Saving Time

Chapter 9

Murphy’s Laws of War #11

If your planned operation looks easy, it will be hard.

If your planned operation looks hard, it will be impossible.

December 30, 1808

Rig awoke with a start, his heart hammering against his sternum, his dream still vivid. Companies of clowns in gaudy costumes had attacked him with huge black guns. When the toys were fired, a flag popped out displaying the word ‘Bang!’ in red letters, but bullets inexplicably still whined about his head. As if he were swimming in molasses, he’d barely succeeded in shooting each gaudy attacker as they closed in. Rig blinked away the images. Nightmares of attackers in all sorts of guises, of sweat-inducing combat were commonplace for him ever since his first firefight. But clowns?

He heard clothes rustling, a board creaking, and something sizzling. Still groggy with sleep, unwilling to stick his head out of the blankets, he marveled that any of the Spanish soldiers were up before him. For the last six mornings, he’d beaten them all out of the sack. And damned cold morning it was too. He could feel the chill air curl around his back as he lay on his side, which didn’t incite any desire to move.

He could smell bacon cooking. Mateo must be up. That little corporal had more energy than the rest of the Spanish brigade put together. If Rig wanted to see any breakfast, he’d have to get moving. He rolled over to see what Mateo was organizing.

His leg and back jolted him with an explosion of screaming nerves. He hissed through his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, body rigid.

“Captain?”

The contralto voice with the Scottish lilt brought the events of yesterday back to him like a kick in the gut.

“Are you well?”

He held up his forefinger up as he waited for the spasms of fire to subside. Finally, he expelled a breath and slowly sat up. He rubbed his face to warm it. Her question, the barn smells, his pain, they all taunted him. Yesterday did happen. A bewildering fear crashed through him like a tsunami, tearing away his certainty, threatening to obliterate his self-control.

His body began to shake. Once the morning after his company had jumped into Afghanistan, he’d woken near Qalat thinking he was still in Germany. That had been disorienting. This time he was still in Spain, and he was scared shitless. He hadn’t gone anywhere, but it felt like he’d jumped into an episode of Doctor Who. He began to pant.

Breathe slowly.

The shaking gradually subsided. Last night, Mel had said the year was 1808. A number of French men in period uniforms had tried to kill him.

Think! Get to Benavente. I walked through that town a week ago. That’s the test. He ground his teeth. Yes, that’s it, Starke. Test reality—your memory—your sanity.

Rig filled his lungs with the cool air smelling of wood smoke, held it, and blew it out. He looked over at Mel. She sat on her heels facing the hearth, hair up, hands in her lap. She’d put on his gray thermal shirt again, the linen shirt over it, and then his coat. The excess material of each layer hung about her skirt in layers, giving her a waif-like appearance.

Yet in the dim light, she seemed the only substantial thing in the faded surroundings, the only bright reality in an otherwise gray, unfamiliar world. He wanted to grab hold of her, so she wouldn’t fade away too. He closed his eyes and shivered at the impressions.

“Captain, are ye ailing?”

“Yes,” he whispered, wanting to scream it at her. What a question! His mouth was dry. He licked his lips, opened his eyes, tried to focus, and croaked, “And you?”

“Aye.”

Rig could see it, her shadowed face tight and pale. The bruises around her head bandage were blue black in the dim light. She bunched the dislocated shoulder up toward her ear, her arm limp in the sling. He swore to himself. He should have immobilized it last night. He knew better, but she’d been doing so well, and after their last conversation, he’d had no energy left. Now her shoulder was swollen beyond use.

“That arm needs to be tied up again.” He stood, wobbled lightheaded for a moment, and then grabbed his pants. The holes in the bloodstained pant leg were sown shut. He glanced up at her, surprised. “When did you do this?”

“This hour. I’ve been awake for a wee bit. Your sewing poke was in your pack.” She spoke slowly, which he was sure meant her head ached.

He leaned on a chair to pull up his pants and regarded her for a moment, amazed at her industry. Unable to think of anything to say other than “thank you,” he pulled the gray canvas trousers over his camos and wrapped himself in one of the cavalry capes found packed on the horses. He laboriously laced up his boots, ignoring the accompanying flashes of pain. He focused on his coat around her shoulders. She’d cut off all his patches and chevrons or removed the ones attached with Velcro. He sat up to yell at her, when he realized that regardless of the situation, anonymity was a smarter approach in reaching the authorities. “Where are my patches?”

She pointed to a coat pocket. She picked up his aluminum pot off the hearth crane. “Would ye care for tea? I have bacon and hard biscuits cooking.” When he looked up with a quizzical brow raised, she shrugged. “The French were carrying British rations.”

As far as he could see, she was cooking thick pieces of bacon and fat biscuits in the frying pan. “How can you tell they’re British?”

“The biscuits have the army commissary stamp on them. Two hundred thousand were cooked in Zamora less than a fortnight ago. There wasn’t time to destroy what couldn’t be carted away ‘fore the French arrived.”

“And you know that how?”

“I helped bake and load them.” She gave him a sharp look and went back to cooking.

“Oh.” As he watched her, it finally dawned on him—a fire burned in the hearth. He pointed to it and barked, “How long has that been going?”

She flinched at his question. “Since I arose.”

He stood awkwardly, and hands on his hips, he scowled down at her. “Why didn’t you just go outside and yell, ‘Here we are?’”

She glared back at him. “Early awake, ye are a churlish mon, do ye ken?”

“What?” he growled. She didn’t answer, but continued to eye him, jaw set. He waved his hand. “Smoke from the chimney can be seen for miles.”

With a huff, she poured tea into the cup and glass. “I’m no witless. There’s nae smoke.” She handed him his cup of tea, and then turned her back to him.

Rig eyed the fire. It was small and didn’t seem to be producing any smoke. He walked to the door and stepped outside to see. An icy fog swirled thick all around, the gray morning silent as if the whole world were unconscious. The thin blanket of snow lay undisturbed on the road. Not his world. Around him, everything appeared flat and lifeless, leaving him feeling haunted, isolated, and detached as though he were viewing everything on a movie screen.

His hands shook, spilling his steaming tea. Standing was creating lightning strikes up his body. One of the horses kicked the door of the barn, making him jump, dumping the rest of his tea in the snow. He threw the metal cup at the barn door, then watched the spilt tea melt the snow at his feet. Gazing at his surroundings, he swore.

Jesus, he was losing it. Think, Starke. Remember your training.Deal with the present, however outlandish.Think contingencies.

He leaned on a nearby sapling and rubbed his face. First, what? I need to get us moving to see if the Benavente he knew still existed and find the authorities.

IF not? Crazy as it sounded, finding Mel’s British Army became the priority.

Rig winced as he pushed up from the tree. An energy-sapping weakness pooled in his gut at the bizarre and terrible reality he faced regardless of when it was. At least, he had objectives now.

Glancing up at the chimney, there was no telltale plume of smoke. Real smart, Starke. Mortified, he worked his jaw hard as he collected the cup and slowly hobbled back to the shack. Keep it together.One step at a time.

She still squatted before the hearth, cup in hand, and glowered at him when he entered, a fierce expression. “Aw the wit i the warld’s no in ae pow.”

“What?” Keep it together, here, and now. He was sure she used the indecipherable words to irritate him. “Speak English.”

“I said, ‘All the wit in the world is not in one head.’ It certainly isn’t in yours this morning.” She drank her tea while she flipped the bacon. She didn’t say anything more.

He tensed, holding back an explosion if she delivered another cutting remark. As he attempted to manage his frayed nerves and the pain, he studied her across the room. Who was she, this nineteenth century woman, existing two hundred years in the past?

Her aggravated manner, her quick gestures, the turn of her unique mouth, and even the warm tone of her low voice as she quietly uttered Scottish oaths were . . .

Hmmm. Obviously, she was cursing him, but her behaviors collectively held an unexpected appeal so captivating his anger and fears over his impossible situation momentarily faded. Even angry, she’d disarmed him just as she had yesterday. What was it about her that fascinated him so? He had to win her over. He smiled as he watched her fume.

“Miss Graham, I apologize for jumping to conclusions.”

She dished the food and glared at him as she handed him the plate. “Are ye laughing at me?”

“No. I was laughing at myself and watching you.” He continued to smile as he carefully sat at the table and ate. She became flustered and busied herself with pouring out the bacon grease into a bag, then hanging the skillet from the fireplace crane.

Head still down, she said, “I want no brise this morning. We two cannae be countermacious when every loaning crawls with these Frangaich skellum.”

Rig chuckled. “Aye, tis true.”

Mel blinked at him. Drawing herself up, she said, hand to her head, “Now, ye aremocking me.”

“How can I? I have no idea what you just said.” He twisted his mouth in a quizzical half-grin.

She frowned and then closed her eyes. “Captain, . . .” She stopped and sighed heavily. Opening her eyes, she composed her face. “I said that I don’t want to argue, and we shouldn’t while the French are so close.”

“I agree. We need to work together.” He eased his leg straight and found a syringe in his med kit. “It’s hard to avoid being irritable when we’re all banged up.” She nodded, mouthing “All banged up” and then looked down at her food.

In a quieter tone, he said, “I can tell your head aches, and your shoulder must be killing you and yet you’ve mended my pants, packed away most of our gear and cooked breakfast. Amazing.” Her head came up, her eyebrows high enough to be lost in the hair falling over her brow.

“And I’ll admit, I’m fu— well, I’m frazzled.” His mother had often used that word. “We’ll both be better once we get something for the pain.”

With an intense gaze, she eyed him, and then nodded. “Aye, frazzled. Tis a fine word. We both have cause.”

He approached Mel with the syringe. She protested, asking what he planned to do with the needle. Because he felt she needed the pain killer more than he did, he said the shot would act quickly injected, while he had more pain pills, Mel relented. The shot was quickly administered, though she wouldn’t look at the needle. He packed away the empty syringe and swallowed two more Vicodin from his old prescription. He still had half a bottle. There was Percocet in the med kit, but he wanted to save it for as long as possible.

They sat at the table to eat their breakfast. Rig chewed on his slab of bacon, which tasted good. Thick, it had far more meat on it than most bacon. The brown square biscuits were something else again. In the center of the square he could see a crown and letters pressed into the dough. He eyed the thing skeptically.

Mel had fried the biscuit in the bacon fat to soften it, so he finally wolfed it down. It tasted like soggy, salty French bread. He was sure she’d cooked to soften it because the remaining dry parts were like wood. He was thankful they still had MRE’s left.

They quickly cleaned up and packed. “I’ll tie up your arm.” When he approached her with the ties, she took off her coat and white linen shirt, both of which were unbuttoned. In just the thermal shirt, she held the corset against her chest and handed him a bunch of twine. “Would ye lace this up, please?” Her cheeks glowed pink before she turned her back to him.

“Isn’t that going to be uncomfortable in the saddle?”

“Nae, tis but a jirkinet.” She turned her back to him. “Captain?” He did as she asked. As the eyeholes held no metal grommets, he couldn’t lace it very tight without tearing the material, but Mel seemed satisfied. He helped her slip on the linen shirt. She settled back in the chair, seeming to relax.

She froze when he began buttoning the front of the shirt and looked anywhere but at him. With strips cut from the other shirt, Rig retied the sling to her body, and helped her put one arm into his coat, buttoning it. Only then did she meet his gaze, giving him a quiet “Thank ye.”

His spare leather shoelaces he always carried fastened her boots. He then handed her more brown bags. The words were still meaningless: ‘Craisins’ and ‘Granola.’

“Put them in your coat pocket, for snacks.” Then they hauled all the packs and bridles into the stable room while Mel muttered, “Snacks?”

She had already fed the horses, which shouldn’t have surprised Rig. Mel seemed to know quite a bit about horses, for which he was grateful. If the animals had been trying to feed as they struggled to lift and cinch the saddles, it would have been a problem. She’d thought to warm the bridles by the fire so the horses would take them. They’d never mouth ice-cold metal. Complicated, annoying beasts. They had to lift each saddle together. Rig and Mel awkwardly kneed the horses to breathe out so he could cinch the saddles tight.

They led the horses out into the morning fog. The wounded bay wasn’t limping, so they loaded the packs on it. Feeling every ache, Rig studied the top of Chief’s saddle. It seemed so high this morning.

“I spied a lowpin-on-stane by the road.”

“A what?”

She pursed her mouth. “A stone with steps to help riders mount.”

Though it sat under a dripping tree, the red stone did make mounting far easier. Once they both were in the saddle, Rig looked at his watch while he massaged his leg. It wasn’t two in the morning. Remembering the sergeant’s pocket watch, he added five hours to the watch. Oh-seven hundred.

In the dawn light, white fog rose thick in every direction, so close it felt claustrophobic. Unseen, the stream could be heard rushing along the far side of the road. Everything around him brought on the creepy, displaced feeling again, as though he were being swallowed up by the frozen, colorless world. He shook it off and concentrated on the problems at hand.

“This creek is probably the órbigo, so we’ve got to cross it to get to Benavente.”

“What is this creek you speak of? The órbigo is no burn, tis a river.”

“Creek, burn, river—whatever.”

“Captain, there is no reason to go. The British will be marching out by now, the French army filling the town, promising only our capture—or death. Safety lies to the west. Let us haud off to Astorga.”

Why is she fighting this?He gritted his teeth, dread fueling an angry determination. “If we can catch your army before they leave, I can deliver you to their care instead of chasing them fifty miles. We need to take that chance.” She sat silent. “You do want to get back to the army, right?” She nodded. “And with you safe, that might be my ticket back to my time, right?”

“I cannae say for certain, Captain.” She eyed him cautiously from under her hood. “Tis possible.”

He’d given her his plastic poncho, covered with the tan camouflage pattern. She’d pulled the hood up around her face, giving her a shadowed, medieval air, which her Scottish brogue intensified.

She repeatedly tightened and relaxed her gloved grip on the reins for a moment, and then her shoulders sagged. “Then let us not tarry. There’s a foot bridge close by here.” The poncho rustled as she gestured west down the road.

Rig raised an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you a fountain of information?”

“I’ve traveled here before, two days ago, and before in early November. Above is a broad slope where our cavalry brigade camped the night ‘fore last, and above that, a rock stand that you must circle to reach the town wall.”

November—cavalry—town wall. Rig froze as another wave of dislocation struck, sapping his composure, his ability to rein in his outrage at his situation. In a tight voice, he said, “Lead on, General.”