Saving Time

Chapter 26

Murphy’s Law of War #11

“On the ground, war rarely makes sense regardless of expectations or planning. Get over it.”

January 4th, 1809, Herrarias

Melissa dodged in and out of the crowds of soldiers as she raced down the street with her bundle. In all, it felt good to be back amongst the familiar, the British Army. Falling snow muffled the afternoon din created by an army preparing to march. Shouts and suggestive calls followed her when she couldn’t avoid bumping into someone. As she crossed the slippery cobblestone streets, she waved to women and officers who recognized her, but she had to return to the captain before he woke. Herrarias would empty quick enough once the battalions formed up.

She entered a tall house calling “I’ve returned” and took the narrow stairs two steps at a time. She stopped at the attic door. Heat from the fireplaces collected at the top of the stairwell. Basking in it, she set the bundle down and removed her coat. Melissa straightened her clean blue dress, opened the door, and stepped into the small room. She froze. The captain sat on his sleeping bag, bare but for his shorts, bandages bright white against his tan body.

“What?”

She started and gave him a scowl, which couldn’t hide her embarrassment. She had been staring. “Ye needn’t bark like a moor hound.” She glanced back down the steep stairwell, waving a hand at him in the process. “Cover up, mon. Ye canna be seen in such a state.” She pulled in the bundle from the landing and shut the door.

He gave her a quizzical frown. “By you?” She felt her face heat some more. He spread his hands. “You take my clothes, then complain about the lack of them?”

Exasperated, she snapped, “I had to obtain your measure.” She picked up the bundle and unwrapped it. “I’ve fashioned a uniform for ye,” she said, smiling with pride. She laid out a linen shirt, jacket, breeches, and furred pelisse on the floor, finishing with the unmentionables, socks, and his boots. She had completed the task in just a few hours, with the help of Tilly, Lieutenant Muir’s wife. He stared at the black-green uniform while Mel packed away the remnants of his clothes.

“Captain Sparhawk had two uniforms. With help I was able to fashion them into one for you.”

“He was wearing one of them.”

“Aye. He bid me take his jacket and pelisse. By some golden chance, he had two pair of breeches with his belongings.” She had to make him understand how necessary this was.

“You removed his jacket after he died?”

“Aye.” She could not read his expression, but she felt defensive. Did he think her a ghoul? “It was his request.”

“What’s a pelisse?”

“That fur-lined short coat.” She held it up by a black cord at the fur collar, looped it around her neck, allowing the coat to drape over her shoulder. “You wear it just so.” The captain stared at her for a moment, then looked away. She frowned, but said, “Or in cold weather, you wear it over the jacket.” She laid the pelisse down with the rest of the uniform.

The captain intently surveyed the clothes laid out for several moments, and then barked, “What in the hell have you done to my boots?”

“There’s no need for crass words, Captain. I used boot black to ‘camouflage’ them. That is the word, ‘camouflage?’”

The captain picked up one boot by its laces and with a pained expression, inspected the black polish coating the cloth sides. “You realize this polish is going to come off on everything, don’t you?”

“Will ye not see the need of it?” She waved a hand at the uniform. “I couldna find boots your size, ye great gant.” She picked up her long coat and hung it on a wall coat hook, then brushed the snow off as she watched for his reaction.

The captain eyed the elaborate uniform dismissively and then said, “Where are we?”

“Herrerias.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That was better than twelve miles.”

“Aye. Once on the road, we joined a column of the 28th Foot. We were in Herrerias by one this morning.” Villafranca was burning when we passed through it. Glad to be with the 28th as drunken Tannasg staggered aboot on every street.”

“Son-of—” He rubbed his eyes and then shook his head. “I don’t remember much. Just a lot of yelling and torches.” He looked up at her apologetically.

Melissa smiled, not just at his change of subject, his expression, or even her pleasure in how the uniforms had turned out, but at the delicious intimacy of conversing with the man while he sat unconcerned in his near-naked splendor. She could have never imagined it would be such a delight, even with his carping.

Abruptly, he frowned hard and asked, “How did we get past the city gates last night?”

She smoothed down the skirts of her clean poppy blue dress and sashayed over to one of the French knapsacks, hoping the captain would notice her appearance. She’d found her trunk with her uncle’s baggage left here four weeks earlier. When there was no response, she pulled out a small, red notebook, and waggled it. “I used Captain Sparhawk’s pay book.”

~ ~ ~

“You what?” Rig winced. He’d tensed to stand but his leg resisted the idea.

Mel picked up her skirt and stepped closer. “Captain Sparhawk suggested—his dying wish, it was. He said it would do as no one knew him in the army, him being so new, from Canada and all. Ye can take his place. He was without relatives, and taller than most.” Her eyes sparkled like a sunlit sea and her expression radiated enthusiasm. “It was meant to be, do you not see?”

Leaning over him, Mel’s loveliness scattered his thoughts, so he said the first thing that came to mind. Anything to avoid becoming lost in just looking at her, the charming dress, regal air and smile, her grace—her clean, beautiful face. Damn.

“The man might have been near six feet tall. I’m six three.” Rig ran his fingers over his hair. “I don’t know how to be whatever he was in this army. How can we make this work?”

“It will. It has to.”

“I assume it is against the law to impersonate an officer, even in this time.”

Mel glared at the ceiling for a moment and then seared him with her gaze. “In this time?” She gave him a tight squint and said, “If ye and your Modern Mind have sounder notions, I will listen.” Arms crossed, she waited.

He said a few age-old words under his breath and then looked around so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “You didn’t find your uncle—I hope—as I’m still here.”

She shook her head. “He has gone.”

“You found a clean dress that fits and a coat.” Rig thought she looked stunning, then realized he’d said it out loud. Mel beamed at him, making him glad he had told her. Considering the uniform, Rig admitted to himself, she had proven herself steadfast in spite of his ill-temper and the horrors they’d been through.

She waved off his ‘stunning’ comment, a sudden blush burning her skin. “My uncle left my luggage to be taken but has gone ahead to make ready for the army in Lugo and beyond.” She clapped her hands. “Now, get dressed. I long to see you in your uniform.” He didn’t move. “Ye must make haste. General Moore has ordered a thirty-six-hour forced march to Lugo.”

“You’re joking.” She cocked her head, trying to hide her anxiety. He blew out his breath. “From what I’ve seen, the British are in no shape to accomplish half that. I’m sure not. It’s a damned stupid thing to do.”

“Aye, but it canna be helped. The French are close.” After a moment, she turned to him. “Do your generals avoid such imprudence?”

He grunted. “Not if they can help it.” Mel didn’t appear to understand, so he said, “Our generals also tend to be several echelons above reality.”

When he didn’t continue, she said, “I will go down and bring up tea.”

“No coffee?”

She rolled her eyes. “There are biscuits.” A light rap sounded on the door and a plump woman burst in with a tea tray. “Miss Graham, they have begun to— Oh!” The woman gaped at Rig for a moment, her eyes growing larger. She whispered “Oh my” several times.

Mel took the tray from the woman’s hands and laid it on the floor near Rig. “Mrs. Carstairs, Nancy, have the last battalions formed up?” Mel led the woman out onto the landing, taking her hands and turning Nancy to face her. She finally nodded. “We will be down in a trice. It is a miracle you found us last night. I fear we would have been in dire straits without your help.”

Nancy stole glances at Rig as she spoke. “I have met all the battalions marching in. There are so many needing help. It has been bedlam here for several days. Babel would prove limp in comparison.” She stopped, looking decidedly embarrassed with the situation. Finally, she gestured toward the street below. “My husband leaves with the Quartermaster General now, and I must follow shortly. Your horses are still in the shed, but I cannot say for how long. There are looters everywhere, and even our officers are not particular where they find transportation. I have left food for you by the door.” With one more glance at his bare chest and another “Oh my,” Nancy raced down the stairs.

Mel held a hand to her head and turned to face the captain, leaning against the doorframe for support.

“Who was that?”

“The most indiscreet woman south of John o’ Groats.”

“Who?”

“It’s a town.” Mel scowled at the floor and said without looking at him, “Get dressed. I will bring around the horses.”

He didn’t move—he wasn’t sure what was the matter.

She finally glared at him. Her eyes traveled down his body once, then she snapped, “And hurry, ye bawkie lump, or do you need help?”

He smiled softly and shook his head, enjoying her sass.

She shot him a speaking glance, whirled, and grabbing her coat and one of the French packs, sped away.

Rig raised an eyebrow as she disappeared down the stairwell. In the gray light flooding the room from a small window above him, he’d seen tears in her eyes. He’d have to ask her what that was all about. Obviously, he’d embarrassed her in front of Nancy.

The musty smell in the room made his nose itch. He reached over for the clothes Mel had laid out. Every inch of his body protested. They had been on the road at least nine hours yesterday, beyond the fight at the bridge. He didn’t remember entering the room, but he obviously made it up the stairs.

The good news was that he felt better. He glanced at his watch. It was three in the afternoon. Rig swore. Only Ranger candy from now on. That was if he still had any Ibuprofen.

Right now, he needed coffee, or a whole gallon of Red Bull. Anything but tea. He did drink it, stuffing the cookies into his mouth along with Ibuprofen as he struggled to get dressed.

Some of the clothes proved difficult to figure out. Rather than a fly on the front of the pants, there was a flap with button on each side. The pants had black leather inserts along the entire inside of the legs. The shirttails hung down to mid-thigh, which made them difficult to tuck in. The coat sported black cords across the chest, each included buttons, and loops for closing it. There was a wide, but short black tie for the high shirt collar. He tied a half-Windsor and hoped Mel approved.

The final doodads were a barrel sash of red and black beads and a black belt with straps for a sword—to which Mel had fastened the Frenchman’s saber. Another wide black belt went over his left shoulder and down across his chest. Attached to it hung a silver chain and whistle. Bizarre. He pulled the fur-lined pelisse over the coat. It fit perfectly, even though both coat and pelisse were thick wool.

A black, stovepipe hat with a leather visor lay by the door. He sighed as he picked up the ridiculous thing. He transferred his Special Operations challenge coin to the right inside jacket pocket, but Mel had already stuck the red paybook there, so it went into his pack and laid his left arm in the sling. There were no pockets in the pants. His knife and boot scabbard fit under one leather pant leg. He already missed his Beretta.

Once dressed, he quickly packed and slung his sheathed rifle on his back. He stumbled and dragged his and what he assumed was Sparhawk’s pack down the two narrow flights of stairs. He limped out the front door and down three more steps. A wall of humanity greeted him, filling the street no more than two meters from the bottom step. Hundreds of musket barrels rose above the masses like waving grass.

A clamor rose from the river of people, men and women talking, yelling, clinking metal, and feet shuffling on cobblestones as soldiers attempted to stay warm. The din made it impossible to isolate any one voice, which is why he failed to hear Mel calling him.

She waved frantically from the side of the house. Their horses were saddled, but three men stood in front, yanking at their reins. Luckily, the horses were in no mood to budge. They faced the crowded street, a moving barricade with no apparent access for two large animals.

Taking off his sling, Rig liked how he could rest his left hand on the sword hilt, with the sword tied to his belt. It exuded authority, even if his leg, a burning ache, threatened to collapse under him and his left arm held the hilt stiff and useless. He turned and bellowed, “Get your damn hands off those horses.”

The soldiers jumped, their eyes traveling up to meet Rig’s, only to grow wide in unison. They dropped the reins and backed away. They found their voices just as they disappeared into the hordes filling the road. “Only tryin’ to help, Cap’n, only trying to help.”

Mel yelled several epithets after them, then turned to him. A broad grin lit her face. “Ye look grand, me braw officer.” She pointed to the hat. “Don the shako, Captain. Let us see ye in full tog.”

He frowned but placed the tall hat on his head. A stiff breeze blew down the street, so he pulled down the chin strap to keep the damn thing in place. Mel beamed. He looked down at the abundance of black cording across the dark green pelisse, the fur-trimmed cuffs, and muttered, “Officer? I look like I escaped from a high school marching band.”

Rig tied the packs on the horses one-handed, or tried to. Mel had to help. He said hello to Chief and checked him over. Mel had tied a large roll of hay across the chest of each horse. He considered the hay for a moment.

“There is corn in the packs for the horses.”

Rig shook his head and turned to her. “You, Miss Graham, are not only stunning, but an amazing woman. I’m very glad you’re on my side.”

She swept windblown hair off her face, gazing at him with a soft smile, the meeting of her winged brows suggesting surprise. He didn’t know what to say, self-conscious after praising her.

He looked around for something to help him mount. Anticipating his need, Mel pointed to the front steps of the house. Carved into the middle step face were Spanish words identifying the house as belonging to a court magistrate.

As he led the horse between the marching columns and the steps, he wondered where the man and his family had gone when his house had been commandeered. Did they have shelter and food? He frowned at the thought and mounted with an embarrassing lack of grace.

Once he was upright in the saddle, Rig could see above the assembled multitudes.

An officer roared, “March!” and the cry was taken up through the battalions. A few officers called out “Cheerily men,” but it seemed meant to get the men to quicken their step rather than put a smile on their faces. People flowed through the streets like high tide.

Mounted, Mel glanced at him. “I waited as long as I dared before waking you. These regiments are the last of the army. The army began marching out at daybreak and it has taken the day to empty the town so these columns could join the march.”

Rig nodded. “No, you’ve done wonders, Miss Graham. Impressive as always. Thank you.” He gave her a smile which she returned. He turned to frown at the hundreds of soldiers ranked before him, filling the street as far as he could see in either direction. When the U.S. Army pushed up the highway to Bagdad, the head of the column always remained a day’s march ahead of the end—even with transport. “I needed the rest. And how much sleep did you get?”

“Enough.”

Rig studied her profile, trying to determine whether she had indeed gotten ‘enough’ sleep. She didn’t have the dark circles under her eyes anymore, but she appeared weary just the same. She now wore a wide-brimmed straw hat.

“Captain.” Mel reached around behind her and lifted a large bundle and held it out to him. “This is my uncle’s. I took it from his baggage.”

Rig unwound it. Short, black hair rippled on the underside of the wide expanse of cloth, the other side was a blue-gray material like a tightly woven canvas. It was a large cape, the high collar and neck clasp indicating which side was out. “And what I am supposed to do with this bedsheet?”

She grinned. “Wear it, as if ye dinnae ken. It is a cavalry cape, better than the French ones we wore. That fur is beaver pelt,” she said with emphasis, pointing at the lining. Rig got it. Expensive. “It will protect you and your mount.”

Mel expertly whirled her cape around her shoulders, the material flowing down her back and covering her horse’s rump as far as the tail, with hardly a wrinkle. He tried to do the same one handed with less success. The inner lining of hair grabbed the horse’s coat like Velcro, resisting the wind. Rig clasped the front, which actually had buttons down to his breastbone. He felt like an idiot and worked to smooth out the drape behind him.

Mel grinned at his frustration and reached over to help straighten out the cape. The high collar actually caught on his unshaven cheeks. He must look like an escapee from a Dracula movie, though checking Mel, he had to admit she looked like a queen, the cape rippling around her in the wind. Almost immediately, he felt the heat from Chief’s back warming the space under the cape. He smiled at Mel. “Now, that’s cool.”

She waved a hand. “Donna concern yourself, it will warm ye very soon.”

Rig chuckled and thought of explaining ‘cool’ to her but changed his mind. He saw she wasn’t wearing her sling. Seeing her cleaned up and in a new dress, he hadn’t noticed. He grimaced at his oversight. “Where is your sling?”

“I have it with me, if needs be.”

Though the soldiers had started to move, all he and Mel could do was sit on their mounts and watch the procession until an adequate space opened up. Smoke and snow swirled through the air, smelling musty and damp. The men trudged by, only to stop until the front moved again. They wore parts of uniforms, civilian clothes, rags wrapped around feet, legs, and heads, too many without overcoats or capes or weapons.

Women, a few carrying babies or being followed by children of all ages, struggled to keep up amongst the sea of soldiers. Madness. The entire scene depressed Rig, from the gray skies, the sleeting snow, to the miserable expressions on the faces passing by. Was a day-and-a-half forced march necessary? Any fool could see what kind of misery the coming march would inflict on these people.

The frigid air already made Rig wish he were back in the warm attic. He could imagine what he would feel like in thirty-six hours. Mel had said they’d have to traverse sixty miles over the passes and down into the plains around Lugo. He wasn’t sure the horses could carry them the entire way, and he could barely walk.

He checked his watch. Nearing five in the afternoon, on January fourth. He wondered where they would be on the morning of the sixth? A searing fear seized him again, the emptiness of being lost in time, the foreignness of it all, the pending dangers, forced to share in the surrounding lunacy in a Sergeant Pepper uniform.

He fought the sudden panic and gripped the reins to keep his gloved hands still as he gazed blindly at the pale faces passing by. Carry out the mission. Never quit.

Grizzled veterans and mere boys were complaining to anyone who would listen. Several called out to officers among them; a few yelled at him as they marched.

“Give us food and we will fight the Frogs all day.”

“Damned generals, why kill us in battle when they can march us to death?”

“Let us rest and we’ll give the Frenchies what-for.”

There were other comments about Rig’s height, the fact that he and Mel were watching the ‘parade.’ The humor was forced, but still the soldiers chuckled. The sullen emotions of the thousands before him became a physical pressure, like the icy wind blowing through the streets, tugging at his clothes, numbing his thoughts.

Finally, a break appeared between the columns and Mel slipped her horse in. Chief trotted to follow, jarring Rig from his stupor of fear.

As the army tramped though Herrarias, Rig saw Spaniards peek out of upper story windows or from hiding places in alleys. He wondered if any of them were the magistrate and his family. Here and there, downside streets, soldiers could be seen pushing along shirkers, forcing them to join the retreating flood of humanity.

The columns stalled just outside the city gates, and everyone grew silent as they faced the bleak, snow-covered road ahead.

Rig looked up toward the mountains. Gray, menacing spurs jutted over the switchbacks climbing toward the passes. The sky was a black curtain to the west, save for a sliver of light at the curtain’s bottom edge, the last rays of the sun silhouetting the peaks. The snow blew in gusting waves that seemed to break against the line of British soldiers strung out for miles ahead, then hid them. Gradually, the deep throb of thousands of marching feet grew as troops ever nearer stepped out again.

In front of them, a corporal cajoled a particularly despondent private. The boy, no more than seventeen, laden with pack and musket, moaned in a language Rig couldn’t follow. The corporal put his arm around the boy. “Oh, sneck up. Take the bit an’ the buffet, me boyo. It’s not to be helped.”

In a heavily accented voice, the private insisted, “We all will freeze to death and ruin by mornin’.” There were tears in his voice. “There’s not a bite to eat in this evil land entire.”

“We two will make it, you’ll see,” the older man said with a similar inflection. “We’re Cornwall men after all. A tale to tell your children for sure.”

“Never will I marry, Ardel,” the boy shot back.

The corporal laughed at the small show of spirit. “Aye, perhaps that’s best for a soldier.” He pushed the boy to get him moving. “The Frog cavalry snap at our heels, Pendennis, and our officers are bleeding mad. There’s nothing for the game but to play on.”

Rig chuckled and took grim courage from the man’s words.

Mel glanced at him. “Ye find the advice amusing?”

“Yes, but familiar.” His words fogged the air.

“What do they say in your army?” She hesitated. “In your time?”

He gazed up at the storm clouds crowding the mountain. He took a deep breath and said, “Embrace the Suck.”