes, British, Portuguese and Spanish alike, would be black-lined by a rampaging French army. “Captain Sharpe,” Ducos now said, “is reckoned a famous man in Wellington's forces. He came up from the ranks, Brigadier, a rare feat in Britain.”
“I don't care if he came up from the jakes, Ducos, I want his scalp and I want his balls.”
Ducos disapproved of such private rivalries, fearing that they interfered with more important duties. He closed the ledger. “Would it not be better,” he suggested coldly, “if you allowed me to issue a formal complaint about the execution? Wellington will hardly approve.”
“No,” Loup said. “I don't need lawyers taking revenge for me.” Loup's anger was not caused by the death of his two men, for death was a risk all soldiers learned to abide, but rather by the manner of their death. Soldiers should die in battle or in bed, not against a wall like common criminals. Loup was also piqued that another soldier had got the better of him. “But if I can't kill him in the next few weeks, Ducos, you can write your damned letter.” The permission was grudging. “Soldiers are harder to kill than civilians,” Loup went on, “and we've been fighting civilians too long. Now my brigade will have to learn how to destroy uniformed enemies as well.”
“I thought most French soldiers would rather fight other regulars than fight guerrilleros,” the Dona Juanita said.
Loup nodded. “Most do, but not me, madame. I have specialized in fighting the guerrilla.”
“Tell me how,” she asked.
Loup glanced at Ducos as if seeking permission, and Ducos nodded. Ducos was annoyed by the attraction he sensed between these two. It was an attraction as elemental as the lust of a tomcat, a lust so palpable that Ducos almost wrinkled his nose at the stench of it. Leave these two alone for half a minute, he thought, and their uniforms would make a single heap on the floor.
It was not their lust that offended him, but rather the fact that it distracted them from their proper business. “Go on,” he told Loup.
Loup shrugged as though there was no real secret involved. “I've got the best- trained troops in the army. Better than the Imperial Guard. They
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