Saving Time

Chapter 30

Murphy’s Law of Military Supply #4

Typical Beer math is “2 beers x 37 men = 49 cases.”

January 8th

Melissa slowly came awake. She was so couthy, loose limbed and warm. The wind and rain still beat at the barn, adding to the sensation of being covered and safe. When Rig’s hand came to rest on her bare hip, she came alive to the sensations of her naked body against his. Wonderous, it was. The night’s delights came tumbling through her mind, igniting the desire for more. She smiled. She’d been so hesitant to do what she wanted, what she dreamed of. As usual when faced with such doubts, she acted and glad she had. It felt so perfect now.

~ ~ ~

Rig felt delicate fingers glide dancing down his body, to stop at his cock. An erection was the quick result. “What do you think you are doing?”

“What I want.” She bit her lip to hide the grin at his attempts to wake up to the situation. “What do people call this?” Her hand moved up and down his now rigid shaft.

In a tight voice, Rig said, “Penis, cock, dick, to name a few. And in this day and age?”

She shot him a playful frown. “In this day and age, indeed.” Stroking him, she said, “A Thomas, a rod, or my favorite, a blanket flute.”

Rig laughed. “A what?”

“A blanket flute.” Eying him from under her lashes, she whispered, “We have the blankets. It is an instrument I think I will learn to play.”

He stopped her hand from its stroking. “You are learning quite fast enough, woman. I’m having to work to keep up.” Then he kissed her and released her hand to play.

~ ~ ~

Rig knew he still wore an inane grin when he pushed the barn doors open and squinted as the rain pelted him. Wind-whipped mud sloshed around his boots. Somehow, he didn’t care. He chuckled at the memory of Mel asking how many condoms he had anticipating their next night’s camp and the next after that. The woman was a wonder. Considering everything she had endured, her culture, her enthusiasm for sex was so unexpected, but somehow just like her. The smile stayed through breakfast and packing.

Mel still lay deep in the sleeping bag, peeking out with a seductive smile. “Canna we both hurkle-durkle just a mite?”

“Do what?” Rig approached the sleeping bag grinning, guessing what she meant, as she was naked.

She shook her head at him. “You rogue, it means to linger in bed awhile.”

Taking off his coat, he laid down on the blankets beside her. “I guess we can wait to see if the rain stops.”

Much later, both reluctantly agreed it was time to pack. Once mounted, they sat on their horses and contemplated the storm still blowing.

“Tallyho?”

Mel shook her head at Rig. “You silly mon.” Then with a deep breath, she nodded. “Tally-ho.”

They plodded through the wind-driven sheets of water which threatened to topple the horses. Near noon the ferocious downpour mercifully stopped. Drenched and cold, the wind lashed at them like sharp icicles.

As they topped a rise, the sound of clanging metal and shouts greeted them. Below, two wagons of wounded were under attack by a half-dozen sword-wielding outlaws on horseback. The fighting swirled around the wagons, one attacker and two soldiers lay on the ground. As they watched, one of the two mounted soldiers was knocked off his horse. A few of the wounded were making attempts to defend the wagons.

“Damn.” Rig swung his rifle around, yanking off the cover. He hesitated a moment. He’d have to hold the rifle with only his right-handed to save his left arm. It was his last clip of twenty. He took aim at the closest Spaniard and fired. The man flew off his horse. Everyone else froze, every face staring up the hill. With them all motionless, it made the next shots easier. Two more attackers were down in as many seconds. The last pair kicked their horses and ran. Rig chased them with more shots they galloped off to the west.

If any of Rig’s three shots left wounded bandits, they didn’t stay wounded. The ambulatory soldiers made sure of that. After re-sheathing his rifle, Rig and Mel rode downhill to the wagons. They received a ragged cheer and many smiles.

The remaining mounted man trotted up to them, a wide grin on his face. He had a bandaged headwound, which covered one eye. “Well met, Captain.” He introduced himself as Major Tomlin of the 43rd. How in the hell did he know my rank? Rig wondered.

“Your aid was most timely, to be sure.” He eyed Rig’s rifle, now covered and over his shoulder. “I assume that is an Austrian air rifle. I’d heard of them but am still amazed at the rapidity of the shots with no smoke—and at over one hundred yards. Astounding.”

All Rig could do was nod at his convenient assumption. The major led them to the scene of battle. Both he and Mel began treating the wounded in and out of the wagons as best they could. They were a miserable lot, fourteen to an open wagon with no protection from the rain and wind. Tomlin said as they worked, “We sheltered in an abandoned house last night. The lighter wounded soldiers struggled to get the seriously injured out and then this morning, into the wagons.

There were four soldiers killed by the Spaniards in addition to those who’d died during the morning, but they hadn’t stopped the wagons to remove them. All toll, with the Spaniards, there were eleven dead lying in a row alongside the road, the ground too frozen to dig graves— that is if they’d had shovels and pickaxes.

Major Tomlin stood gazing at the bodies, a frown hardening his face. “There were thirty-seven alive when we started out yesterday morning, now only twenty-six. There would have been none if you hadn’t appeared when you did.” Tomlin pursed his lips. Our surgeon is a boy of nineteen and wounded now. We truly need your help, particularly if you have medical supplies as you say. We have none.”

Rig used up the last of his bandages, and antiseptics from his medical kit, saving just enough hopefully redressing his wounds that evening. He’d hadn’t looked at the damage since the bridge too many days ago. His senses remained too deadened from persistent pain to tell if the wounds were healing well.

They got the oxen moving while Mel sat among the soldiers in one wagon, tending to them, her horse tied to a wagon. She continued to amaze him, her energy and patience. Gentle and considerate, she didn’t put up with any backtalk or complaints. Over and over again, she would jump from one wagon and clamber up on to the other while they moved, helping the wounded as they travelled down the road.

Rig, patience gone, said to Mel at a stop, “The oxen are maddingly slow, no better than three kilometers an hour, if that. You and I should be in Corunna by now.”

Mel gave him a searching look. “Are you in such hurry to be gone?”

He closed his eyes and blew out his breath but didn’t answer. How could he? Mel gave him a half smile in understanding. She gestured to the wagons. “These men need us.” That ended any further discussion, though Rig wasn’t sure he wanted to reach Corunna. What did he want, other than more nights with Mel?

Guitiriz, according to the major, was only twenty miles from Astariz,butby nightfall they were forced to stop at an abandoned waystation before reaching the town. At this rate it would be days before they reached La Corunna.

The waystation had room in the gated courtyard for the two wagons, a barn for the oxen and horses and what looked like a tavern. Tomlin, the surgeon, two soldiers with head wounds, a sergeant with his arm in a sling, and Rig, one-armed, helped carry the wounded inside the tavern and laid them on the floor. Because of the eleven dead, there were enough blankets to go around. Mel, Rig, Tomlin, the Sergeant, and the surgeon Meriweather Makecroph made dinner and fed their patients. Luckily, Tomlin had two lamps in the wagon.

Rig said, “I’m amazed by how many houses the Spaniards have abandoned. Seems strange so far from the French.

Mel shrugged. “They hightailed it because they don’t want to be ‘recruited’ and left paupered serving the British Army.”

“Oh.”:

Soldiers would comment on him, a captain, tending wounds and changing bandages alongside the surgeon, Makecroph and Mel, rather than what? Just sit in a corner of the main room and listen to the murmurs and moans? Tomlin told him there were a couple of rooms with beds upstairs. Rig said Tomlin and Mel could have them. Drained, he finally sat down on a pile of hay, back against a stall wall.

Mel had removed her sling. She continued to tend to the wounded though Rig suspected a number wanted female attention more than any real need. There were conversations and quips, but Rig heard only one exchange as Mel slowly walked between soldiers laid out in two rows. A soldier called out, “Larks, Miss Graham, I need relief. Me thomas is aching something awful.”

Amid chuckles from the soldiers, she put her hands on her hips and scowled at him, the men eyeing her expectantly.

She said with mock scorn, “Then keep your hands off it, ye dotty scunner.”

This created a roar of laughter and verbal hazing among the men.

Mel came over and slowly sat down beside Rig. “Ha gu ma?”

Rig smiled. “You must be exhausted. I didn’t understand a word.”

She frowned at him, saying with overly precise vowels, “How are you?”

“Tired. How about you? Feel like changing my bandages?”

She let out a labored sigh. “I don’t feel like anything, much less have a desire to look at more butchered flesh.”

Rig gave her a considered look. “I suppose I can ask Surgeon Makecroft do it.”

“Don’t be daft. That youngster hardly knows one end of a needle from the other.”

“Well, your shoulder is still healing, and he could use the practice.”

Mel gave a wry shake of her head at his suggestion. “My arm works well enough if I don’t move too quickly, such as batting barmy captains, in bed or out.” The last three words were whispered with a playful smile. “Better than your arm.” She half-grinned and scooted over. “Drop your trousers then.”

Rig smiled at her tone. She sounded more cheerful than she had at any time during their trek. He did as she asked. There were muted catcalls from a few of the nearby wounded, but Mel ignored them. She eased off the splints, unwound the bandages, and removed the gauze taped underneath.

He couldn’t see the exit wound on the bottom of his leg. However, the top of his thigh sported a three-inch ridge of bunched and stretched flesh, ugly but a healthy pink among the green and brown bruising. She cut out the stitches. The two sword cuts on his shoulder and upper arm were neater, if only because they hadn’t been stressed like his leg by walking. However, he could see knots under the skin around the long cuts because he hadn’t been working the torn muscles. Mel had done a decent job, but whether he would gain full use of his arm worried him.

Relieved no infections or more torn stitches had been revealed, Rig watched Mel as she rebandaged his leg without the plastic splints. She lifted up his shirt to look at his back. She removed the bandages but declared the hole healing well with no need for another bandage. She did the same with his head wound. Just as well. There were no more bandages. To save the rest of her hem, Mel had scoured the upper rooms of the tavern and found a few bed sheets that could be torn up for more bandages.

“Thank you, Miss Graham, much obliged.”

There was a loud moan from among the wounded. Mel gave him a glance as she slowly stood. “You are most welcome, Captain. Now, pull up your trousers.” There were hoots from the hospital ward all around.

Before she could move away, Rig grabbed her wrist and said, “Sit. Private Averson’s been moaning for hours. You’ve done all you can.” Rig stood, tested his leg, and then fixed tea by the barn fireplace. When they were both leaning against the wall again, with cups of hot tea in their hands, Mel considered him a moment and said, “You grow a braw beard, Captain. It will be a shame to shave it for inspection.” Rig grinned, rubbing his chin but then frowned. “Okay, now tell me how to recognize officer ranks. How did Tomlin know I was a captain?”

Mel shook her head at his confusion. “By your coat buttons. They are in pairs and the lace chevron on your sleeves.” She then went into a long description of the button and lace configurations denoting the various ranks from ensign to general. It all seemed convoluted.

“Buttons and chevrons. Got it.”

She glanced at him before laying her head against the wall. “Tis simple enough.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mel smiled. “It’s not how the American Army displays the ranks?”

Rig pointed to the shoulder of his coat that Mel continued to wear. “Those two black bars denote the rank of captain. Tis simple.”

She grinned, but closed her eyes, a weary effort. It allowed Rig to study her profile. Her features were more severe from the march, but the sight was still worth admiring, beauty and character. A strong chin and upturned nose over that intriguing mouth, one corner often turned up in patient humor.

After a long moment, he took her hand and stood. When she looked at him, he helped her to her feet and said, “Get some sleep, honey. With luck, tomorrow we will make it to La Corunnaand your uncle.” Mel studied him, a disappointed look in her eyes. He sighed. “Yeah, I know. It’s . . .” What could be said?

~ ~ ~

January 9th.

By the end of the day, Rig remained exasperated. “We are not going to make it to La Corunna. That idiot Makecorph.”

Mel nodded, but added, “We are able to sing together that much more, so that brightens the case against the lad.”

Early that morning, Makecorph, the company surgeon, in a show of youthful enterprise, explored the tavern cellar and found two kegs of ale. He repeatedly hauled buckets of the brew upstairs.

It was midmorning before they were able to load all the wounded. Even those in the most pain were alcohol sedated. Of course, the frequent calls to nature impeded the slow forward motion of the oxen, even with a slop bucket in each wagon.

As Mel said, the bright spot during the cold, damp, plodding travel was Mel’s desire to sing, particularly the “Bonnie Cuckoo” and “Nightingale” round they’d done before. The soldiers applauded when they’d finished. So, the two of them continued to sing. Mel taught Rig “Over the Hills” and “Far Away,” “The Scotsman,” and “Sally.” Rig introduced everyone to hits of 2008, “Lost,” “Sunshine in the Rain” and “Bye, Bye, Bye,” but mostly the choruses. There were specific lyrics he wouldn’t be able to explain. He did grin at the titles, all of them being ‘too on the nose.’

At the end of the day, they were only about six miles west of Betanzos, Rig paid a Spaniard to use his large barn. Rig smiled as he washed the dinner dishes, remembering. Mel had a sweet voice and loads of enthusiasm, even riding horseback all day in a drizzle.

There was something very intimate about singing together that Rig cherished. They both remained frustrated with the lack of privacy. There would be no more sex before reaching her uncle.

Finished with the dishes, Rig stood, keeping his bad leg straight, and stretched awkwardly, grimacing at his protesting muscles around the slices and punctures in his body. He then totted the dishwater bucket outside with his good right arm. Coming back, he threw wood on the fire, well-positioned underneath a hole in the conical roof.

Rig settled under his blankets and watched Mel in the weak light go to various wounded soldiers, checking on them, cleaning up where necessary. Her smiles were genuine, her movements easy, even with a bad shoulder, as tired and as saddle sore as she was.

In mid-breath, he realized that, like him, she needed to be useful and was in her element when she was doing something she deemed important, like keeping fighting men alive, fed, and comfortable. Her reasons for going on campaign with her uncle made more sense. She could see the world, even if it included traveling through a war. “Far better than being her sister’s maidservant,” she’d said, but he’d only seen the danger she faced.

Tomorrow, they would definitely reach Mel’s uncle and Rig would be gone, if they understood how the magic medallion worked. He had no idea how he would explain where he’d been for two weeks, AWOL if he did return to February 2010, but that wasn’t what occupied his mind as he stretched out in his blankets.

He would never see Mel again, and that thought left a hollow in his chest, which bothered him far more than the multitudes of troubles he’d face returning to his time—or failing to return.

He was about to close his eyes when Mel came over with a light smile and rolled out the sleeping bag next to him. He asked teasingly, “Should you be sleeping this close to me?”

Mel turned up a corner of her mouth and looked around. “Is there anywhere else as close to the fire? And I don’t want to explain the zipper.” She raised an eyebrow at the obvious answer and wiggled into the sleeping bag, still in her blue empire dress because of the soldiers, balling up her coat for a pillow.

“We make it to La Corunna tomorrow and your uncle.”

“Aye.”

He waited, but she seemed to have fallen asleep.

A bit later she stirred, whispering, “It would please the men if we were to sing tomorrow.”

“It would please me too.” He smiled at her in the dim light. “I’ll introduce you all to ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ and ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’”

“That would be a pleasure, though,” she said, a smile in her voice, “‘Alabama’ sounds exceedingly foreign.”

“I suppose it does.” The air was heavy with the smell of wood smoke and unspoken words.

“Mel.”

“Aye.”

Why was this so hard? Rig whispered, “I know I have been, been less than charitable toward you and your society. I have too often taken my anger and frustration at this crazy situation out on you. I apologize. No one could ask for a better companion, a better comrade than you.” He hesitated. “As I said, you have been amazing, like no woman I have known, in the army or out.” When Mel didn’t respond, he blew out his breath. “I didn’t want to leave without telling you. Two nights ago was important to me.”

“Aye, to me as well. Thank you. You are a spectacular man, Richard Starke.”

After a time, Mel sniffed and rolled over to face him, whispering, “And I am sorry for all that you have had to endure, though so well, a gallant help in every main.” There was a sigh. “I only wish we had met under different circumstances, not during this ugly war, though I can’t imagine how.”

“Yes, this ugly war.” As though all wars weren’t ugly. After a long silence, he said, “I will miss you, Mel.”

She took his hand. “I will miss you too. Whenever I hear the word ‘spectacular,’ I will think of you.” He gave her hand a squeeze.

~ ~ ~

January 10th

About ten in the morning, the company reached the bridge at El-Burgo under fair skies. The tongue of the bay reached that far inland. The entire company, seriously wounded or not, pulled themselves up in the wagons and shook each other, chattering all the while.

Mel sighed. “I can smell the sea” Her smile disappeared when she looked at Rig.

His goal in sight, one he’d fought so hard to reach, dread filled Rig, dread of finding Colonel Graham and disappearing back to face whatever consequences. Or the only other possibility. Fear of being trapped two hundred years in the past for the rest of his life. He’d been so goal-focused, coming so close to the end of their horrendous journey so many times, his roiling emotions said he faced a death sentence with either outcome.

“We are only four miles from La Corunna,” Mel said, with a worried look. ”

Rig nodded and straightened his back. With a sardonic tone, he said, “The moment of truth is nigh.” He kicked Chief to get moving.

Coming over a rise two hours later, the sea came into view beyond the sprawling port of La Corunna,hugginga large bay. Masts of several ships could be seen. A cheer went up among the men, a number laughing, and repeating, “We’re saved.”

A picket line across the road stopped the wagons. By his evenly spaced buttons, Rig assumed it was a lieutenant who directed the wounded to the church, Santa María del Campo, the spires of which could be seen at the highest point of the city. Before being led to the church by a nearby soldier, Tomlin shook Rig’s hand, thanking him and Miss Graham for all their help saying, “The men and I are indebted to you both.”

As Tomlin rode away Rig asked where to find Colonel Graham. The lieutenant replied the colonel was in the Canton Grande and called over another soldier to guide them.

Rig and Mel entered through a massive gate. They could see that the port city sprawled along the bay, multi-spired churches dominated every cobbled thoroughfare. The red roofed buildings of white and tan, all flaunted carved decorations and faces on walls and lintels. They weaved an atmosphere of ancient grandeur and otherness that left Rig chilled, an oppression hammering home the truth: he traveled an alien world. Glancing at Mel riding beside him, erect, still wearing his army coat, and like him, her arm resting in a white sling. She remained his only solid anchor in this outlandish world.

They traversed a good portion of the city before reaching the Canton as it lay on the south side, where a peninsula jutted out to sea. From there, a lonely tower dominated the high point of the land. Mel said the Roman edifice was called La Torre de Hercules because the local belief was that Hercules founded the city.

Their guide, who had said nothing during the entire trek, stopped and pointed to a large, two-story house situated alone on a small hill among the surrounding buildings. Saying it was where Colonel Graham was staying, he touched two fingers to his shako brim and left. They dismounted in front of the house, tying the horses to a boulder with iron loops imbedded in it. Hesitating at the foot of the steps, Rig looked at Mel, feeling as grimly apprehensive as she looked.

“Captain, I—”

“I know.” He tried to smile. “I know. I guess this is goodbye. Miss Graham, it has been a pleasure. Have a good life.” Mel raised a hand to him but had no words.

Rig didn’t wait, limping up the steps to one of two executions. A chill ocean breeze hit him at the top of the steps, making him shiver, reminding Rig of their twelve-day march in freezing rain and snow. It only added to the cold he felt reaching their goal, and his reckoning. Mel caught up with him at the front door.

The door was open. They entered as an officer was leaving, and he and Mel stood at the doorway, adjusting to the dim interior after the sunlight outside. Standing by a desk in the large entry with his back to them was a white-haired man in uniform reading a paper, radiating calm energy. He stood about five foot, eight or nine, a fit-looking older man of indetermined age. Mel stepped into the room, glancing at Rig.

~ ~ ~

Her uncle turned around, and his face lit up. “Ah, lass, Ciamar a tha thu?”

Mel clapped her hands together. “That gu math. Ciamar a tha sibh fèin?”

He opened his arms, saying softly, “M’eudail.”

Mel ran to him and held tight as she cried.

After some time, the man pulled her away. “Much, mo naoidheachan, much.”

She nodded, wiping away the tears. Turning toward the door, she said, “Uncle, I want you to meet Captain—” She froze. There was no one standing in the doorway or anywhere in the room.

Stunned, Melissa whispered, “Captain?” She ran to the doorway and looked out. “Rig!”