Chapter 18
Murphy’s Laws of War, #3
“The Enemy is as human as you are, which is always a problem.”
As weary as she was, Melissa could do nothing but hold on to the saddle. The captain pushed up into the mountains, higher and higher, driving their horses to the point where she feared they would collapse.
Well into the morning, the captain finally left the trail and wandered from one outcrop of rock to the next, until he stopped and inspected a rock face with an overhang. The sun, casting rays of light among the racing clouds, lit the granite like stage lamps. Their pursuers would only discover a camp set here if they approached from the west.
Luckily, there were flat-topped boulders nearby. The captain labored to dismount and unpacked Chief, directing Melissa to do the same. They worked without speaking. She forced herself to move and prepare a fire while he somehow anchored a tarpaulin roof into the rock face, the rest hanging down to wall off the west wind. They both walked as though they were dragging weights. She barely had the mental energy to wonder at the clamps he set into the rock as ties for their shelter.
He created a partial shelter for the horses from French oilcloth and dug up several armfuls of brown grass from under the snow for them. He took off their bridles and loosened their girths but didn’t remove the saddles. Finally, the captain picked up the bucket and disappeared over a rise. She grew concerned when he stumbled several times hiking back. He limped awkwardly over to the fire and lit his little fire box. Once it was burning well, Rig set one of his pots filled with water on it. She immediately filled their other pot from his pack and put it on the wood fire to boil for their supper.
“There’s a small stream on the other side of the rise,” he mumbled as he stood over her, apparently unsure of what to do next.
His indecision disturbed her more than his ashen complexion, the fever sheen on his forehead, or the wet blood on his pant leg. She had him untie her arm, and then stood and pointed to their shelter. “Go sit down on the bedroll. I’ll take care of this and hobble the horses.”
He nodded and dragged their packs and the bridles under the shelter. He dug out his medical kit and then removed long black sticks from inside of his tan knapsack. She divined the sticks’ purpose and picked up the first pot of now-heated water.
~ ~ ~
“I’ve done the best I can.” Taking a shuddering breath Melissa sat back and inspected her handy work. She’d sewn the mangled flesh on his thigh together again, trimming away some, but whether stitches would hold, she didn’t dare say.
The captain didn’t move, but continued to sit, back against the wall of rock, eyes closed, his face tense and pale, even in the shadow of their tarpaulin roof.
“All right, take out the small yellow bottle and pour some across the wounds.” She complied, anointing both sides of his thigh. The brown-yellow liquid covered the stitches and stained the skin. The captain lay rigid through it, hissing, with teeth bared.
“Now bandage the wound and tape the pack struts to both sides of my leg with the gray duct tape wrapped around the flashlight.”
“Duck tape?”
He just nodded.
She ran a finger along the smooth, black pack frames. “What is it? Whale bone?”
“Plastic.”
Seeing him shiver, Melissa nodded, and began bandaging his leg, rather than pester him for explanations she wouldn’t understand. The silvery gray tape proved to be tough, but tore with surprising ease.
When Melissa was done, the captain sighed with relief. She started supper as it was their last meal of the day, though early morning. After a time, she began to sing “Bonnie Cuckoo” to herself until she felt his eyes on her across the campsite.
She looked up into his expressionless face and made a snicking sound through her teeth. “Are you going to smile and sing along, Captain, only to dismiss me again?”
He stared at her for a moment without comprehension, then knotted his brow with a frown. “No. That won’t happen again.”
She sat up at that. “Why ever not?”
He leaned awkwardly against a boulder. “Look, I made a bad mistake. I stopped paying attention. If the horses hadn’t warned us . . .” He shrugged. “The singing wasn’t a smart of me either, not if we want to remain undetected.” He picked up a stick and threw it into the fire. “That’s twice in one day I screwed up.”
“Screwed up? I don’t—”
“Stupid behavior gets you killed.”
Melissa pursed her lips to hold back a black word and returned to her work. She did not consider their duet a ‘stupid behavior.’ His sensuous application of Vaseline was something more than a lapse in judgment, of that she was certain. She realized her face didn’t feel chapped or cold but said nothing. Instead, she took out some cheesecloth from a pack and began dumping on it the remains of rice, beans, peas, and bits of bacon she’d found in the French packs. She added crushed biscuits to the mix.
“Nothing can threaten the mission. The sooner you’re back with your uncle, the sooner you are safe, and I am gone.” When he didn’t say anything more, she looked up. He gazed off to the west. “One way or the other.”
He will be gone. Melissa worried her lip at the thought but went back to cooking. She scooped out lard she’d saved in an oilcloth bag from cooking the bacon two days ago and plopped it in with the rice, biscuit, and bean mixture. Without hiding her irritation, she tied up the cheesecloth into a bag and set it in the boiling water.
“What is that?” The captain appeared appalled, which annoyed her as much as his curt explanations.
“Breakfast.” In the morning shadows, his expression proved severely impatient. “Soldiers call it Dog’s Body or Pease pudding.”
“Dog’s Body?”
She cocked her head at him. “Why do ye care what it’s called?” She went back to cooking.
“Because I have to eat it.”
“The name will not change the taste. There’s no call to endure such unpleasantness.” She clanged down their plates. “Enjoy the crackers and other marvels in your pack if ye have no interest in my cooking. Ye will be gone back to the times to come, soon enough.”
“Miss Graham.” The hard sound of his voice made her look up. “What exactly do you want from me?”
His question shot through her, giving her a feeling of falling, as though he were reading her thoughts, her imaginings. She took a deep breath to calm her mind, hoping she wasn’t blushing, saying in an upper crust tone. “Captain, I feel exceedingly fortunate to have you guarding my way. I simply wish you would stop glowering at me whenever you demonstrate a modicum of humanity.”
He rubbed his shoulder pensively, as though he couldn’t decide what to say. “Fair enough. I’ll stop ‘glowering’ at you if you’ll stop expecting me to be human.”
Melissa blinked at his request, mouth open.
“I’m trained to survive, Miss Graham, and I’m trained to kill. Social pleasantries are not going to get you back to your uncle. Our—my straying into ‘humanity’ came close to ending our little trek altogether.” He looked at his leg and then cocked his head back at her. “Understand?”
Unfortunately, she did. But she’d be thrashed if she’d give him the last word. “Little do ye know the worth of social pleasantries during hard times.” That earned her a quizzical frown that slowly turned up into a wan smile.
“If it is any consolation, Miss Graham, I find it easy to be human with you.”
Melissa could not think of a reply, so they ate their boiled meal in silence with the morning sun rising over the pines.
~ ~ ~
That evening when she awoke, the captain was already packing. He’d found a tree limb to use as a crutch. In the last light of the day, they chewed some of his spiced dried meat and cranberry ‘Craisins.’ Mounting, he rode up next to her and told her that tonight was probably the last time he could use his night vision goggles before the batteries were exhausted. After that, they’d have to travel during the day. She accepted his explanation though she had little idea what he meant.
He said they’d both have to move quickly and keep their eyes open. When she nodded without comment, he regarded her. “If I forget to say this later, Miss Graham, I can’t think of another civilian I would rather be depending on.” He gave her a half-smile, pulled the cavalry cape in tighter, and moved out.
She smiled back. “You are in danger of acting human, Captain.”
He shrugged. “I’ll be avoiding that mistake from now on.”
Mel watched his back as he trotted away. He’d doused a different kind of ‘flashlight’ in moving away, a penetrating brightness instantly extinguished. She shook herself and urged her roan to follow him, fighting the jumbling heat his compliment incited. Her weakness, desiring his approval, stoked her vexation with the man. She decided it must all stem from her weariness and her awe of what she’d learned of his time.
How was it that his praise could affect her so, when she’d never cared a whit about what men thought of her before, except perhaps her uncle? Was it because the captain came from the far future? It was a long, black night, which gave her far too much time to fret over the answer to that question.
~ ~ ~
January 2, 1809
By the time the first false light of dawn revealed the landscape in shades of gray and blue, Melissa felt half-dead, limbs aching. When the dim outline of a stone house came into view, the captain stopped beside her. A roadside stone confirmed with carved letters that they had indeed reached Bembibre.
“We’re coming into town, so be quiet. I have no idea where the French are, or what kind of reception the British will give us.” He offered a half-smile as he waved a hand at his bloody coveralls, his speckled pants and tan boots revealed past mid-calf, and then kicked his horse forward to the next rise.
As sunlight touched the mountaintops, they entered streets with whitewashed houses on both sides. Smoke curled from the chimneys. A Spanish peasant materialized on a side trail pulling a goat by a rope, eyeing them suspiciously. The man decided to walk back the way he came, hurrying his animal along.
Mel watched as the captain paused in the middle of the cobblestone path and studied the surroundings. Finally, he nudged the gray into motion, stopping at each alley and side road to peer around the corner before moving on.
She hadn’t realized how tired she was until she had to struggle to stay alert to her surroundings. The cold sapped any remaining energy. On they went, deeper into the town.
She must have dozed, because her horse stumbled to a stop, and she opened her eyes. They were facing the town square. Scorch-marks scarred the facades of several buildings. Everywhere there were piles of goods smoldering or on fire, broken wagons, and barrels lying about. Among them men in red coats sprawled on the ground or staggered about—scores of them—many waving cups and bottles, obviously drunk.
Captain Starke watched them with a disgusted expression. “Well, it looks like we’ve found the British army or the dregs at least.”
Furtively, they made their way deeper into town following back streets and alleys, paralleling the main thoroughfare to avoid the packs of soldiers roaming, and staggering through the town.
Melissa, embarrassed for the army, scoffed. “Cloutie, how many o’ these weil on soggers are there?”
~ ~ ~
Rig glanced at Mel. Her Braid Scots made her question almost indecipherable. She sounded exhausted and scared.
He whispered, “I’ve seen more than two hundred men.” He motioned to Mel. “Take the carbine out and keep it across your lap, under the poncho.”
“Ye expect me to shoot British soldiers?”
“No,” Rig said, “I just want you prepared. You’ll know when to show it.”
“Why?” She pointed with her chin at the gun hanging down his back. “Let your plastic rifle talk. That should scare them a mountain more than this.” She patted the wooden stock of the cavalry musket tied to the saddle.
“Miss Graham, I don’t want to waste what little ammo I have left to impress some drunken idiots.” Rig patted the cover of the rifle over his shoulder. “Besides, the French are chasing us because I let ‘my plastic rifle talk.’ We don’t need the British chasing us too.”
The pain in his thighs spiked again as his horse took a faltering step on the rock-studded street. It took all his energy to keep alert to their surroundings. Drunken soldiers seemed to be everywhere, staggering around in groups, vandalizing everything. So far, they’d avoided them. Rig shook his head. He’d seen military units fall apart before in Afghanistan and Iraq. These fools here will be dead meat when the French showed up. The British army wouldn’t miss them.
They picked their way through trash-filled alleys, some so narrow their packs and stirrups scrapped the rock walls of the buildings on both sides. Streets twisted in on themselves, only to split into two roads or end in a circular court. There were no signs, except those that hung in front of taverns, which populated every street.
Rig pulled up to a stop, pointing ahead. “Damn, how do we get out of this place? The major streets are impossible to recognize.”
~ ~ ~
“I wish I knew.” Melissa laid the reins on the pommel and rubbed her eyes. After a hard night’s ride, the danger and the endless turnings made her head feel like a bowl of thick porridge. The insides of her thigh burned, rubbed raw, though her pantaloons and the French breeches. Her leg and back muscles protested with every move, her shoulder a constant ache. She grimaced as she stretched. The pain was the only thing keeping her awake.
She took up the reins again, balancing the carbine in her lap with her arm wrapped in the sling. They had avoided the drunken soggers for more than a half hour now. She knew her uncle and General Moore must be sharing a raging fit over the soldiers’ behavior.
Whitewashed buildings crowded the roadways, some arching over the streets, as though preparing to pounce on unwary travelers. As they turned onto yet another narrow street west of the city center, they walked straight into a crowd of the sodden stragglers. The captain stopped no more than a biscuit’s throw from them.
“Hoy, me boys. What do we have here?” A straw-haired beanpole in a dark-green coat sporting corporal’s stripes stood in the middle of the street, holding back a dozen or so drunkards behind him.