They were just beginning to feel a little more like their usual selves and grow a little more conversational when Major Grant arrived.

“Ah! Grant,” said Lord Wellington. “Good Morning. Sit down. Have some breakfast.”

“I will in a moment, my lord. But first I have some news for you. Of rather a surprizing sort. It seems the French have lost six cannon.”

“Cannon?” said his lordship, not much interested. He helped himself to a bread roll and some devilled kidneys. “Of course they have lost cannon. Somerset!” he said, addressing his Military Secretary. “How many pieces of French cannon did I capture yesterday?”

“Eleven, my lord.”

“No, no, my lord,” said Major Grant. “I beg your pardon, but you misunderstand. I am not speaking of the cannon that were captured during the battle. These cannon were never in the battle. They were on their way from General Caffarelli in the north to the French Army. But they did not arrive in time for the battle. In fact they never arrived at all. Knowing that you were in the vicinity, my lord, and pressing the French hard, General Caffarelli was anxious to deliver them with all dispatch. He made up his escort out of the first thirty soldiers that came to hand. Well, my lord, he acted in haste and has repented at leisure for it seems that ten out of thirty were Neapolitan.”

“Neapolitan! Were they indeed?” said his lordship.

De Lancey and Somerset exchanged pleased looks with one another and even Jonathan Strange smiled.

The truth was that, although Naples was part of the French Empire, the Neapolitans hated the French. The young men of Naples were forced to fight in the French Army but they took every opportunity they could to desert, often running away to the enemy.

“But what of the other soldiers?” asked Somerset. “Surely we must assume that they will prevent the Neapolitans doing much mischief?”

“It is too late for the other soldiers to do any thing,” said Major Grant. “They are all dead. Twenty pairs of French boots and twenty French uniforms are, at this very moment, hanging in the shop of an old clothes dealer in Salamanca. The coats all have long slits in the back, such as might be made by an Italian stiletto, and they are all over blood stains.”

“So, the cannon are in the hands of a pack of Italian deserters, are they?” said Strange. “What will they do? Start a war of their own?”

“No, no!” said Grant. “They will sell them to the highest bidder. Either to you, my lord or to General Castanos.” (This was the name of the General in charge of the Spanish Army.)

“Somerset!” said his lordship. “What ought I to give for six French cannon? Four hundred dollars?”