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well that the three Spaniards with them did not understand the language, for the major had offered plenty of disdainful opinions of Catholics. Sinclair was Presbyterian – ‘No damned candles, confessions or popery for me,’ he had informed them early on, as if in answer to a question no one had asked, ‘just poor old Eustace Sinclair doing the best he can for God, King and Country.’
    Pringle had often wondered why so many Irishmen felt obliged on the slightest acquaintance to inform strangers of their faith and allegiance. It was not universal, there were several Irish officers in the 106th, and plenty in the army as a whole, many of whom lacked this belligerent urge to declare themselves. Nearly all were Anglos, some more English than the English, but he had met men like Sinclair before, although at least the major was not so crass as to proclaim that he was a gentleman. Yet there was stillan inherent challenge in his words, aimed partly at the world in general, though most, it seemed, at his fellow countrymen.
    The scars of the past ran deep, and the great rebellion of ’98 was not really so long ago. Pringle had been fourteen then, and could remember that nearly every day a fresh story of massacre was being reported in Liverpool. His father and brothers away, only he and his uncle had been there to comfort his mother as she worried about the Irish population of the town running amok and slaughtering women and children. Twelve years on, that all seemed a distant memory, even if, he would guess, the wounds remained fresh for those caught up in it all.
    Pringle had never been to Ireland, although he guessed at some stage there was a fair chance that the regiment would be sent there, and he would be the first to admit that he knew little, and thought less, of its troubles. Things seemed peaceful now, and ’98 had had as much to do with the contagion of revolutionary plots as religion, so that it seemed unlikely to be repeated. The dream of joining Napoleon’s empire was far less intoxicating than the cry of liberty, equality and fraternity. Men like Murphy were common in the army, and provided many of its best soldiers. Plenty of the officers were also good, the rest no better or worse than anyone else, and Pringle was convinced that more than a few were discreetly Catholic. Every year Parliament passed an Indemnifying Act, so that the law requiring proof of allegiance to monarch and the Church of England was quietly ignored. There were plenty of nonconformists like Williams who were equally glad of this provision. Pringle rather liked belonging to a country whose government routinely chose to deceive itself.
    ‘One might incline to the view that genuine good luck would have caused us not to bump into the French patrol in the first place.’ Hanley’s voice snapped Pringle from his thoughts. His friend was never at his best in the early mornings and now sounded distinctly ill-humoured. In fact it had surprised Billy that Sinclair’s near-continuous monologue had not prompted him to argue. Hanley had a near-insatiable appetite for disputation,eloquently arguing for the joy of it even when he did not believe a word he was saying.
    ‘I beg your pardon, Hanley.’ Sinclair stood no more than five foot five inches tall, dwarfed by the other redcoats, none of them much less than six foot, for the grenadiers were chosen from the biggest men in the battalion. Yet the major cut a neat, athletic figure and possessed the confidence of a giant. His eyes were the palest Pringle had ever seen, so faintly grey as to be almost transparent. His face was impishly handsome and constantly amused, which was the all the more surprising given the militancy of so many of his statements. ‘I do not quite follow, my dear fellow.’
    ‘I merely wondered whether we might boast a better claim to luck had we landed and not met French cavalry?’
    ‘Ah, a philosopher, I see. Then I am all the more glad to make your acquaintance, Captain