Chapter 29
Murphy’s Laws of Combat #10
“If your attack is going well, it’s probably an ambush.”
Rig walked Chief slowly down the wide road through the center of Lugo, frustrated with how Mel translated his actions last night. He cared for her. But she didn’t believe that? Or was that “gentleman” distancing because she didn’t care for him? Or simply because he would soon be gone? Rig shook off the tumble of unanswerable questions created by this looney time.
Lugo was a substantial town, with a two-spire cathedral at its heart. He kept noticing people on the street, civilians, and soldiers, staring at him or pointing. He began to wonder if he was wearing the Rifle Regiment uniform incorrectly.
Passing through the gate of the ancient, thirty-foot Roman wall around Lugo, he could see why the town had been chosen as a defensive position. Besides the impressive ancient fortifications, the higher ground the town rested on thrust north to slopes a mile away to meet the Rio Da Chanca.It flowed into the Rio Minhoon the east. Both rivers formed a moat surrounding the foot of the hill on all but the west approaches.
He continued to receive odd looks and snickers when he stopped to ask various officers where to find Major Beckwith. One group of officers included a tall lady, dressed all in blue, riding sidesaddle on a white horse. The officers went through the tedious process of introducing them all instead of just giving him directions. The lady with the long ribbon flowing from her hat was the wife of Colonel McKenzie of the 5th Foot.
The group were all smiling and laughing, like this was a country romp. Rig mentally shook his head at the idiocy, hoping the lady didn’t draw fire with her white horse and bright colors. What were these people thinking?
A mile from the city walls, the British were skirmishing with the forward elements of the French, just where Rig thought they would. On the grass covered slopes above the rivers, the British riflemen held the French light infantry at bay, denying them any chance to cross the many fords. Officers seemed to cluster in little groups above the skirmish line, a mix of red and dark green uniforms. The pop, pop of the musket fire and the clouds of smoke marked the front lines along the river.
After wandering along the slope crest, Rig finally located the major. He stood among several officers all of whom wore Rig’s uniform’s green with black cording, but there the similarities ended. There were different hats, Napoleon-style bicornes, pointed fore and aft. Others wore top hats or fur caps with a bag-like cloth hanging down one side as well as his own stovepipe shako. Like Rig, one had an arm in a sling. A few men sported red vests showing beneath unbuttoned dark coats. Others wore gray overcoats with wings. Rig assumed the oldest man among this circus was Beckwith. There still didn’t seem to be any rank insignia.
Beckwith looked to be no more than five foot seven, with a slim frame and face, a sharp nose, and the longest jaw Rig had ever seen, coming to nearly a point far from his mouth.
Here goes nothing. He wasn’t sure whether he dare ask to go on to La Corunna with Mel. Look confident, be confident. Rig dismounted and limped up to the group, but Beckwith was talking to another officer, so he waited, watching the soldiers below in pairs fire and load in a ragged skirmish line among clouds of black powder smoke. Rig smiled. Men were using the smoke as cover, hiding them from the enemy as they reloaded.
When Beckwith finally turned, Rig noted the intelligent gaze, and the contained annoyance in the set of his mouth.
“Captain Sparhawk, I presume.”
Rig stood at attention. “Reporting as requested, sir.”
Beckwith surveyed him as the other officers grinned. “Captain, by all that is holy, what prompted you to enlist in the Ninety-Fifth? With your height, you belong with the grenadiers.”
“I understood that the Ninety-Fifth is the best.”
Just then a bullet threw up dirt several feet from Rig and another whizzed by. Beckwith frowned.
“The Ninety-Fifth Rifles are the finest soldiers alive, Captain, but we refrain from commissioning an officer who will be nothing more than a giant target for the French.” He waved a gloved hand at another spurt of dirt nearby. “We recruit smaller-than-average men for a reason.” He slapped the rolled paper he held against his thigh. “My God, man! skirmishing is about using cover. You’d need a barn for cover or hide behind Lugo’s wall.” With that, Beckwith turned to receive a report from a runner who had just dashed up the slope while the much shorter officers around him chuckled.
Rig frowned. Well, that explained all the funny looks he received. He scanned the ground and saw that it fell away behind the group, covered with long brown grass. All the officers were listening to what the runner had to say, their backs to him. He eyed the depression, the officers, and smiled.
After a minute, Beckwith turned back, saying, “Captain, I understand you’ve—”
Heads swiveling left and right, the officers looking about. “Captain?” They all turned to study the path back toward town.
“Yes, Major?”
The men started, then stared at Rig, who seemed to spring from the ground when they weren’t looking. Rig grimaced at the leg cramp his little demo incited, leaning over to rub his thigh.
Beckwith frowned for a moment and then laughed. “I guess you don’t need a barn after all.”
“No, sir.”
“Where did you learn that trick, Captain?”
Yeah, where did you, Starke? “Uh, Canada.”
“Your red book, Captain.”
Rig retrieved Sparhawk’s pay book from inside pocket of what he’d been told was his ‘dolman’ instead of coat. He desperately needed a military dictionary.
Beckwith examined it, saying, “Ah yes, you served with the Fencibles there.” He frowned. “It also says you are six feet. You are inches beyond that, Captain.”
“Err, the clerk seemed to feel recording any inches over six feet unnecessary.” Rig hoped that ‘clerk’ was an acceptable description, said as ‘clark’ in the British vernacular. He had no idea who filled out a red book.
“Hmmm, yes.” Handing it back to Rig, Beckwith said, “I understand from Miss Graham you carry several sword wounds.” He eyed Rig’s arm in a sling. “Your leg still bothers you?” He squinted, examining Rig.
Okay.He nodded. “Miss Graham is correct as usual.” He pointed to the bandage peeking out from under his shako, and to his left arm in a sling and then to his thigh.
There were some grins among the officers. Beckwith shook his head and introduced the captains present, plus his adjutant, a Lieutenant Coons.
“Captain, your Ten Company has seen heavy fighting during our retreat. The men are played out. They’ve lost all their officers and sergeants. The thirty or so men left are being commanded by a corporal. I sent them on to La Corunna yesterday with the wounded. That is where I want you to go. See what you can do with them. They are good men, and we are going to need them. With your, um, skills at concealment, as well as what I have heard of your performances at Cacabellos, and with Napoleon’s Chasseurs, I assume you can get them in shape. Do you understand, Captain Sparhawk?”
“Yes, sir. Get them combat ready.”
Beckwith eyed Rig for a moment, then said, “Um, yes.” He mumbled “combat ready” as though trying the phrase on for size. After a moment, he nodded. “Captain, as you are going to La Corunna anyway, you should continue to escort Miss Graham. It is Colonel Graham’s request and mine. Deliver her to her uncle.”
“Colonel Graham’s request?”
“Yes, he’s heard what you’ve done for Miss Graham.”
“Has he? Small war.”
“Not small enough.” The Major waved a hand toward the west. “It is still more than seventy miles to La Corunna. Requisition four days’ supply.” Taking a slip of paper from his adjutant, Beckwith handed it to Rig.
Rig read it and then said, “Sir, would you write out the orders you just gave me?”
Beckwith frowned at Rig for a moment, but nodded and wrote it out and handed it to him. With one last glance, not waiting for a salute, Beckwith said, “You have your orders, Captain. Off with you.”
Rig mounted Chief, turning his nose back toward Lugo and Melissa. He shook his head in disbelief. He smiled at the unexpected turn of events and Mel’s apparent powers of social foresight. He’d gotten exactly what they needed, free sailing to La Corunna, with provisions.
~ ~ ~
“What did I tell ye?” Mel raised an eyebrow, arms crossed.
Rig gave her a half-quirk of a smile, thinking she was looking cute, rested, cleaned up, hair up, showing a bit of her old sass. “You were right, General. If the French don’t push too hard, we can enjoy a leisurely twenty mile a day trek to La Corunna.”
“Moore plans to give battle here.”
Rig couldn’t remember what history happened in Lugo. He grimaced at his thought. What history happened here. He was living it.
“All the better. We won’t be retreating with the army.” Rig showed Beckwith’s requisition order to Mel. “Where do we go to pick up these supplies?” She pointed further into town.
Afternoon shadows cut across the streets and buildings, creating cold spots. The two of them walked their horses westward along the Paseo Palestinaroadway for several blocks until they came to a large building with a plain front, obviously a warehouse. Carts, horsemen, and soldiers were milling around a large open entrance, two doors wide, each at least twelve feet high.
Mel waved Rig on. “Only you can procure the supplies.” So, he maneuvered around the milling crowd and limped through the front entrance. The cavernous interior echoed with voices as men crowded a long counter created with crates. Most of the men were sergeants and corporals, based on the chevrons on their sleeves.
As an officer, he pushed to the front of the line. He could see a side door open in the back where men were hauling in boxes and bags, other soldiers picking up consignments, toting them outside.
He waited for several minutes before a blond, baby-faced soldier in a red infantry uniform with light blue facings came over and addressed Rig across the counter. “Can I help you, Captain?” In spite of his German accent, his round-faced smile suggested he would happily ignore procedure and play the joker whenever possible. Rig handed him Beckwith’s requisition order.
“Captain Sparhawk? Yes, I’ve heard of you,” he said, eyeing Rig’s height. “Hard name to forget. You and Miss Graham planning a little jaunt?”
The things his smirk suggested made Rig’s jaw muscles twitch. “What is your name, Soldier?”
Seeing that he’d made a mistake, the fellow sobered. “I’m not an enlisted man but commissioned as a Deputy Assistant to the Commissary-General. I am Augustus Schaumann of the King’s German Legion.”
“Just get the damn supplies and NO hard biscuits.”
Schaumann stood blinking at Rig, which prompted Rig to say, “So, get to it, man,” which he did, disappearing in among the crates and bags farther in the warehouse.
Schaumann came back with a canvas bag, setting it on the counter. He filled out a printed form with a nearby quill and inkwell. He then slid it to Rig to sign. It was a receipt with all the printed lines filled in, but about half of the page was blank. Rig studied the strange form for a moment and then frowned at Schaumann, dumping out the bag on the counter.
“You forgot to itemize the bag contents, which I would think is your job.” The dumpling-faced deputy-assistant gave Rig a put-upon look which suggested he’d been caught attempting to pad his own pockets with more supplies—to be filled in later.
He wrote down the two pounds of bacon, one pound of beans, two pounds of flour, salt, sugar, coffee, and tea plus four brown potatoes, Rig returning everything to the bag. “And dried fruit.” Rig had no idea whether they had any fruit or not, but he’d learned to ask for as much as he could. The worst he could be told was “No” which it turned out, wasn’t the case. There were dried apples.
Once the food was listed on the form, Rig asked for a copy, which required more time for the now exasperated Schaumann. The enlisted men waiting behind Rig with their own requisitions groaned, grumbling at the long wait.
Once both Schaumann and he had signed both copies, Rig said, “Thank you” and pointed to a set of leather saddlebags hanging with other equipment on a wall. “How about the saddle bags?”
When Shaumann hemmed and hawed, Rig plunked down a silver doubloon and said, “Add them to the receipts.” With a sly look, the deputy-assistant swiftly pocked the coin and pulled down the saddle bags. With them over his good shoulder and holding the food bag, Rig rejoined Mel who appeared as impatient as all those waiting soldiers. After Rig had awkwardly mounted, he shook his head, and muttered, “Bureaucrats.”
Riding back at dusk to the mayor’s house and hopefully dinner, Rig let Mel know they were leaving tomorrow.
“But we’ve had only one day’s rest. Your wounds. The horses need to recover.” A farrier needs to look to the horses’ shoes. They’ve walked a rough road and many miles.”
“At a walk, how long will it take a horse to travel twenty miles?”
Mel pursed her lips, then said, “Perhaps five hours. But that’s not the point.”
“Well, I have my orders, General. We leave tomorrow.”
They returned to the mayor’s house without another word. They had dinner with a number of officers who also were staying in the mayor’s home. The mayor’s wife seemed pleased with the arrangement. The talk was all about the battle to be fought tomorrow, which neither Mel nor he added to. Mel excused herself early, heading for bed. Rig stayed to share the brandy passed around and to try and make sense of the British officer corps.
He didn’t have much luck. All the officers, regardless of rank, which he still couldn’t decern, treated each other as equals at the table. Most seemed to be big kids playing soldiers rather than anything approaching professional.
~ ~ ~
January 7th
The next morning, he and Mel ate a big breakfast and said goodbye to the officers and Senora Alverez. Again, Rig wondered where her husband, the mayor, was.
They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred meters down the cobblestone main street when Chief threw a shoe. Mel gave Rig an “I told you so” look. It required the entire morning to find a Spanish farrier, one willing, for several silver coins, to jump them to the front of a very long waiting list, and shoe both horses. The cavalry farriers had no shoes to spare for infantry officers and civilians.
Midmorning, the thunder of cannons echoed through the city, and muskets barked somewhere east. The officers had their battle. The rumble of fighting flared up again at noon, but then died away after an hour. Rig was anxious, not only because of the lost time and the black clouds piling up in the west. It wasn’t until after thirteen hundred hours that they were on their way.
~ ~ ~
Melissa and her captain walked the horses down miles of dirt road. Storm clouds hid the afternoon sun, but they refrained from raining. She couldn’t find anything to say and neither did he. She remained uncomfortable calling him ‘Rig,’ but he kept correcting her. Mounted couriers passed them at a gallop going both east and west. Beyond that, they saw no one, even when they entered the small town of Astariz.
Melissa gave him a questioning glance when Rig passed through the silent streets without stopping even though it was getting dark. The wind whipped their capes about, promising a fierce storm. He showed no compunction to explain, and she refused to ask questions.
Once they were out of town, the wind threw large drops intermittently, warning of things to come. Still there was no stopping. Finally, he turned down a trail off the main road, but walked the horses through the grass on the side into a clump of trees. Then they waited.
Just as Mel was about to ask what they were waiting for, a group of four riders trotted by on the road. They were obviously not military, looking more like pirates with gaudy sashes and short swords. Once they were out of sight, the captain turned and followed the trail until they came to a small house and barn.
No lights shown against the black of the surrounding trees. He dismounted and opened the doors to the barn, his flashlight illuminating the dark inside. They found stalls and a large pile of hay plus wood for a potbellied stove but no animals or tools, save for a wooden bucket. The Franklin stove was a surprise, the first she’d seen in Spain. It was nice to be able to sit safely so close to the warmth radiating from the iron creation, and no smoke. Rig found a rain barrel and watered the horses as he and Melissa rubbed them down.
Seeing Rig unpack the food bag, Melissa said, “Why are we staying in the barn? The house would be more comfortable. The Spaniards have obviously fled or moved to the city for protection.”
Without looking up, he said, “Because the barn is easier to defend, and I don’t want anyone stealing the horses.”
“The brigands who rode past?”
Rig nodded. Having started the fire, he pulled out bacon and two potatoes from the food bag.
“How did you know?
“I saw them gaining on us from a hilltop, but they should have caught up with us in Astariz.They avoided entering the city, so I figured they were up to no good. They were still on our trail once we left the town.”
They ate in silence. The storm that had been developing all day came whipping through the trees outside, winds rattling the barn, threatening to tear the walls apart. Mel was glad to be inside, unsure whether the barn would hold, even sheltered as it was by the trees. The rain created a pounding roar against the roof’s shingles, drips appearing in several places. Watching the captain clean up in the light from the stove grate, remove his boots, and crawl into his blanket without a word, she sighed. She was bone weary.
“Are you angry with me, Captain?”
“It’s Rig, remember. And no, why should I be?”
She didn’t respond until she was in the sleeping bag. She removed her sling. She seldom felt the need for it now.
With a sigh, he said, “No, I’m not angry, just dog tired, and frustrated. I don’t know enough to be effective. You knew the horses needed new shoes, but I didn’t listen, just as I didn’t about Beckwith. As you said, we could have gotten into real trouble if we’d just taken off.”
This new lack of confidence worried her. “You have gotten us here, Captain. I certainly could not have alone.” Now they were among the officers, she was more often reverting to the London English she had learned. It seemed to create more distance between them.
“Perhaps.” He got up and added wood to the stove and returned to his bed. “Now, I am the flapper.” He propped himself up on his good arm, looking down at her. “This world. I am not sure what will happen if I don’t return to my time.”
Melissa didn’t know either but heard the fear behind his words. She acknowledged his changing circumstances and the problems awaiting them with an “Aye.” He’d said ‘we’ which warmed her heart. However, she knew, better than he, from now on, he would be facing far more dangers.
She rubbed the warm amulet hung around her neck, frowning at his worried profile against the light of the stove. For the thousandth time, she wondered what had brought him to her rescue.
She reached out and laid a hand on his cheek, turning his face to her. “We will win through,” she whispered with a small smile, “you’ll see.”
He placed his hand on hers and came in close. “I believe you.” He followed through with a kiss. She welcomed it. He leaned over farther and tried to hold himself with his bad arm and failed. He partially fell on her. He grimaced for a moment, but then said, “Oops,” with a grin.
She laughed and pushed him onto his back and lay across him. She whispered “Oops” and said, “My turn, mo nighean famhair.” She kissed him, excited to have their bodies pressed together. His mouth moved on hers, lighting fires she’d never felt before, opening her mouth in amazement.
He groaned and pressed his lips against hers. Hands explored and caressed, kisses only broken to laugh. He nibbled her ear and left a trail of sensual delight down her neck.
She’d never felt so free, the surge of wonder and life flowing through her. So this is what it is all about. Of their own accord, her fingers found his shirt buttons and began undoing them.
He stilled, laying a hand on hers, stopping any progress. He inhaled a shuddering breath, his chest raising her up like she was floating. She grinned at the sensation, but stopped seeing his serious expression, the unhappy turn of his mouth.
“Did I do something—”
“No, Mel. You are the most exciting woman I’ve ever met. You haven’t done anything wrong. I want you—badly. It doesn’t feel right, fair to you when I am going to be gone. Or stuck here, hardly worth . . .” He rolled out from under her. “I want it to feel right.”
Up on her elbow, embarrassed anger flashed through her. “I have no say in this? I’m no glaickit miss, without wit or understanding. I desire you, here and now.”
He closed his eyes, lips pressed together, as though trying to rid them of her feel, her taste. “You’re still a virgin, right?”
Melissa sat up. “Is that what concerns you? It is mine to lose and to give, you eijit. Are women in your time so very chaste? I have a doubt the way they dress.”
Her captain waved away the question with a wry smile. “That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it, though? Are future men so unwilling or diùid, dead to desire to accept such a gift when offered?”
“Damnit, Mel. I won’t do that to you, not when I am . . . though you know I want to.” He ran his hand roughly though his hair. “I am complimented by your willingness.”
“Is that so?” She quietly hissed the last word. “Now, now you dane to be a gentleman, to be Propriety’s champion?”
“Propriety doesn’t have anything to do with it.” He gave her a sharp glance. “It never has.”
Melissa sat back and frowned at him. Oh, it was his concern. She smiled.“You care for me.”
Looking sheepish for a moment, he waved that away. “Mel, look. Even if I wanted to, and I do, I am in no shape to do you justice, not with your first time.”
“Seas! You need not concern yourself with that.” She kissed him. “Just lie back.” She sat by him and began to unbutton his shirt. “I find this situation to my liking.” He stilled her hand with his.
“Are you sure?”
She laughed. “As certain as I am of anything. I want this, Captain. I want you.” She sat back and grinned. “I now know what that feels like. Too soon, returned to my uncle, I will hardly be able to talk to you. Certainly, not able to unbutton your shirt and . . .” She caressed his bare chest, intent for a time. She added more wood to the fire, then threw back his blankets and undid his belt and ties. Sliding down his pants until she got one pant leg stuck on his bandages and braces. She stood, and with hands planted on her hips, studied her handiwork and then the bulge in his skivvies.
Her cheeks turned pink, but she smiled at him. “You are a bonnie mon.” She then proceeded to undress. When she was down to her shift, she stood, let her hair down, shaking it out, but then looked irresolute, hands picking at the hem of her linen shift.
Rig smiled, but waited, unsure what she was thinking. Having second thoughts? “You are gorgeous, Mel.”
She smiled back. “I imagine that the intrepid women in your time would nae be wearing a shift to, to—”
“Make love?”
“Aye, fine words.” With a determined glance at him, she lifted the shift over her head and stood naked before him unsure where to put her hands. “It’s a might cold.”
Rig realized he was staring. “You are stunning, sweetheart.” He held out his good arm. “Come get warm.”
She giggled, and grabbing the blankets, came to him. Lying on his chest under the covers, she kissed his face all over, ending with his lips. After a time, she broke away to rub up against his chest and thigh. “I feel so bold. I do believe I am going to have my way with you, Captain. And in your weakened condition, you can do aut about it.” She realized she felt safer this way.
“Well, I can help.” He reached over to a pocket of his rucksack, retrieved a condom, and removed its package. “You think you can figure out what equipment this needs to protect?”
She took it, examining it thoughtfully, pink rising on her cheeks again. She blew on it, ballooning it out as she’d seen Rig do so long ago. “I think I will enjoy discovering how to use this French Letter. How many do you have?”