It was an odd sort of life and an eerie sort of landscape. The villages beyond the Lines had all been emptied of inhabitants on Lord Wellington’s instructions and the crops burnt. The soldiers of both armies went down to the deserted villages and helped themselves to whatever looked useful. On the British side it was not unusual to come upon sophas, wardrobes, beds, chairs and tables standing on a hillside or in a woodland glade. Occasionally one would find whole bed-chambers or drawing-rooms, complete with shaving equipment, books and lamps, but minus the impediment of walls and ceiling.

But if the British Army suffered inconvenience from the wind and the rain, then the plight of the French Army was far, far worse. Their clothes were in rags and they had nothing to eat. They had been staring at Lord Wellington’s Lines since the previous October. They could not attack the British Army – it had three lines of impregnable forts behind which to retreat at any moment it chose. Nor did Lord Wellington trouble to attack the French. Why should he, when Hunger and Disease were killing his enemies faster than he could? On the 5th of March the French struck camp and turned north. Within a very few hours Lord Wellington and the British Army were in pursuit. Jonathan Strange went with them.

One very rainy morning about the middle of the month Strange was riding at the side of a road along which the 95th Rifles were marching. He happened to spy some particular friends of his a little way ahead. Urging his horse to a canter, he soon caught up with them.

“Good morning, Ned,” he said, addressing a man he had reason to regard as a thoughtful, sensible sort of person.

“Good morning, sir,” said Ned, cheerfully.

“Ned?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What is it that you chiefly desire? I know it is an odd question, Ned, and you will excuse my asking it. But I really need to know.”

Ned did not answer immediately. He sucked in his breath and furrowed his brow and exhibited other signs of deep thinking. Meanwhile his comrades helpfully told Strange what they chiefly desired – things such as magic pots of gold that would never be empty and houses carved out of a single diamond. One, a Welshman, sang out dolefully, “Toasted cheese! Toasted cheese!” several times – which caused the others to laugh a good deal, Welshmen being naturally humorous.

Meanwhile Ned had got to the end of his ruminations. “New boots,” he said.

“Really?” said Strange in surprize.