Saving Time

Chapter 24

Murphy’s Laws of Combat #39

“Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, and never stay awake when you can sleep.”

Philippe rubbed his hands to warm them. “I tell you, the Capitaine is mad.” The French dragoon wrapped his cloak over his shoulders and knocked the mud from his boots on the wooden steps to the farmhouse. As his companion followed suit, he said, “I am crawling around in the dark, daring the English to shoot me for what, André? Little tubes of brass?” He held out his hand, revealing three shiny cylinders.

Andre shrugged away the mystery. “Why do officers do anything?”

Philippe glanced at the front door and then the window. His tone harsh with resentment, he whispered, “These Guard Chasseur officers think they’re gods among mere mortals, that’s why.” A pale light from the window painted the covered porch in a yellow glow. The night beyond was a black curtain.

Philippe leaned over to the other trooper and whispered, “I think his wounds and the cold have unhinged his mind.” He laid a finger on his helmet. “You should have been with us. He drove our poor squadron to hell. He demanded we charge that damn bridge where the twenty-third was destroyed. Only Colbert’s death saved the rest of the dragoon regiments.”

Philippe waved away the image. “Half our squadron’s horses are lame, and still we do not know why we were chasing those two Anglais. Now we must search among the dead on the bridge for his little trinkets.” André nodded impatiently to Philippe, gesturing to cease his tirade, and opened the front door.

Near the fireplace, Capitaine Antoine LaCroix sat, staring at a black piece of metal lying on the only table in the room. Both men immediately knew the object was a pistol, but none they had ever seen before. The Capitaine looked up. “Well?”

Philippe laid the brass tubes on the table and stepped closer to the fire to warm his hands. “All we found were these. As they were as strange as that black thing, we brought them to you.”

Slowly, the capitaine picked up one of the brass tubes and inspected it. In the flicker of the firelight, he appeared corpse-like, exhaustion making his face sag.

“Merci, gentlemen. You may go.”

Philippe hesitated, then waved his hand at the black thing. “Capitaine, what is this all about?”

La Croix rubbed his week-old beard. “At the bridge, you did not see him?”

“You mean the Anglais giant in the ridiculous chapeau?”

“Oui. Did you see what he did?”

“Quoi? How he cut down so many of our men? Yes, I saw.”

The Capitaine stared at him for a moment, searching the cavalryman’s face for something, and then he looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line below his mustache. “You may go.”

Both men stood straight and said in unison, “Oui, monCapitaine” and left, but not before they glanced significantly at each other.

~ ~ ~

LaCroix watched them leave. He knew they thought him deranged. He didn’t care. He picked up the brass casing and examined the flat end. It had ‘9m/m’ and other letters stamped into it along with ‘USA.’ The pistol of marvelous design had engraved on the flat side of the black barrel ‘Beretta U.S.A. Corp. ACKK., MD—Made in USA’ and a serial number much like those stamped on French and British muskets. The United States had created this? He set the brass tube down and laid his forehead on desk, heedless of the pain from his wound. He could think of only one word: merde.

He’d been elated when the pistol had been found. With such weapons, the French could drive their enemies into the sea. Now hours later, he still had little idea how the firearm functioned, beyond the obvious hammer and trigger, or how the little brass tubes allowed it to shoot so many times without reloading. This American captain, he could reveal its secrets.

LaCroix sighed and stared out the window into the blackness, the cold and weariness eating at his bones. He would find him, even if he had to follow the American to hell.

Or even England.

~ ~ ~

Melissa woke and wrapped the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, her breath clouding the evening air. The captain slept sprawled in the hay. In the last of the sunset light, his white bandages around his head, and his arm in a sling, were the only things revealing his presence in the dim light. He was her ghost, who hoped to disappear completely.

She’d tried to wake him several times to no avail before sleeping herself. The hard riding, the long days of dangers, the melee at the bridge, and the pain had exhausted them both. The silence of a cold winter’s eve enveloped her. There had been more heavy fighting. The sounds of battle had died away with the day, and still the British held the bridge.

A column of infantry had rushed by the barn toward the river hours ago. She’d seen Major Penworthy and other officers, along with most of their troops, march away as the sunset. Only a thin skirmish line would face the French tomorrow.

She glanced at the bodies now laid outside the barn, dried blood and gore covering them all. She looked at the red splotches covering her skirt. She wiped a tear away. She’d tended the wounded brought in until the soldiers left, taking those who were still alive, leaving the dead. Saber cuts caused such horrid wounds. She’d washed most of the blood off her arms and hands with ice cold water from the rain barrel before she slept.

Her uncle had been so close. She could sense him riding west into the mountains, adding more miles between her and him. At this moment, she should be riding for Villafranca as quickly as possible. Her limbs felt like lead.

To move demanded so much of her will. She should be anxious that she wasn’t. Somehow their quest had lost its urgency. Her determination to push on, to find her uncle, had melted away, evaporated by the captain’s kiss. She passed her fingers over her lips for the hundredth time, remembering the warmth of his mouth on hers.

Melissa had been kissed before. Most young men asked permission and gave her a light peck. Others had taken one, hard and quick, as though they were stealing something of hers. Rig’s kiss had been an offer, sharing something of himself. That something had made her lips tingle with delight. She’d not been able to catch her breath until after he’d fallen asleep. Melissa knew she would never be able to taste dried apricots again without remembering the flavor of his kiss.

Had the kiss been different because of what he felt for her? She wanted to believe that. Or was it because he was something apart, a man from an unimaginable future; a man whose thoughts, feelings, and experiences, whose relationships were alien? She bit her lip at that thought. Perhaps he was thoroughly practiced in lovemaking skills yet to be discovered in this age.

She shivered at the thought. Logic said it was the Vicodin he mentioned. Melissa rubbed her face, exasperated by the questions. Or so exhausted, the captain simply didn’t know what he was doing. The man defied reason. Did he truly think her bonnie, or in his delirium, had he thought she was Claire whose picture he’d showed her?

She stood and went to the horses, her frustration and jumbled emotions demanding action. She made sure the animals had water and fodder and then checked the ties to the packs. A deep gash in the cantle of Captain Starke’s saddle made her grimace. His gray also bled from several cuts and nicks, overlooked until now.

What had he been thinking? she wondered as she tended to the horses’ wounds. The captain had slapped her horse out of danger, but instead of following her had fought off more than a dozen Frenchmen. She’d bitten her knuckles each time he appeared to be cut down, disappearing among the churning bodies and slashing blades, only to rear up again.

The French had, one by one, fallen away, and Rig had miraculously cleared the press of horses and men, to trot up the slope to her. He’d looked ready to topple, a bloody mess. She had not breathed until he’d assured her that he had avoided fatal wounds.

The man declares a dislike of women, and yet If he truly held such distain, why without hesitation, did he risk all to protect her, rather than attempt escape across the bridge. It made no sense. His left arm had been cut twice, deep, needing so many stitches. His scalp wound several more. It had been good that he hadn’t been conscious. She bit her lip. He would not win home by dying.

She absently patted the gray as he nosed her shoulder. Yet Captain Starke had kissed her, wounded as he was. The contrariety of the man made her want to burn his ears.

There was a groan from the hay and the captain sat up, hand to his head. He felt the bandages and new sling, then examined the unripped gray coat and clean cape around his shoulders. He noticed the tattered remains of his old coat, camo shirt, and T-shirt thrown in a corner. He frowned at the row of dead soldiers and troopers laid on the dirt outside, contemplating the scene for the longest time. Finally, he said, “How long have I been out?”

“Out? You have been here the time entire, you dotty mon.”

“Asleep. How long have I been asleep?”

“Several hours. I couldn’t wake ye.”

“Damn it.” He stood awkwardly and leaned against the wall, staring at the dimming light beyond the open face of the barn. “You should have gone and found your uncle.” He tested his leg and flinched, swearing under his breath. “What were you thinking, Mel?” He tried to walk but ended up propped against the wall again.

“Ye egit. At least I was using my pate, which ye surely aren’t.” With quick motions, she tugged the bridles back on the roan and gray while the captain watched. She tightened the cinches with a knee to the beasts. Finished, she came over and threw the captain’s good arm over her shoulder. Taking his weight, she brought him to the right side of his horse, set wooden steps down for him she had found in the barn, and backed away.

He had to reach across to grab a handhold on the pommel of the saddle. He slowly pulled himself up on the steps, and then stood one-legged in the stirrup and glared at her. “You could be with your uncle right now.”

“If I could find him. With the soldiers and Spanish still about, how safe would I have been, or ye for that matter, you being insensible and all?”

He threw his rigid left leg over the saddle and struggled to sit up and set his boots in the stirrups, flinching, and cursing with every sluggish move he made, but he would not let her help.

She settled the poncho over her cape. “The Spanish are not averse to sticking a blade into British soldiers, particularly if they are alone or asleep.”

He drank some water from the pack tube. Then he closed his eyes, breathing hard. “In the shape I’m in, being unconscious isn’t much of a handicap.”

Melissa waited until he opened his eyes. She handed him the gray’s reins. Without a word, she slipped on her gloves, tucked her cape around her sling, then went back to her mount and turned it around.

“Isn’t getting you back to your uncle what this has been all about?”

In her English accent, she said, “I believe getting back alive is a significant aspect of the plan.” The buckie man persisted in poking her ire. Couldn’t he see she had to stay?

“Did it ever occur to you that if you had reached your uncle, I would then be sent back to my time?” The captain gritted his teeth and said with an accusing frown, “In a puff of smoke. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?”

She glared at him. “So, you imagined it was a goodbye kiss ye were giving me?”

He stared at her for a moment and then swore under his breath, head down. He eyed the dead in the barn, then his undamaged cape and great coat.

She glanced at the dead bodies. “I couldn’t help these poor souls, but they did provide clothing.”

The captain’s mouth thinned, but he changed the subject. “We gotta go.”

Twilight colored the edges of a black and starless sky when they rode out of the barn. A north wind blew sharp and icy.

The captain turned on his flashlight and found the road, then twisted around and gazed at her again, the light casting sharp shadows on his face. “Have you eaten?”

She shook her head.

He reached into the pack and pulled out his dried beef. Rather than salty, the taste was spicy, and delicious. She chewed a piece as they urged their mounts down the road to Villafranca.

It began to snow again. Melissa was thankful for the blanket and cape under her poncho. She was beyond tired, her eyes gritty. Her face ached from the cold. All she could do was watch the band of light from his flashlight move back and forth across the road ahead, the falling flakes sparkling in its beam.

Through bare trees, they saw the glow from fires lighting up the mountainside miles before they reached Villafranca. The captain stopped on a rise overlooking the town, studying it. The town hugged the gorge the Rio Cúa cut through the mountains. A wide plaza dominated the center, a tall bell tower marking the city hall. Fires burned along the main road through the town and around the plaza.

“The British seem to be good at burning supplies.”

Melissa huffed. “Tis the commissary, a donnert effort. The haunless men canna distribute the provisions to our soldiers even as they lay along the gain road through the town.”

The captain cocked his head to one side, his face pale in the weak glow of his flashlight lamp. “What?”

She scowled at him, then said slowly, “The commissary is worthless. They canna provide for our soldiers even when they march by the supplies piled on the roadside. Tis all a clanjamfrie.”

There was a white smile in the dark. “You’re letting your Scots show.”

Still in a temper with the man, she snapped, “Aye, the Sassenach call all Scotsmen pedants and scrimps, and then the hautie lords burn their wealth in great heaps.”

Frowning he said, “Uh, no, I meant you were speaking your Braid Scots.”

“Oh, it vexes ye still, does it?” Melissa tried to dampen her spleen. The two of them were too different, always rubbing across the grain. It proved hard enough to work with any Sassenach, let alone such a one, cut up and from a future world.

After a moment, the captain turned his horse toward the village and said over his shoulder, “No, I’m getting to like it.”

Melissa watched him walk his horse down the hill, again confused by his cryptic words, but too tired to reason it out. She kicked her horse into motion, leather creaking in the black night, following his weaving light toward Villafranca.

~ ~ ~

Rig turned off the flashlight when they neared the town. Fires burned everywhere, revealing a line of British soldiers across the road at the city gates, campfires burning nearby. This was the moment he’d been dreading: trying to pass for an English officer with sentries. The cuts and bruises, new and old, throbbed, making the many fires flash bright with each heartbeat. He wobbled in the saddle, the damn Vicodin still fogging his focus. He rode forward, gloved hands in plain sight. It began to sleet.

“Hold! Who goes there?” The wind whipped the icy rain into a stinging howl.

Rig had to shout to be heard. “Captain Starke and Miss Melissa Graham.”

“Approach.”

Rig’s horse plowed through the slush on the road. Three men in black-green uniforms gathered around Mel and Rig, their short muskets at the ready. The soldiers looked them over, suspicion flaring when they saw the French saddle covers, Rig’s tan boots, and mottled pants below the French coveralls. They stared longer at the blood staining his pants and saddle cover as well as slings worn by both, he and Mel.

“What regiment are ye with?” The short man with sergeant’s stripes asked the question.

Mel spoke, a string of melodic, but meaningless words that ended with “Cauld kail het agane.” The men laughed. “Ye think we be munelicht flittin, sergeant?” More laughter and the men tucked their rifles across their arms.

“Sergeant McCallough, Miss.” Mel gave him their names.

“So, Captain, Miss Graham, where are ye two comin’ from?”

The men eyed Mel speculatively, which annoyed Rig. The typical reaction of soldiers when any female showed up. He glanced at Mel. Her expression grew stern.

“I became separated from the army and my uncle several days ago.” There was surprise and sympathetic noises from the men. Mel gestured toward Rig. “The captain here went with Colonel Graham to Madrid in October. He remained when the colonel returned, running before the French army.”

Rig watched the men’s expressions. They weren’t buying her story, at least where he was concerned.

Mel seemed to sense it too. “Ye can see he’s dressed as a Spaniard.” The men slowly nodded.

What? They can’t be that stupid.

He must have made a face because Mel shot him a warning glance, so he kept his expression relaxed.

“I met up with the captain while we were both avoiding Johnny Crapaurd outside of Benavente.”

They smiled at her use of slang for the French, but the sergeant stepped closer, obviously wanting something more.

Mel spoke first. “He was good enough to escort me. We finally won the British lines back at Cacabellos, just ahead of the French dragoons. The captain was wounded at the bridge.” The soldiers eyed his bandaged arm and head. “Major Penworthy can vouch for my story.” The sergeant stepped back at the mention of the major and nodded.

Mel brushed sleet off her poncho and hugged herself. “Tis a blick und blashie nickt, lads.” There were sounds of agreement.

Rig struggled to remain alert to the conversation. Pain clouded his vision and made him impatient. “In that case, Sergeant, may we pass?” The man said nothing. Growing irritated, Rig said, “Where do we find Colonel Graham?”

“In Herrerias.”

“How far is that?” He used his best Pissed Officer voice.

The sergeant stiffened. “About three leagues.”

Rig planted his heels in Chief’s flanks, nodding to the man, even though he failed to end with a ‘Sir.’ Mel thanked the men and followed, both horses managing a quick walk.

The sergeant yelled out, “Stay to the main road. Clinkers and slackers are about in packs and there’s nary a thing to be done about it.”

They passed through the town gates. Flames from piles of burning supplies leaped, reflecting in every windowpane. Shadows danced on the road as they went by. Crowds of men inhabited every side street, brandishing torches. All-too-familiar sounds of drunken shouts, breaking glass, and screams spilled out from side streets. Villafranca was being sacked while other soldiers stood guard around large bonfires in the streets, burning piles of supplies. With morose expressions, they eyed him and Mel as they rode by. Destroying supplies so the French couldn’t use them made sense, but to do it in front of British soldiers who were desperate for them? War was organized idiocy.

“What are clinkers?” Rig whispered.

“Those that will be or should be in irons—making clinking sounds.”

Rig nodded and watched for clinkers in each alley and crossroad they passed. Ahead, lines of British infantry marched onto the main thoroughfare from side streets. They wore a motley assortment of red coats, overcoats, and civilian attire. Some marched with rags tied around their feet, while others sported as many bandages as Rig.

The horses’ hooves clip-clopped on cobblestones as they reached the main plaza. Across the wide expanse, all manner of trash, wagons, fires, and milling groups of soldiers filled the town square.

Rig balked at the trash in the road, instinctively suspecting IED were hidden among the refuse, then chided himself for such stupid thoughts.

The walls of the surrounding buildings shivered pink in the firelight. Mel moved her roan closer to Rig, which startled him—that closing of distance and how much he liked it.

“That was a near-run thing,” she said.

“What was?” The troops tramping by didn’t look at them.

“At the city gates. That sergeant was going to demand your Red Book.”

“Is that S-O-P?”

Melissa gave him a blank look.

“Normal?” Rig sighed at the energy it required to reframe his questions. “Do they usually want this Red Book for identification?”

“Often. If their regiment isn’t near, or there’s no one to vouch for them. It’s a soldier’s pay book.” She glanced at him. “Your clothes, our horses, the rifle in a cloth scabbard across your back—it is all very foreign.”

“Yeah, I dress like a Spaniard.” He raised an eyebrow.

Mel offered a wry smile. “Until two months ago, most of these men had never been in Spain, much less outside their cauf kintra—their county. Everything is strange to them, and they know no better.” She rubbed her neck. “Such a ploy will not help with the officers.”

Rig stretched his good arm and back, the sharp ache almost pleasurable after more than two hours sitting stiff in the saddle. “At this juncture, I am open to any suggestions.”

A crowd of drunken men surged onto the road ahead of them, roaring insults at the Spanish hiding in the surrounding buildings. One at a time, each man saw them, went silent, staring at them. Then other men in the plaza stopped to look at them. Terrific. “Keep moving, Mel. Don’t stop unless you have to.”

“You there. Account for yourselves.”

An officer on horseback trotted up.

Rig raised an eyebrow at Mel, but she shook her head. He looked over the red coat, blue facings, and silly bicorne hat. He couldn’t tell the rank of the officer.

Mel turned her horse. “Colonel Dalrymple—Melissa Graham, Colonel Thomas Graham’s niece. I hope you remember me from the staff dinner in November.”

Maybe this is where Mel is safe, and I disappear?

The colonel sat up straighter, his thin face going through several contortions before it smoothed out. “Of course, Miss Graham. I heard you had returned.” He faced Rig and frowned. “And traveling with a stranger. Sir, you are?”

“Colonel, may I introduce my escort, Captain Starke. He was in Madrid until November.”

“You don’t say? I heard General Moore sent Colonel Graham alone.”

Mel smiled sweetly and said, “He was sent by your cousin in Lisbon, Colonel.”

“General Dalrymple?”

“The very same.”

The colonel cleared his throat, the air fogging. Rig decided there’d been enough chitchat. He still hadn’t disappeared, so they needed to move.

“Colonel, where would Colonel Graham be found?”

“In Herrerias. Maybe two leagues. The mayor’s house.” The Colonel’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you from, Captain?”

“Canada.”

“And what regi—”

“We need to get moving. Thank you, Colonel.” Rig kicked his horse into motion.

“Captain, you and Miss Graham will stay with my battalion.” Rig knew the tone. The colonel wanted to continue the cross-examination. Rig didn’t ‘look right.’

“The city is infested with deserters and looters,” the colonel said as he motioned to several soldiers behind him who’d watched their exchange. The soldiers all left their piles of supplies even though not all had been set on fire yet. The group walked up with muskets at the ready.

“I need to get Miss Graham to her uncle as soon as possible.”

“Captain, that is an order.”

Rig was already several meters away but stopped and looked over his shoulder. He pointed behind the colonel with his chin. “Colonel, the supplies.” Dozens of soldiers were grabbing now unguarded provisions . The colonel turned and shouted to his men to drive the drunkards away.

Rig waved Mel to follow and trotted off, but soldiers who weren’t pilfering the unguarded supplies were still across the main road past the plaza, watching them as they approached.

“Oookay. Time to exit stage right.” Rig turned the gray toward the river, down a nearby alley, trotting once they were out of sight of the major and his troops, he let Mel lead so he could cover their six. A gap in the wall along the road led down to the river. They took it.

The path weaved among the boulders and stones once they reached the riverbed. Rig caught up with Mel and handed her the flashlight as she was in the lead. There was no room to change places on the path between the ridge and river.

He watched the circle of light bob with the movement of her horse. Every now and then, the light would pause on a spot, and then return to illuminating the trail ahead.

The British were throwing supplies and driving horses over the cliffs above. Here and there, horses lay among the rocks. A few men had also fallen off the cliff edge. They lay frozen in grotesque positions. The dangers of alcohol. Rig sighed at his own crass humor.

He could tell from the set of Mel’s shoulders, the shake of her head, what the light revealed upset her. He wished he could keep her from seeing it. He wished he could put it out of his own head. Afghanistan, Iraq, and now here. The sights of war made him soul sick. The insane destruction, the death, the waste of lives, emotion and effort all fed a resentful fire in his gut.

He believed in fighting for a cause, being willing to die to save lives and right wrongs. He fought alongside those who felt the same. His heart twisted when a person’s willingness to serve their country was used for others’ ends, or simply thrown away.

Rig wiped the wet snow from his face. Boxes sailed over the cliff above occasionally, breaking on the rocks ten meters away. The possibility of being hit from above kept him awake. Here and now, he was fighting to return home, return to his Team, the only family he had—with his self-respect intact. Perhaps that was the only cause worth fighting for, dying for. He didn’t know anymore.

They traveled more than a mile before they came to a bridge over a stream that emptied into the Cúa. Their horses slipped and sloshed into the stream. Mel stopped and let her horse drink, so Rig did too.

They were beyond the city, but they hadn’t left the area where the soldiers were killing horses and tossing supplies over the cliffs. They would have to get out of the riverbed soon, as the trail angled closer to the cliffs where they could be hit by falling debris. Climbing to the road above was no better. That path threatened exposure and running into Colonel Dalrymple.

Mel turned off the light as her horse drank. The fires from above threw a shadowy half-light on them and made the river currents sparkle in the dark. “How long do we march tonight?”

“The night is young. As far as we or the horses can. Herrerias?” Rig adjusted the rifle and the straps and rubbed his hands to warm them. “Maybe we’ll reach your uncle before that.” Mel shot him a ‘seriously?’ expression, and he just shrugged.

“And then what?” she said. “Ye can’t pass as a British officer dressed as ye are. We have proof of that.”

Rig took a deep breath and pushed back the grogginess. His head felt as if it had been rung like a gong and his whole body ached, sharp and deep. He couldn’t tell if the cold or his wounds were the cause. Or the consequences of so many Vicodin. How many had he taken? Too many.

It was an effort to put words together in a coherent sentence. “I’m open to suggestions. It’s not like you’re going to find a uniform that fits me in your army of midgets.” None of the soldiers he’d seen came close to six feet, most appearing as small or smaller than his mother, who’d stood five feet, six.

“If I could find enough material or at least two uniform coats, I could cobble one together.” She began passing the flashlight over the broken boxes near the cliff. “Perhaps uniforms have been thrown down here, or someone would give us their spares.”

Rig cocked his head. “Right. Where do you find two officers willing to give up their uniforms, or more importantly, their pay books?”

It was Mel’s turn to shrug. It made Rig smile. He gazed at her mouth and thought of the kiss they’d shared. He’d been doped-up stupid then. He wanted to blame the Vicodin but couldn’t. He thought of apologizing to her, except he wasn’t sorry. He wanted to kiss her again. While he’d admired other women for their intelligence and courage, Mel proved to be far more, a woman on a whole different level. He could admit it. She made him think and feel things he hadn’t before.

He wanted to make her smile, and never stop. Rig grunted at his lack of sense. It’s the drugs. This was sure as hell notthe time to be entertaining such thoughts.

“Let’s go.” Before he could move ahead of her, Mel took off down the trail. Rig had to trot Chief to catch up. The bouncing was pure agony, but it did keep his mind on the present and the brain-fog at bay.

As nothing was falling over the cliffs at the moment, the two of them urged their horses on, threading around rocks, boxes, and broken wagons. Chief laid his ears back and flinched, huffing steam as they passed. Mel’s roan skittered up the trail, nervous at the death around them. Up ahead in the dark, Mel stopped and pointed the flashlight at the base of the cliff among river willows.

She slid off her horse. “Damn it, Mel, what are you doing?” His outburst provoked a jagged flash of pain up his body, leg to head. He squeezed his eyes shut until it subsided.

He rode up to where the flashlight threw its bright circle. In the center among the rocks and tree roots lay a man. His horse had fallen across his hips, surely crushing everything below his beltline. Face pale, the man squinted at them, one hand up, shading his eyes.

“I say, Miss, could you turn down that lantern. I may go blind.” The voice was thin, but clear.

Mel pointed the light at the ground. The pinned man looked them over. He examined the flashlight in Mel’s hand, Rig’s boots, pants, and for a long time, his face. He had large eyes with thick eyebrows, which seemed to flutter up and down with each new question that crossed his face.

Finally, he looked at Mel and said, “Good Evening. Captain Reginald Sparhawk, Ninety-Fifth Rifles.” He coughed and tried to turn his shoulders to face them but failed. “I would add, ‘at your service,’ but such gallantries are beyond me now.”

Mel introduced the two of them. The man listened very carefully and glanced once more at the flashlight before speaking in a weak voice. “Happy to meet you, Captain, Miss Graham. I am freezing here. I am confident you can make quick work of a fire.”

Rig was surprised by the man’s genial air when he obviously had little time left and knew it. Rig glanced around. Not much wood, but several broken boxes. Curious, he asked, “And what makes you think we can start a fire here?”

Captain Sparhawk gazed steadily at him for a moment and then said in an almost reverent tone, “Because I have never met your like before.”

Rig tensed, but the man gave him a wane smile and lay his head back down, apparently exhausted by his social exertions.

Mel reached between the horses and laid a hand on Rig’s arm. “I’ll collect the wood if you will light it.”

Rig reluctantly slid off his horse, only just avoiding collapsing in the mud.