“Yes, sir,” answered Ned. “New boots. It is these d—d Portuguese roads.” He gestured ahead at the collection of stones and pot-holes that the Portuguese were pleased to call a road. “They tear a man’s boots to ribbons and at night his bones ache from walking over them. But if I had new boots, oh! wouldn’t I be fresh after a day’s march? Couldn’t I just fight the French then? Couldn’t I just make Johnny sweat for it?”

“Your appetite for the fray does you great credit, Ned,” said Strange. “Thank you. You have given me an excellent answer.” He rode off, followed by a great many shouts of “When will Ned be getting his boots, then?” and “Where’s Ned’s boots?”

That evening Lord Wellington’s headquarters were set up in a once-splendid mansion in the village of Lousão. The house had once belonged to a wealthy and patriotic Portuguese nobleman, José Estoril, but he and his sons had all been tortured and killed by the French. His wife had died of a fever, and various stories were in circulation concerning the sad fate of his daughters. For many months it had been a very melancholy place, but now Wellington’s Staff had arrived to fill it with the sound of their noisy jokes and arguments, and the gloomy rooms were made almost cheerful by the officers in their coats of red and blue passing in and out.