another of the wild charge of the enemy with the green Englishman at their head, bayonets flashing and smoke eddying. Someone turned and ran, and Godinot ran too, down the path, and as he began to run panic gripped him and he ran faster and ever faster, stumbling over the stones, tearing his clothes on the thorns, running so madly that pursuit dropped behind and in the end he was able to slow down and try to recover his breath and his wits.
Dubois was with him. He was wounded, as he said stupidly over and over again-a bullet had gone through his arm. Fournier came up a moment later brandishing his musket.
'I fired at him again,' said Fournier, 'but I missed him clean. He is hard to hit, that one.'
'Where are the others?' asked Godinot. He knew the answer to the question, but he asked it merely for something to say.
'Dead,' said Fournier. 'They shot Bernhard through the heart. Guimblot ' 'I saw Guimblot,' said Godinot.
They looked at each other. Godinot was ashamed of his panic. 'They're coming! They're coming again!' said Dubois, seizing Godinot's arm. A twig snapped somewhere in the undergrowth, and the noise started the panic in their minds again-perhaps it was Dubois' fault, for he was shaken by his wound and panic is infectious. They fled over the hill again, running madly along the paths, until Dubois fainted with loss of blood. They tied up his wound and dragged him down to the village. There was an unpleasant interview with his captain awaiting Sergeant Godinot when he had to explain the loss of more than half his party. There is no excuse for defeat in the military code, just as success excuses everything. But other parties had sustained loss and defeat, too, it appeared, when they came back in driblets from the mountain; there were several wounded to bear Dubois company in the hospital; there were several dead left among the rocks. And several men had seen the Englishman in green uniform, and several shots had been fired at him, all unavailingly.
In the evening Fournier came to Sergeant Godinot.
'I want some money, sergeant,' he said. 'Give me some.'
Sergeant Godinot could see no use for money here in these uninhabited billets, and he said so.
'Never mind that,' said Fournier. 'I want some money.'
Godinot bowed to his whim and pulled out two or three copper coins-enough to buy a drink had there been drinks to be bought. Fournier thrust them aside. 'I want money,' he said.
What he was really asking for, as Godinot came to realize, was silver-in French the same word. Godinot found him a Spanish pillar dollar, one of four which Godinot kept sewn in his shirt in case of need. Fournier weighed it in his hand. 'Give me another one, sergeant. Please give me another one,' he pleaded. Godinot did so with some reluctance, looking at him oddly. It was only later in the evening, when he saw Fournier sitting by the fire with an iron spoon and a bullet-mould that he realized part of what was in Fournier's mind. He was casting silver bullets to make sure of hitting the green Englishman at the next opportunity. The others round the fire were not given the chance by Fournier of seeing exactly what he was doing. They made jokes about shortage of ammunition and Fournier's diligence in replacing it, but they did not know it was silver he was using, and in consequence paid no special attention to his actions. After all, bullet-moulding was a pleasantly distracting hobby, and men who were really fussy about their marksmanship were often known to mould their own bullets in an endeavour to obtain more perfect spheres than the official issue. Yet Sergeant Godinot felt much more ill at ease when at next morning's parade Private Fournier was found to be missing. Everyone realized that it could not be a case of desertion- no one could desert to the Portuguese, and to have deserted to the English would have called for a journey through the cantonments of half the French army. Sergeant Godinot could only tell his captain what he knew of
Dubois was with him. He was wounded, as he said stupidly over and over again-a bullet had gone through his arm. Fournier came up a moment later brandishing his musket.
'I fired at him again,' said Fournier, 'but I missed him clean. He is hard to hit, that one.'
'Where are the others?' asked Godinot. He knew the answer to the question, but he asked it merely for something to say.
'Dead,' said Fournier. 'They shot Bernhard through the heart. Guimblot ' 'I saw Guimblot,' said Godinot.
They looked at each other. Godinot was ashamed of his panic. 'They're coming! They're coming again!' said Dubois, seizing Godinot's arm. A twig snapped somewhere in the undergrowth, and the noise started the panic in their minds again-perhaps it was Dubois' fault, for he was shaken by his wound and panic is infectious. They fled over the hill again, running madly along the paths, until Dubois fainted with loss of blood. They tied up his wound and dragged him down to the village. There was an unpleasant interview with his captain awaiting Sergeant Godinot when he had to explain the loss of more than half his party. There is no excuse for defeat in the military code, just as success excuses everything. But other parties had sustained loss and defeat, too, it appeared, when they came back in driblets from the mountain; there were several wounded to bear Dubois company in the hospital; there were several dead left among the rocks. And several men had seen the Englishman in green uniform, and several shots had been fired at him, all unavailingly.
In the evening Fournier came to Sergeant Godinot.
'I want some money, sergeant,' he said. 'Give me some.'
Sergeant Godinot could see no use for money here in these uninhabited billets, and he said so.
'Never mind that,' said Fournier. 'I want some money.'
Godinot bowed to his whim and pulled out two or three copper coins-enough to buy a drink had there been drinks to be bought. Fournier thrust them aside. 'I want money,' he said.
What he was really asking for, as Godinot came to realize, was silver-in French the same word. Godinot found him a Spanish pillar dollar, one of four which Godinot kept sewn in his shirt in case of need. Fournier weighed it in his hand. 'Give me another one, sergeant. Please give me another one,' he pleaded. Godinot did so with some reluctance, looking at him oddly. It was only later in the evening, when he saw Fournier sitting by the fire with an iron spoon and a bullet-mould that he realized part of what was in Fournier's mind. He was casting silver bullets to make sure of hitting the green Englishman at the next opportunity. The others round the fire were not given the chance by Fournier of seeing exactly what he was doing. They made jokes about shortage of ammunition and Fournier's diligence in replacing it, but they did not know it was silver he was using, and in consequence paid no special attention to his actions. After all, bullet-moulding was a pleasantly distracting hobby, and men who were really fussy about their marksmanship were often known to mould their own bullets in an endeavour to obtain more perfect spheres than the official issue. Yet Sergeant Godinot felt much more ill at ease when at next morning's parade Private Fournier was found to be missing. Everyone realized that it could not be a case of desertion- no one could desert to the Portuguese, and to have deserted to the English would have called for a journey through the cantonments of half the French army. Sergeant Godinot could only tell his captain what he knew of
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