Lines of Wellington Page #3

All right.

No hands.

Just a breast.

I'll do the rest.

You can sleep if you want...

What is it, sweetie?!

You're shivering!

- Are you ill?

- No!

It's the cold...

fear...

desire...

Oh go on, then...

Come and get warm.

But leave me alone, you wretch.

Do what you want,

but let me sleep, I'm worn out...

Good morning.

Excuse me, but have you by any chance

seen this lady?

No sir.

- Are you sure?

- I haven't seen her. I'm sorry.

Thank you.

- Good day, friend.

- Good day.

- Perhaps I've already asked...

- Yes, you have. I haven't seen her.

- I'm sorry. I've asked so many people.

- That's all right.

Good morning.

How much for the cape?

Three hundred reis.

- Has it got gold stitching?

- I don't haggle. I'm no gypsy.

Take it or leave it.

Three hundred.

Every day, two words.

Today, first word...

Second word...

Rain! Cold! Then sick!

No, it's not, not good.

Besides, I found it.

I didn't buy it. See?

It didn't cost me a cent...

You should've woken me,

Dona Filipa.

You shouldn't

have let me sleep so long...

Don't be silly.

You were in pieces.

You'd have dropped dead in a corner.

How would I have disposed

of your corpse on my own?

Tell me that!

I'm sure you'd have found a way...

Keep still,

or that bullet will pierce your brain

and kill you for sure!

I think they've gone.

Perhaps.

Well, gone or not,

come nightfall I'll be on my way.

What's the hurry?

You're in no fit state

to go rushing about.

And besides, even if they have left,

they won't have gone far.

Where do you want to go?

To the lines of Torres.

- What in heaven are they?!

- The lines of General Wellington.

Dozens of fortifications,

forts and redoubts

to hold back the French,

before Lisbon.

I was quartered there

when they were building them.

I couldn't believe it Dona Filipa.

They're huge!

- Truly gigantic!

- Yes, I see.

Gigantic.

But what will you do there?

Fight the French, Dona Filipa.

I'm a soldier.

A soldier?

You're a child.

You barely can't stand.

Isn't a bullet in the head

enough for you?

Quite the opposite.

It's one more reason join the fight!

Childish nonsense...

Thank you, Dona Filipa.

We struck camp

and headed due south.

They said it would be the last leg.

It's rumoured we'd wait for the French

around Torres Vedras,

where I come from...

No one knew anything for certain.

I prayed it was true.

I couldn't wait to get at the French!

But I feared the English were preparing

to embark for home from Lisbon,

leaving us alone with the Jacobins

hard on our heels...

Who's there? Portuguese?!

Yes...

You?

Bordalo. Poet. Ex-Jacobin.

- You don't look it.

- Poet or Jacobin?

- Portuguese.

- Looks aren't everything...

You'd better get out of there before

the French put a bullet in your head.

You can say what you like. They're

Poles. They don't understand a word.

What are they doing here?

Deserters.

Fed up with the French

and empty bellies.

Like me.

Why the clogs?

Choice or necessity?

They belong to a friend's gardener.

Nothing else fit me...

No shortage of footwear here.

Come with me.

Help yourself.

Did you do this?

Me and the Poles.

Here.

These should fit.

Don't look down your nose,

Lieutenant.

Death's not catching.

I enlisted two years ago,

as soon as Junot reached Lisbon.

I'd read Voltaire and Rousseau.

Bonaparte was my hero.

Liberty. Equality. Fraternity.

Arise, children of the motherland...

I couldn't wait to fight tyranny,

to cut the throats of noblemen.

Stick their heads on spikes.

Drown the monarchy in a bloodbath.

When the English routed them,

the French took us along...

We fought in Austria

with Gomes Freire.

In the Tyrol. Baumersdorf.

Wagram.

I won the Legion of Honour

and lost my illusions.

We killed more poor wretches

like ourselves than noblemen...

Enough!

Of Liberty and Equality,

I saw nothing.

Fraternity was Napoleon sharing the

thrones of Europe among his brothers.

I crossed the border with Massena,

then gave up...

Deserted.

I'd had my fill of blood and the rest.

My only wish...

...is to see Alfama once more before

they hang me in Campo de Sant'ana.

It took us three days

to reach the beautiful city of Pombal,

the preserve of the famous Marquis

of that name.

The English evacuation of the local

populace deprived us of vital resources

we needed to sustain our troops.

We had no cereal,

vegetables or fodder.

All our soldiers could find were

grapes and lemons...

not very substantial fare.

I'm terribly sorry, Marechal.

It's the only lodging left intact.

They gutted the palace before fleeing.

A bed and a roof.

We are at war, are we not?

We must content ourselves, sir.

Absolutely.

Thank you, sir.

Monsieur de Sgur, would you join us

this evening in a game of whist?

Your wife, too, of course...

I haven't had a chance

to meet her yet,

but they say she is a great beauty,

despite being Portuguese.

I'm sorry,

my wife never socializes, madam.

Never?!

- Is it a vow?

- In a way.

What does the poor thing do

alone in her room each evening?

She prays, madam.

Every night!

Has she sinned so much?

I believe, madam,

that she prays for the sins of others.

Well, isn't that wonderful.

We shall expect to see you

later this evening.

Here you are, at last!

Where have you been, you wretch?

It's not my fault, madam...

I swear, as God is my witness!

They sent me to the other end of town.

They? They who?

Some soldiers, madam.

I asked them for directions.

They were making fun of me...

I suppose you made it easy,

you fat head!

They looked quite respectable,

how could I know they weren't?

That will do.

You're holding these gentlemen up.

Yes. We should retire.

Come, you can help me out

of this damn tunic.

No. I can do that.

How much meat, Duke?

BLOOD!

BLOOD!

Down with liberty!

Hail the Virgin Mary!

Devil take them. A gang of priests,

that's all we need.

He's Portuguese and a man of God.

Vintm! Zanaga! Pacheco!

Go and catch the Jacobin horses. Go!

The worst possible combination!

At least they didn't sell out

to the French.

If you mean me, I didn't sell out.

There's another five here, Father!

Still alive!

- If they're alive, kill them!

- Just a second, friends!

We're on the same side.

We're here to do what you did.

You speak Portuguese?!

Well?

- They speak Portuguese, Father!

- We are Portuguese.

Kill them anyway!

- They say they're Portuguese!

- We're Portuguese, Father!

We're with you!

Bring them on down!

- When did you lot lose the army?

- A good week ago.

The Lieutenant here escaped the French

from a hospital in Coimbra

three or four days ago.

What's wrong with your head?

A bullet, Father.

French.

What did I say, Brites?

A Portuguese head is harder

than a Jacobin's bullet.

Did I or didn't I?

You did.

And this dumb lot?

Have they nothing to say?

Can't speak our language, Father.

They're English.

Oh, are they? Don't speak it

but understand, I bet.

As soon as we're rid of the French,

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