InterludeProvence, France, July 10, 1841
Shoveling horseshit was, no question, the worst part of the job. Not that Jack Sheffield particularly relished any of the other parts—he’d grown up on the streets of the city that gave him his name, and after that he’d marched with the infantry, and thus he’d had little to do with horses before embarking upon his third career. He’d been gobsmacked when he first realized Hull actually liked the smelly beasts and didn’t mind all that was involved in caring for them. But then, Hull was country-born, and moreover a sergeant who’d risen through the ranks, and so it made a sort of sense that he’d be comfortable both with horses and with being sworn at.
The Captain was the real surprise. You wouldn’t expect a man like him to be accustomed either to stabl
