Saving Time

Chapter 22

Murphy’s Laws of Combat #15

“Friendly Fire isn’t”

Ahead, a ragged line of British troopers shot at Mel and Rig from horseback. Rig’s horse lowered its head and sprinted for the bridge. Rig hugged Chief’s neck, trying to disappear as shots from several directions tore through the air. The ground blurred below him. The icy wind cut at his face making his eyes water. His bouncing beast incited jolts of fire up his leg from heel to hip. With a fist in Chief’s mane, the other hand gripping the pommel and reins, he prayed he wouldn’t fly off or a bullet wouldn’t cut down his horse. He blinked away the thought of slamming into the ground at 35 miles an hour.

He didn’t see how the British skirmishers could miss them. The two of them would pass within forty meters of them. He glanced at Mel. She’d maneuvered her horse to his right, between him and the British shooting at them. What was she doing?

She fumbled with the horse pistol, the heavy thing dwarfing her left hand. Brilliant. Who did she think she’d hit with that, and with her bad shoulder? She twisted around, making a show of raising the pistol. She pointed it at the French behind them, the gun wobbling erratically as they galloped. She fired. The pistol leaped from her hand to be lost in the mud, the snap, boom of the discharge loud above the thunder of horses’ hooves. She jerked around and clutched her arm.

She’s been hit.

As to prove she wasn’t, Mel retrieved the smaller pistol from her skirt pocket and fired that too.

Rig swore, and tried to move his horse closer to hers, but he couldn’t do much but hold on. Then they were on the road. The British cavalrymen stopped using them for target practice. They’d seen Mel’s shots and realized the French were chasing them.

She turned her head to face him, wind whipping her hair, and offered a self-satisfied grin. His relief mixed with admiration for her quick thinking—combined with professional embarrassment. He should have thought of it. He couldn’t with his brain being slammed around in his head as they galloped on.

British cavalry and infantry crowded together, all making for the bridge. The road bore straight through an orchard, now filled with infantry in black-green coats firing at the French. Gunsmoke swirled around the bridge. The fleeing soldiers slowed Rig and Mel’s progress to a trot, then a walk, squeezing together near the bridge. Shouts and gunfire reverberated around them now that the thunder of hooves had lessened.

British soldiers on foot, swarmed around their two horses and other British riders, all making for the bridge. Rig swore as they careened off his leg. He shoved them away and followed in Mel’s wake. She yelled at them, and they actually moved aside. The soldiers and horses struggled to cross the bridge. It arched in the middle, sloping uphill into the town, making it a climb to cross.

British cavalry suddenly pressed in, the smell of horse sweat and muck thick in the air. Left and right, swords glinted. The splintering ring of steel on steel echoed through the orchards. Behind them, hundreds of French horsemen plowed up the road, forcing everyone to crowd forward. Rig could see the brass helmets of the French cavalrymen above the swirl of arms and blades, their horse-hair crests flipping in every direction. A sword whooshed past his arm. Another saber made a stab at Mel.

Abruptly, a gap in the British mob opened up in front of her.

Rig swatted Mel’s horse. It leaped forward and out of reach of the French steel. British troopers pushed forward closing the gap. A forest of British sabers and the French straight swords waved around him. He tugged his Beretta out from under his coat and pointed it behind him, hidden under his other arm. The bridge was so near, but the milling nightmare of shrieking horses, swearing troopers, and panicked soldiers squeezed his horse to a standstill.

Horses screamed, men shouted, cannons roared, the sounds becoming a tidal wave, pounding Rig’s consciousness. Over and over, horses and riders slammed into his leg, until he was dizzy from the pain. He kicked Chief and began beating away anyone in his path with his fist and pistol. He could just see Mel’s poncho among the crowd up ahead on the bridge.

A sword blade slammed into his saddle, catching in his coat. Rig swung around and hammered the Frenchman’s hand down between the horses. The blow jerked the cavalryman forward. Rig lashed out, the Beretta connecting with the man’s nose. A cry of pain and Rig was away.

He hid the gun under his arm again. Behind him, Rig saw a dozen more Frenchmen in green whip their horses, beating off the few British horsemen in their way, intent on him. Shit!

He kicked Chief again. The beast struggled to bull his way forward. A blade swished by Rig’s ear. Another struck the rifle slung across his back, knocking the breath from him. He twisted around low and shot the two offending Frenchmen. Chief lunged onto the cobblestones of the bridge. A sword came down and Rig caught it with the trigger guard of his Beretta. The deep clang echoed in the river gorge around them. His arm went numb from the blow. With a slight roll of his wrist, Rig shot the cavalryman in the face as he made to strike again.

Brass helmets and glinting blades swirled around him. He kept firing until the pistol clicked empty. He blocked a sword with the gun again, but it flew out of his hand. He barely ducked another slashing blade. He looked up as another saber rose to slash at him, but it never struck.

Charging from the town down the bridge, British cavalry surrounded him. Yelling and cursing, they dispatched the few remaining French riders and then charged past him down across the bridge. The impact of blade on blade was a sharp chiming that rolled down the gorge like choir bells.

Panting, Rig pushed Chief forward as more British horsemen thundered past him. Finally, the way was clear. He was across the bridge. Chief slowly trudged up the slope while Rig tried to focus.

His entire body ached, his right arm a throbbing fire, but his left arm, he couldn’t feel at all. Past the bridge, the right side of the road was a rock cliff, the left fell away to vineyards and the Rio Cúa. Squinting, he finally saw Mel’s silhouette sitting on her horse at the top of the rise, the low sun bright behind her.

Chief blew steam, panting as hard as Rig when they reached her. He stopped in the road close by her.

She grimaced. “Rig, are you well?”