The first British troops they met were a squadron of heavy cavalry outside the Torres Vedras lines. To begin with the troopers stared at them with hard, frightened faces, as if they had come across a company of the risen dead, then changed (high up on their shifting horses) and looked as if they might laugh at the sight of men so reduced. Calley took the stone from his mouth. He spoke to them and they listened like children. He could, he knew, have said anything then, that they would have believed him. I am Christ and these are my apostles. He could have tried that, it had been done before, and to good effect. A cart was found. They went to Lisbon on the back of it, sleeping, stinking, nearer to death than they had been on the walk. In the week that followed two of them died in the British military hospital. One, a sapper called Lower, was declared insane and sent back to an asylum in England. To this story, or those parts of it Calley chose to tell, even Don Ignacio paid close attention.

“It was a first-class effort, Corporal,” said the colonel. He looked relieved, as if something had been salvaged. The honour of the army. Men’s decency. He brought the proceedings to a close. Lieutenant Medina was requested to go to the witnesses and arrange with them for their return to the village. All necessary funds, of course, would be drawn on the British commissariat. The lieutenant was thanked again. He was excused. Calley was also excused or—after a whispered exchange with Captain Henderson—he was not excused but asked to wait in the courtyard. The board would discuss the day’s findings. When that was concluded he would, no doubt, be free to return to barracks. Calley stood, saluted, and left the room. Behind him, the man in the black coat closed the doors.