Sharpes Sword   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

Leroux guessed he would be captured, and he knew too that the British would not let Colonel Leroux be exchanged for a British Colonelcaptured by the French. Leroux was a wanted man and he had seen to that himself. He worked by fear, he spread horror about his name, and all his victims, once dead, were inscribed with his name. He would leave a patch of skin untouched and on the patch he would incise two words. Leroux fecit. Just as if he were a sculptor boasting a fine piece of work, he would leave his mark. “Leroux made this.” If Leroux was captured he could expect no mercy. Yet the British would not give a fig for Captain Paul Delmas.

He changed uniforms with the corpse, working with his usual speed and efficiency, and when he was done he pushed his uniform, together with Delmas’s corpse, into the hiding place. He covered them swiftly with leaves and brambles, leaving the body to be eaten by beasts. He drove Delmas’s horse away, not caring where it went, and then he mounted his own horse, placed Delmas’s tall, brass helmet on his head, and turned north towards the river where he expected to be captured. He whistled as he walked the horse, making no attempt to hide his presence, and at his side hung the perfect sword, and in his head was the secret that could blind the British. Leroux could not be beaten.

Colonel Leroux was captured twenty minutes later. British Greenjackets, Riflemen, rose suddenly from cover inside the wood and surrounded him. For a moment Leroux thought he had made a terrible mistake. The British, he knew, were officered by gentlemen, men who took honour seriously, but the officer who captured him seemed as hard and ruthless as himself. The officer was tall, tanned, with dark hair hanging unruly beside a scarred face. He ignored Leroux’s attempt to be pleasant, ordering the Frenchman to be searched, and Leroux had a moment of alarm when a huge Sergeant, even bigger than the officer, found the folded piece of paper between saddle and saddlecloth. Leroux pretended to speak no English, but a Rifleman was brought who spoke bad French, and the officer questioned the Frenchman about the paper. It was a list of names, all Spanish, and beside each name was a sum of money.

“Horse-dealers.” Leroux shrugged. “We buy horses. We’re cavalry.”

The tall Rifle Officer heard the translation and looked at the paper. It could be true. He shrugged and pushed the paper into his pack. He took Leroux’s sword from the big sergeant and the Frenchman could see the sudden lust in the Rifle Officer’s eyes. Curiously for an infantryman, the Rifleman also wore a heavy cavalry sword, but where Leroux’s was expensive and beautiful, the Rifle Officer’s sword was cheap and crude.