Chapter 16
Murphy’s Laws of Combat #5 paraphrased:
“An inflamed leg wound is nature’s way of telling you to slow down.”
Rig lay on his stomach and studied the troop of French cavalry less than two hundred meters away through his rifle scope. Down the trail, one green-clad cavalryman knelt in front of the column, studying the ground. They’re tracking us. Close by, a mounted officer watched the scout run a hand over the ground. How in the hell? After the rain, mud, and snow, his backtracking on roads already heavily traveled, how could they have followed us?
He studied them through the scope. The men and horses stood two by two, their heads hanging as clouds of steam rose off the entire column. Though their brass helmets flashed in the sun, they all seemed listless and most showed no interest in the scout’s work.
His thigh ached buried in the wet snow, but the ache proved better than the lancing pain the torn stitches had created. He deserved it, coming on to Mel instead of paying attention to the job, getting the hell away from here.
Right, not the right ‘time’ for it. He grunted at the truth to his pun. He clenched his teeth moving his legs apart for more stability.
Admit it, Starke, she intrigues you. A Scots woman from 1808 with her prickly personality—she’s the most exotic female you’ve ever meet.
Rig licked his lips. He’d wanted to see how she’d react after their weird discussion. He hadn’t bargained for his reaction. He closed his eyes at the thought and took a deep breath. No more. He’d better stick to business or they’d both end up dead.
Rig gathered all his anger at the situation and his own stupidity with Mel, at the men hunting him, and charged it with his fears and the gnawing terror of being trapped in the past. He let the jolting emotional energy flow through him, powering a renewed clarity for the task at hand. He opened his eyes and squinted at the sun burning over his shoulder, half-hidden by the distant mountains to the west. Good. With the sun behind him, they won’t see a thing, not even the muzzle flash.
As he considered his targets, the scout trotted ten meters ahead and squatted, fingering the snow-bound grass. The man looked in Rig’s direction and pointed, saying something to the officer. The entire troop stirred, horses sidestepping in anticipation. Two men pulled their horses out of column, revealing a mounted man in a long cape and large fur hat. The man’s face appeared pale in the afternoon glow. One arm hung in a sling. He sat hunched in the saddle, eyes on the scout.
A jolt of recognition shot through Rig. It was Antoine, the Guard Chasseur Mel had shot. Damn! Rig hugged the rifle to his shoulder and drew down on the scout, picking out his next targets as he did.
He had to slow them down. Wounding several, even horses, was his best bet. There’d be pandemonium when he tagged the first few, so he tried to gauge which way they’d try to run. If veterans, they’d charge at an ambush, but they won’t know which direction.
The flicker of guilt, the sniper’s companion, reminded him that he was calmly choosing when and where particular men, perfect strangers, were going to be wounded—or killed. Rig frowned. Any wound could be a death sentence in this time. His jaw muscles jumped at the disturbing thought.
It’s their war—and our survival is at stake. The kill-or-be-killed mantra suddenly felt strange and didn’t clear his conscience as it usually did. Rig glanced at Mel waiting below for him. The sun shone orange, creating a halo around her. The wind tugged bronze and gold hair free from her poncho hood and it caressed her shadowed face as she watched him. She suddenly frowned and tugged at the hair sticking to the Vaseline on her cheeks.
A half-smile escaped before he could stop it. He took a moment to memorize the scene, somehow knowing he’d remember how she looked in these few seconds for the rest of his life. He pressed his lips together, irritation feeding a new determination. He’d beat these French; he’d beat this hoodoo that had him trapped here; and he’d beat this dangerous infatuation he had with Melissa Graham.
He gauged the wind, held the crosshairs on the scout, breathed out, and squeezed the trigger.
~ ~ ~
The captain lay motionless for an eternity, save one glance back at her. Melissa started at the first shot, even though she’d been expecting it. A second bark of the rifle reverberated in the little hollow, then a quick three, then two, ending with a long, drawn-out succession of single shots that had no end. Finally, the captain lowered his head and began to crawl backwards. At the bottom of the slope, he used the rifle as a brace, hauling himself upright, his bad leg held out straight. She could see a splotch of red on the leg of his overalls.
He quickly hobbled over, his face drawn. He changed the metal boxes on the rifle, threw it over his shoulder and then positioned his horse by the tree limb next to Melissa.
“Captain?”
Head down, holding on to his saddle, he spoke to the ground. “The French have been tracking us. They’re close.” He turned his head to look at her. “How could they follow us? The Road to Vigo was covered with tracks and I backtracked several times.” His harsh tone sounded like an accusation. “And it snowed last night.”
“Ye know as much as I.” She pointed her chin at the horses’ hooves. “Have ye looked to the shoes?”
He braced himself and with a drawn-out groan, coaxed his mount’s foreleg up to look at the bottom of the hoof. She could see the bottom of the horseshoe from where she sat. The metal shoe displayed a raised Imperial Eagle in the toe.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”
Mel blinked at the captain’s exclamation but said nothing as he dropped the horse’s leg and methodically mounted, his mouth twisted in a snarl.
“Come on, we have to move. I’ve bought us some time. They’re confused now but they’ll be after us soon enough.” With that, he kicked the gray into a trot, holding the packhorse’s reins, and headed down the draw to the south.
It was dark by the time they’d backtracked to the north again, meeting the road to Vigo. Melissa could hardly see a thing, but the black box with the green-glowing eyes was back on the captain’s head, like a grotesque mask. He led them on a brisk walk for several miles. She kept expecting to hear the beat of hooves behind them.
Thunder rumbled over the mountains to the north, and lightning briefly revealed their surroundings now and again. The wind grew colder as they traveled, tugging fitfully at their clothes. The captain sat low in the saddle, his head moving back and forth, as though searching for something.
All at once, he sat up. Multiple flashes across the clouds overhead lit him in white light as he trotted back to hand the packhorse’s reins to her. Then he circled in the brush, examining both sides of the road as well as gazing west toward Vigo. The thunder drowned out any other sounds. It took all her attention to keep the horses calm with the storm. Out of the dark, the captain spoke, close by. Mel bit back a gasp.
“Okay, we’re going to travel on a trail I’ve found back up into the mountains north. You’re going to have to hang on. It’s rocky.”
“Captain, what are we doing?”
“Trying to fool the French.”
All she could do was grip the saddle one-handed as they rushed up and down the rocky trail, crossing watercourses and rock ledges. The surrounding brush tore at Mel’s skirts, each snag unexpected in the black night. The captain seemed to see as well as if it was daylight. At the top of one gully, he led them into a stand of trees lightning illuminated and stopped.
Sounds of leather and metal being handled came from the dark, and the intermittent lightning failed to brighten the night under the trees. Suddenly, a beam of white light shot out, encircling her hands and the horse’s neck. Melissa yelped. The light didn’t flicker but remained steady as it drew closer. Then the light swung around to shine upon the captain.
He was holding a small black cylinder, one end producing the startling illumination. He had taken the packs off the bay and settled one across the back of his mount. He did the same on her horse with the remaining French pack, the task made awkward as he did it leaning over in his saddle, the cylinder in his mouth. She hardly noticed as she stared at the light. How was it possible? So bright, but he didn’t burn himself holding it.
The captain finished and noticed her fixation. He rode up next to her and took her hand, placing the light in it. It was cold to the touch. She pointed it in different directions and finally she closed her hand over the flat end. The light disappeared, but her fingers glowed red. She jerked her hand away from the gory sight.
“It won’t hurt you.” He leaned toward her and covered her hand holding the light. She stilled, unsettled by the warm strength of his fingers. The strange lamp highlighted the plains of his face, a ghostly white mask. “You push this button to turn the light off and on.” He demonstrated this which amazed her more. “It’s called a flashlight.”
Melissa extinguished the light and then lit it several times. She smiled at him. “Flashlight, a good name, that.” She studied its black surface for a moment and held it out to him.
“No, keep it. And this.” He handed her a small circle of metal with straps.
“And what marvel does this perform?” She bit her lip annoyed with the timidity in her own voice.
“This.” He touched a knob on the side of the glass-faced metal and numbers appeared in green, 8:43. It changed to 8:44 as she watched.
It took her a moment to realize what it meant. A clock that showed the exact time in numbers! She shook herself, holding the flashlight and watch with something akin to the wonderment of entering a faerie ring. “Why are ye giving me these devices?”
“Because I have to lead the French on a merry chase.” He grinned, a frightening apparition in the harsh light, and pointed to the watch. “If I’m not back by eleven, I want you to head north and then west to Cacabellos.”
“Nae, I will no leave without ye.” Her fear gave the words a hard edge.
His were steel in return. “You will if you want to see your uncle again.”
She fought down her panic. “Is there no other way?”
“Look, this is our best option. The French will expect us to try to delay them again as we retreat down the road, just as I did back at our camp. I’m going to encourage them in that belief.”
“What belief?”
He sighed. “I’ve chosen a spot where I can snipe at them again. I’m going to chase our packhorse down the road a bit before I set the ambush. With luck, the French will follow the tracks, thinking we’re headed for Vigo. I’m betting because they know we’re close, they’ll try tracking us tonight.”
“How will you shoot at them now?”
“I can see in the dark, remember?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “So, wait here until eleven, then go.”
Melissa opened her mouth to argue the wisdom of separating, even temporarily, but the intensity of his expression revealed by the flashlight stopped her.
After a moment he said, “We’re in no shape to outrun them. Our only advantages are my night vision and the fact they don’t know which way we’re going.” He pointed to the box on his head. “The batteries to my goggles will last maybe two more nights. After that they’ll be just so much junk.” He took the reins of the bay and told her to turn off the flashlight. “The batteries should last quite a while, but there’s no point in wasting them.”
Melissa had no idea what he was blathering about and said so.
In the pitch black, another sigh sounded. “Turn off the flashlight. We don’t want the French to see it when they pass.”
He gave her a hard look when she didn’t turn off the light. “Don’t wait for me. Get away from here. Use the flashlight when you leave.” He leaned over and turned off the light in her hand. The scuffling of a horse’s hooves drew away, and then his voice came faint out of the night. “If I don’t see you again, Miss Graham, good luck to you.” Then there was silence.
Melissa sat stunned. His words could be the last she would ever hear from him. She cursed herself for a fool. She’d spoken not a word in return, not even a “Thank ye.”