“Oh! It is certainly worth four hundred dollars to make the French feel the consequences of their foolishness, my lord. But what I do not understand is why we have not heard something from the Neapolitans already. What can they be waiting for?”

“I believe I know the answer to that,” said Major Grant. “Four nights ago two men met secretly in a little graveyard upon a hillside not far from Castrejon. They wore ragged French uniforms and spoke a sort of Italian. They conferred a while and when they parted one went south towards the French Army at Cantalapiedra, the other went north towards the Duero. My lord, it is my belief that the Neapolitan deserters are sending messages to their countrymen to come and join them. I dare say they believe that with the money that you or General Castanos will give them for the guns, they will all be able to sail back to Naples in a golden ship. There is probably not a man among them who does not have a brother or cousin in some other French regiment. They do not wish to return home and face their mothers and grandmothers without bringing their relations with them.”

“I have always heard that Italian women are rather fierce,” agreed Colonel De Lancey.

“All we need to do, my lord,” continued Major Grant, “is find some Neapolitans and question them. I am certain we will find that they know where the thieves are and where the guns are.”

“Are there any Neapolitans among yesterday’s prisoners?” asked Wellington.

Colonel De Lancey sent a man to find out.

“Of course,” continued Wellington, thoughtfully, “it would suit me much better to pay nothing at all. Merlin!” (This was his name for Jonathan Strange.) “If you will be so good as to conjure up a vision of the Neapolitans, perhaps we will gain some clue as to where they and the guns are to be found and then we can simply go and get them!”

“Perhaps,” said Strange.

“I dare say there will be an oddly shaped mountain in the background,” said his lordship cheerfully, “or a village with a distinctive church tower. One of the Spanish guides will soon recognize the place.”

“I dare say,” said Strange.

“You do not seem very sure of it.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but – as I think I have said before – visions are precisely the wrong sort of magic for this sort of thing.”2

“Well, have you any thing better to suggest?” asked his lordship.

“No, my lord. Not at present.”