Chapter 23
Murphy’s Law of Combat #14
“As casualties increase, so do doubts and a desire for alcohol.”
“Yes.” It was all he could say. His pulse hammered in his temples. His body vibrated, the leg pain a massive nail in his skull.
Mel stared at him, then down behind him at the melee still ragging. Rig turned in the saddle. More green/black clad British riflemen moved down the slopes and into the orchards, shooting the French out of their saddles as he watched.
Hundreds of Napoleon’s cavalry still filled the valley below them. Rig had never seen so many horses in one place. The French on the narrow road to the bridge decided they’d had enough and retreated, the British horsemen chasing them past the orchards. Rig realized he wasn’t holding his pistol and glanced at Mel. She was staring at him again.
“What?” His voice sounded as shaky as he felt.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Again?” Rig glanced at himself. His coat sleeves were in tatters and there was blood smeared over his clothes and saddle. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m not sure whose it is.”
Reaching over, she removed his Boonie hat. Slashed, it was missing half its brim. Blood spotted the rest. He reached out to take it, but seeing a dark stain creeping slowly down his left coat sleeve stopped him. Blood dripped on his face. He wiped it off and gazed at it. “Damn.”
Mel leaned across and ran her hand through his hair, examining something. She sat back, her fingers coming away bright red. He couldn’t read her expression.
“You and I must get away before our cavalry comes back. There will be questions.”
Rig looked back and saw the British cavalry was indeed making a slow withdrawal, facing down the lines of French horsemen, having driven them off the bridge. The French cavalry in their hundreds were reforming a few hundred meters away.
A group caught Rig’s attention as they rode up and down the column of French troopers. He pulled out his Leica rangefinder and looked the group over. There, surrounded by men dressed in plumed glory, rode Antoine, the guard chasseur captain. Bare-headed, arm in a sling, he animatedly gestured in their direction.
The commanding officer, obvious from the gaudy uniform, huge plumes, and the deference given him, sat on a black charger listening intently. Antoine handed the commander a telescope and waved in Rig’s direction. The commander pointed the spyglass at Rig as he watched them.
“Damnation and tiny bastards.” Rig noticed a white, two-story building perched on rock ledge overlooking the vineyards and river. “Let’s get to that house.”
The ground shook with a terrifying rumble in the narrow valley. A long French column, only four horses wide, began trotting up the road intent on forcing the bridge. Riflemen began to snipe at the French horsemen and a pitifully few British cavalry formed up at the high end of the bridge. The French commander trotted alongside his troops, standing in his saddle, and waving his hat. The column charged for the bridge.
Faster and faster they came, until they were galloping. The British emptied a few saddles with their fire, but the horses remained in formation. They were less than a hundred meters away when the British positions exploded as one mighty volley. French horses and men tumbled and were ridden over, but after a pause, on they came again.
The score of British horsemen charged down the bridge in a column of four by five, meeting the French in the middle. Horses and riders fell into the river. Then there were only the British. Riderless horses ran back down into the valley after the retreating French cavalry. The remaining French squadrons filled the barren fields, still within striking distance. Only half as many British horsemen rallied at the near end of the bridge.
Mel reached over and touched his hand. “Captain, we must away and tend your wounds.”
Rig glanced at her hand, then at his arm again. Blood stained his left sleeve from shoulder to wrist. He shrugged. “I don’t feel a thing.” He remembered knife cuts didn’t hurt immediately. Obviously the same was true of swords.
Rig eyed her. “Are you all right?”
With a chiding expression she sat back in her saddle. “Yes, as you can see.”
He whispered, “Good.” His leg was a pulsing agony, swamping any other sensation.
Mel held out his hat to him, but he shook his head. “Toss it. It’s no good now.” She nodded, eyeing him, but did nothing, even when he headed Chief uphill. He twisted around and raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming?” Without a word, she followed, still holding his hat.
Red- and green-coated British foot soldiers ran by, many giving the two of them odd looks as they passed. Winded, head hanging, Chief plodded up to the front door of the two-story building at the top of the rise. The upper story would give Rig an excellent view of the bridge and a direct bead on Antoine. Mel rode up and dismounted. He sort of fell off, grunting swear words. He nearly fell again when he put weight on his bad leg. His gut knotted as an exhausted desperation grew.
With professional detachment, he noted the sensations as his body slowly came alive to the punishment it had received, one bruise, one slash at a time. He couldn’t ignore the pain much longer. Soon he’d be unable to think straight, let alone move. He dug out several Vicodin and swallowed them dry. To hell with the consequences.
He grabbed the shoulder strap and yanked the rifle off his back. He had to stop Antoine. The British wouldn’t hold against another onslaught like the last. He removed the rifle, leaving the cover slung on his back. The scope hung smashed from the top of the rifle, now useless. The butt and barrel showed several gouges. It had taken sword blows, saving his life. He detached it and threw it in his pack. He went up to the door, grunting as he limped.
“Captain, is this wise? How many can you shoot without drawing unwanted attention to yourself?” The din of gunfire and shouting men made her words faint.
“I only need to shoot one man. That Frenchman you shot, Antoine.” He waved a hand toward the Cavalry massing again. “He’s out there right now.” Rig gritted his teeth as a spasm of pain shot up his body. “He’s pushing the French to attack again, just to get at us.” His words came out a hiss through clenched teeth. “He wants my weapons.”
“If we keep traveling, he will have to fight the entire British army to reach us.”
Rig gave her a tired look. “Yeah, right. The Brits have done a pretty good job until now, but the next charge will succeed—” He glanced at Chief, blowing steam, his head hanging. “And we’re in no shape to run anywhere.”
Rig knocked on the door of what appeared to be a private residence. There was no answer. The door was locked. “I’m not taking any chances.”
Mel jumped when he shot the lock with his rifle. The door swung open, but no sound came from within. Rig hobbled up the staircase that began a few feet from the door.
At the top, the hallway stretched out to the left from where the stairs ended with several doors on each side of the hall. He found the second door on the right unlocked. When he opened it, the squeak of the hinges ignited a flutter of voices and rustling behind closed doors further down the hall. The room he entered held a bed, desk, and several chairs. He moved one plush chair to the only window, which he swung open. Sitting in the chair, he balanced the rifle on the windowsill. He had a clear view of the valley, the French cavalry, and the bridge.
The French were lining up in a column along the road, about two hundred meters beyond the bridge. The commander and Antoine were exhorting the troops as they formed up. Below his window, a British officer called out to a group of riflemen in dark green jackets as they deployed among the grape vines.
One stocky soldier ran up to the officer and there was a brief discussion. A purse was held up by the officer and he pointed to the head of the French column where Antoine and the commander sat on horseback.
The soldier ran down the slope and at the top of the bridge did the strangest thing. He lay down on his back and placed the barrel of his rifle between his feet, just as Mel had when she’d shot Antoine. He aimed down the barrel and paused. The officers were at least two hundred meters away. With that flintlock, the rifleman would be lucky to hit the ground. Yet, when the man fired, dirt kicked up to one side of Antoine. The marksman began reloading his rifle.
Rig nodded. Good. I can target Antoine and use the rifleman’s next shot as cover for mine. Unfortunately, Antoine chose to move behind other officers when Rig looked. He must have thought Rig had shot at him. However, the plumed commander was still readying his troops. Second-best target. He ranged the target with his Leica. Two hundred and thirty meters with the wind toward me.
The green-clad soldier laid down at the bridge again and took aim. Rig sighted his rifle on the French commander and held his breath. The target wasn’t moving at the moment. Good. He waited for the rifleman’s next shot, squinting down the barrel.
Rig fired a split second after the rifleman. The commander’s head jerked back, and he toppled off the horse. A cheer went up from the British soldiers. Other French officers surrounded their fallen commander, and the column began coming apart. They wouldn’t be charging up the road any time soon.
As Rig replace the cover on his rifle, the rifleman loaded and picked off two other officers, scattering the rest. The rifleman stood and trotted back up the slope. The mounted British officer threw the purse to the rifleman. A few of his comrades came out to congratulate him. Rig watched the scene while he waited for Antoine to show himself, but he’d hid in the masses of mounted men. Crap.
Rig stood, but nearly toppled over. His leg was seizing up. It throbbed, swollen and stiff. He gasped through the pain until he could stand up again. By leaning on the walls and banister going downstairs, Rig was able to make it to the door, leaving blood smeared everywhere. He heard voices outside, men’s voices. He hung the rifle down his back.
When he opened the door and stumbled outside, the talking stopped. Several red-clad men on horseback stared at him. Mel faced the men, still clutching the reins of their horses.
A blond officer, with more gold braid on his scarlet coat than the rest of the horsemen, wearing one of those idiotic Napoleon hats fore and aft, rode up to Rig as he limped to his horse. “Hold there, man.” He pointed his sword at Rig. “Who are you?”
The blond officer had the round face of a child and a high tenor voice. Lightheaded, Rig nearly laughed. The officer reminded Rig of the Pillsbury Doughboy, with dark circles under his eyes. He must have sensed Rig’s conclusion because he scowled, hard.
“Major,” Mel said with her proper English accent, all dignity and grace in a camouflage poncho, her voice and stance communicating a lady to be reckoned with. The boy soldier turned back to her. She said, “He was hoping to find linen for bandages.”
She tilted her head when the Major looked doubtful. “He obviously needs some.” Stepping closer to the officer, she said, “I owe this man my life, Major, and he has been nothing if not a proper gentleman and valiant officer.”
“An officer?” The Major gave Rig a pinch faced look he was sure was supposed to be condescending. He succeeded in appearing constipated. He turned his horse to Mel. He pointed to the sheathed rifle down Rig’s back. “Looting is a hanging offense, Miss Graham. General Paget nearly executed three hussars here this very morning.”
“That is the captain’s, I vow.” She waited, looking far more imposing than the man on the horse above her. The officer hesitated. “My word, Major.”
He nodded. “Very well, Miss Graham, as long as you vouch for this . . . person.” Turning to Rig, he squinted. “Who are you?”
Rig glanced at Mel, who shook her head at him and said, “Major Penworthy, this is Captain Starke. He was working with the Spanish.”
Major Penworthy frowned at Rig, inspected his coat, and laced boots again, said “Captain” with a sneer that begged to be slapped off. Rig gave a light “Major” in return.
“Your commission is with what regiment?”
“Major?” Though she held her hands calmly before her, Mel’s tone said that the Major’s continued questions were insulting. “The captain’s wounds need tending.”
Penworthy narrowed his eyes, looking pissed. “How did you strike down all those dragoons on the bridge?”
Oh Crap. “What?” Blood tickled Rig’s face as it dripped down his jaw. He reached up and removed his wool cap, or what was left of it and pressed it against the cut above his hairline.
“I swear a dozen dragoons surrounded you, yet they now lay out there on the bridge.”
“You sound disappointed, Major.” Rig raised an eyebrow at the Major’s glare. “You sure it was me?”
“Without a doubt,” he said. “How did you accomplish it, man?”
Rig gestured to the saber tied under the saddle. “My trusty sword.”
“I saw no sword.” The accusation hung in the air.
Rig just shrugged and offered a half-grin. “Neither did they.”
The other officers chuckled. Penworthy’s jaw worked, and he puffed himself up to reply when Mel interrupted.
“Major Penworthy, where is my uncle?”
With one measured glare at Rig, he turned to Mel. “Miss Graham, your uncle is no longer about. They were here. I spoke with him not more than an hour ago.” He raised a gloved hand to the west. “He’s for Villafranca.”
Mel’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Bless the heavens.”
“We’d given you up for lost before Benavente, Miss. Colonel Graham has been beyond torment over your disappearance. He will be most relieved to see you well.” Pointing to her arm in a sling, he frowned. “Is that serious? Should I find my physician for you?” Glancing at Rig, he added, “And the Captain?
“Thank you, Major, but no. I am well, and I can tend the captain’s wounds.” Just then, the hollow boom of cannons began again. “There are brave men out there who need a physician more.”
The Major doffed his hat to Mel. “Well, Miss Graham, if you are confident of your safety and needs?” Mel nodded. He glanced again at Rig one last time. “I must attend to this position. General Moore wants the bridge held until the morrow.” He pointed down the road with his hat. “Villafranca is no more than two leagues.”
As the officers turned to leave, Mel stopped them. “Gentlemen, have any of you had word of Ensign Hershey’s wife, Emily? He is with the 52nd.”
They glanced at each other and shook their heads. The Major said, “No, though I may have, and do not remember. I have been otherwise occupied.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Major.”
The officers rode down the street toward the bridge. Rig packed the rifle on Chief and then approached Mel, feeling like he floated over to her, things becoming fuzzy around the edges. “I don’t think your Major likes me much.”
“Captain, the major is just concerned for my welfare. I have been unprotected for several days and there is propriety to consider.”
“Unprotected?” There was a languid energy flowing through him. “Now really, Miss Graham, haven’t I taken care of you?”
Mel’s face took on a strained expression. “Aye, you have, Captain. Still, my whereabouts have been unknown to the army for several days. The assumption is that I was unprotected, or alone in your company. Some will assume the worst, that I was molested by the French, or by you.”
She studied her hands holding the reins and said in a flat tone, “There’s nothing for it.” The resigned expression changed, the corner of her mouth turning up. “We two do make a strange sight, do ye not think?”
Rig smiled, glad her Scots had returned.
She glanced at his head and frowned. “And your height and all the blood, tis hard to ignore.”
“Me? They were all looking at you, Miss. Graham. A far prettier sight.”
Grinning at his joking gallantry, she laid his arm over her shoulder, and moved toward the barn.
Rig stilled, stunned by her expression. Had she ever smiled before now? She wasn’t just beautiful. It was as if joy had found a home in the world.
“What is it, Captain?”
And that Scottish lilt. I’m losing it. “You should smile more.” He turned awkwardly to mount Chief, but she tugged at his coat.
“We need to see to your wounds. You are still bleeding. Your arm especially. And the horses need rest, water, and if possible, food.”
“Delivering you to the British Army wasn’t the trick.”
“Aye, it appears so.”
He tried to concentrate. “Mel, you heard the boy major, your uncle is an hour away. I can wait. We’re that close to finishing this.” He had to think of his next words for a moment. “I took a handful of painkillers, and they are really working. I hardly feel a thing.” A giddy, happy sensation fogged his mind, the world spinning in entertaining ways.
“Not if you bleed to death, we aren’t.”
“It’s going to get a lot hotter soon.”
“Hotter?”
He looked askance at her, failing to really focus. “Yeah, you know, lots more shooting, swinging swords, and stuff.”
She frowned at his playful tone. “We can spare a few minutes, Captain. The major is a competent officer. We won’t be seeing French troopers any time soon.
“We must—”
“There is a barn attached to the far side of the house. No one will spy us there. We don’t want to exhaust our only transportation, or stain anymore of more of your clothes.” Eyeing the many rips in his cape and long coat, she said, “Such as they are,” tilting her head, as though it would be obvious to a child. He blinked back the fog. Everything appeared distant, even the driving pain. Rig should argue, knew they shouldn’t wait, but he couldn’t mentally organize a rebuttal.
“If, if it gets bad, we should move out, pronto.” He focused on her eyes, attempting to be stern, but only sounded clownish. “Understand?”
With another sympathetic smile, another shake of her head, Mel picked up the reins, walking the horses into the barn. Standing where she left him, the barn seemed a million miles away. Then he thought of her smile and decided it would be worth the agonizing trek to see it again.
Holding his thigh, he pressed his lips together and haltingly hop-limped bowlegged into the barn, the inside of his thighs feeling like raw bacon. God, how he hated riding.
Mel found water in a rain barrel for the horses and heated water with his little stove. The barn was open on one side, crowded with stalls, but in the middle, a great heap of hay which Mel led the horses to.
She took out the medical bag and helped Rig take off his coat and shirt. Exhausted, the captain moved slowly, so clumsy that he needed her help to remove his shirt. He stared shocked at the deep cut across his upper left arm and another on his shoulder as Mel pushed him down on the hay and began cleaning them. “I have dissolving thread for the deep sutures. It’s labeled. You’ll need to mend the muscle too.”
She gave him a patient look as she identified the package of heavy thread and strung the curved needle. “I have some practice at this and cat gut. I just pray this will be my last with you.”
Rig smiled. I don’t feel a thing. He couldn’t remember how much Vicodin he’d taken. Not that he was complaining. He was floating, a beautiful woman was nursing him, and there was music in the air.
Mel was humming “Bonnie Cuckoo” with a grim expression as she sewed and bandaged his cuts. She took an antiseptic wipe to his forehead. “Now I can return the favor.”
Rig had to think about her words. He had questions. “What?”
“You tended my head wound when we first met.” She pointed to her temple.
Rig laid his hand on the side of her face. So smooth and soft. He ran his thumb over the scab at her temple, the bandage gone missing somewhere. He absently noted the swelling was gone as was a good deal of the bruising. Now it was just pink around the scab. Good.
Her eyes were deep, sparkling gray green. “Like the sea after a storm,” he whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What?”
“What did you say?”
“I like your eyes.”
“No, you said—”
“I like your smile too. You should smile more often. It’s-It’s . . .” Rig looked at her mouth and sighed. “Yeah . . .”
“Captain, are you foxed? Did you find liquor in that house?”
“You say the funniest things.” He slid his hand down to her chin reveling in the silken trip his fingers took across her cheek. Rays of late-afternoon sun highlighted the smooth curves of her face. The cool light made the multicolored curls around her face glow. Gorgeous. He could caress her face forever.
Mel peered hard into his eyes, her hand stilling his on her chin. “You’re drunk.”
“Am not. Haven’t had a drop since I landed in this cuckoo campaign.” He grinned and leaned closer. “And you, Miss Mel, are the bonniest cuckoo of them all.” He couldn’t focus very well. He knew her lips were there. Yes. He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. He looked closer. “I bet. I know I do.”
“Do what?” she breathed.
“What I can’t help doing, of course.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip again.
She stopped him with her hand again. “Captain.” Mel brought her face closer to his, placing her other hand on his face. “Perhaps you should lie down.”
“You first.”
“Captain.” She tried to get him to lie back on the hay, but he wouldn’t budge. He kept looking at her lips.
“Captain, please. You are delirious, from a loss of blood? I need to finish with your arm and head wounds.” She ran her hand over his forehead to get him to pay attention to her words.
“No, I need this.” He leaned forward slowly, placing his hand on the side of her face. She froze, their hands on each other’s face, her eyes on his. He paused, his mouth an inch from hers, and felt her shiver under his touch. He smiled and slowly touched his lips to hers. He groaned and pressed a little harder, feeling the shape of her mouth under his, tasting her.
He couldn’t tell how long he kissed her, but he finally pulled away to catch his breath. Her lips were parted and swollen, her eyes looking as dazed as he felt.
He grinned. “You should be kissed like that every day. A shameful waste not to.” He sank back into the hay, gazing at her. He chuckled. “Listen to me. I sound like one of those prig officers.” He rubbed his forehead and said with something like an English accent, “A shameful waste not to.” His eyes closed. “A shameful waste,” he said, slurring. “We need to get out of here.”
Not able to speak, Mel just nodded as he passed out.