Death to the French (aka Rifleman Dodd)

Death to the French (aka Rifleman Dodd) by C.S. Forester Read Free Book Online

Book: Death to the French (aka Rifleman Dodd) by C.S. Forester Read Free Book Online
Authors: C.S. Forester
of a vertical drop hundreds of feet high on his right hand. Here there was a clear space- a wide shelf on the mountain side, apparently, where a score of bivouac fires were burning, with little groups seated round them.
    The leader tapped Dodd's shoulder and led him forward through the lines of fires to the farthest end of the shelf. Here a corner of the rock made some sort of shallow cave, at the mouth of which a big fire was burning, and where two lanterns on poles shed additional light. Seated by the fire were two priests in their black clothes, and between them a burly man in a shabby blue uniform with faded silver lace at collar and wrists. Dodd's guides approached and made some sort of salute and, as far as Dodd could understand, accounted for Dodd's presence.
    'Capitao Mor,' he continued explanatorily to Dodd, and then left him. A Capitao Mor-Great Captain-as Dodd vaguely understood, was a great man in Portugal, something midway between a squire and a Lord-Lieutenant, ex-officio commander of the feudal levies of the district. This one looked Dodd up and down and said something to him in Portuguese.
    'Nao comprehend,' said Dodd.
    The Capitao Mor tried again, speaking with difficulty in what Dodd guessed must be another language-French, presumably.
    'Nao comprehend,' said Dodd.
    The Capitao Mor turned to one of the priests at his side, who in turn addressed him in some other language, concluding with the sign of the cross and the gesture of counting his rosary. Dodd guessed what that meant, and hotly denied the imputation.
    'Nao, nao, nao,' he said. There were Roman Catholics in his regiment, good enough fellows too, but Dodd's early upbringing had laid so much stress on the wickedness of Popery that even now he felt insulted at being asked if he was a Roman Catholic. He would not put up with being questioned by Papists and Portuguese any longer. He pointed to himself and then out into the night. 'Tejo,' he said. 'Lisboa. Me. Tomorrow.'
    The others made no sign of comprehension.
    'Tejo,' he repeated angrily, pounding on his chest. 'Lisbon. Tejo, Tejo, Tejo.'
    The three conferred together.
    'Tejo?' said the Capitao Mor to Dodd interrogatively.
    'Sim. Tejo, Tejo, Tejo.'
    'Bernardino,' said the Capitao Mor, turning to one of the groups at the fires. Someone came over to them. He was in the usual rags, but on his head was an English infantry shako-the regimental figures '43' shone in the firelight. He was only a boy, and he grinned at Dodd in friendly fashion while the Capitao Mor gave his orders. Dodd heard the words 'Tejo' and 'Lisboa'- blessed words. Bernardino nodded and grinned again. Then the Capitao Mor turned to Dodd again with words and gesture of polite dismissal, and Bernardino led him away to another fireside.
    Over this fire hung an iron pot from which came a smell of onions which to Dodd's famished interior was utterly heavenly. Bernardino politely made him sit down, found a wooden dish from somewhere, and ladled into it a generous portion of stew from the pot. He brought him a hunk of bread, and, still grinning, invited him to eat-an invitation Dodd did not need to have repeated. He pulled his knife and spoon from his pack and ate like a wolf. Yet even at that moment, dizzy with fatigue, the ruling passion asserted itself.
    'Lisboa? Tejo?' he asked of Bernardino.
    'Sim. Sim.' Bernardino nodded and said a good deal more, until, realizing that he was quite unintelligible, he fell back on pantomime. It takes much complicated gesture to convey the abstract of 'tomorrow,' but he succeeded at last, and Dodd was satisfied. When he had finished his meal his head began to nod on to his breast. He coiled himself up in his greatcoat and fell asleep, revelling in the delicious warmth of the fire. But he mistrusted the military efficiency of the Portuguese. He took off neither his equipment nor his boots, and he slept with his rifle within reach.

Chapter VII

    DURING the three days' march that followed Bernardino was

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