Saving Time

Chapter 34

Murphy’s Laws of War #1

“The dirtier and more tired you are, the less you appreciate ‘constructive criticism’ from somebody in a pristine uniform.”

Melissa didn’t breathe as Rig lowered his head, bringing his mouth near, eyes on hers. He stopped, his lips inches from hers, and waited. Dia na trocair—God of fools—she wanted this she knew, but it was so difficult to ignore all the daily precautions she’d grown up with, ever more so in the midst of the army. Her uncle was surely still up waiting for her. She may never have such an opportunity again, but . . . Dia na trocair!

She grabbed Rig coat lapels and pressed her lips to his. Eyes closed, she felt his smile, and tasted ale.

He slowly brought his hands to hold the sides of her head, fingers in her hair. His lips moved over hers in a soft caress. She lost herself in the bubbling sensations roving through her body, her lips Fidgin fain—tingling with delight.

She wanted to merge with his body. She pushed herself against him, melding into his every contour.

Without a thought, her body making demands, she opened her mouth. Rig moaned and gathered her hard against him. Time stopped for her. Then, way in the distance, she heard across the city, church bells ring half-past three.

She reluctantly pushed away, gazing up into his eyes. He looked as hungry and dazed as she felt. She laid her forehead on his chest, breathing hard, surprised by her wantonness. “Glory, I have never desired the creepie chair until now.”

Rig pulled her away. “The what?”

She chuckled at his confused tone. She mussed his hair, and said, “In our churches, there is the creepie chair, a stool where discovered fornicators are forced to sit during services.”

He offered a crooked smile. “They must make them in pairs?”

Melissa laughed, tugging on his coat cording before settling her hands on his chest. “I never thought of it. They must.” She allowed her hands to rove across his chest, wishing there were no clothing in the way. “I hope we can continue a’ deanamh gràidh.”

With a smile, he leaned down to catch her eye. “Oh, absolutely.”

She realized what she said. It was less embarrassing to say it in Gaelic. Her cheeks warmed more than they already were from the kissing. “Deanamh gràidh means to make love.” Seeing his expression, she quickly added with a sly smile, “I have experience of what it means in your time, now.”

Rig shook his head wryly. “I want more of that experience.” Glancing up the hill, he said, “So, when can I see you again? I have to be with my company today, but I will try to meet you in the market or come for lunch. We go to El Burgo to relieve another Ninety-Fifth company. Maybe in the evening?”

“Yes, I will have my uncle invite you for dinner again. And after?”

Rig nodded, saying, “I’ll see you then,” and kissed her for a long time.

They broke apart, breathing as though they’d both had run down a hare. Melissa hugged herself, the chilly morning air making her shiver now that their bodies were separated. He stepped away. “Rig?”

He nodded up hill. In the distance, Colonel Graham was walking toward them with two officers. “Well, that was close.”

~ ~ ~

Melissa glanced at their approach. She spoke softly, in a hurry. “I . . . This is all so troimh-chèile—unnaturally confusing, and new to me.” Melissa tried to sound reasonable. “I want to be your jo, but I know because of my situation—your situation—and your hopes and expectations of the future, nothing can come of this.” She opened her hands indicating the space between them. “Of us.”

He frowned hard. She opened her arms, crossed them again, eyes everywhere but on him. Her hand coming to rest on her throat, her stomach trembling, she finally looked at him. “As ye say, it’s okay. I want more. I donna mind.”

“My jo? I like that. But it does matter, Mel.” He gazed off into space for a time, then in the direction of her uncle before facing her. “This is a crazy, stupid-ass situation, one I am only beginning to navigate, and I have nothing to offer, an unknown future. I don’t want you hurt.” With an apologetic smile, he said goodnight to her and waved to Colonel Graham as he left.

~ ~ ~

January 13th, 1809

It hadn’t occurred to Melissa until morning that Rig could be killed or wounded skirmishing with the French. The knowledge added to her jumbled emotions, her fears in having a braw Leannan, a lover, something she had not believed possible. It all ate at her, a gnawing little fox, because she could do nothing about any of it.

She was telling one of the maids what clothes needed washing when the ground shook. A deafening blast tossed dishes and bottles onto the floor. Windows cracked and furniture toppled, sending the house maids screaming. Sprawled on the floor among broken pottery, Mel’s head rang, and she felt nearly deaf.

Her uncle ran in to help her up. “Are you injured, lass?”

She shook her head, taking in all the damage in the kitchen. “What happened?”

“Och, the Galician Junta in their wisdom collected 4,000 barrels of black powder on a hill three miles north of the city in a stone tower. General Moore ordered the magazine blown up.”

“Three miles away?”

Aye, it was beyond belief that such a sound and shock could travel from so far away.”

At the noonday meal, her uncle commented on her sgith behavior. She shrugged it away, rather than mentioning her worry about Rig. “My skittishness is due to a lack of sleep as much as the spreadhadh mòr explosion.”

He nodded and gave her a pat on her shoulder. “The entire city is in an uproar over the explosion with nary a window left intact.” She wasn’t sure he believed her excuse. She stepped outside at noon, drying her hands on her apron. She could hear the distant boom of cannon fire to the east. She had not seen her captain earlier at the market and he failed to come for the noon meal.

All she was left with was worry while she anxiously tortured her apron. Rig had reminded her more than once, that worry didn’t add anything to the day. She smiled at the memories. She had not told him the Scots saying was ‘cha d’ rinn an iomaguin òirleach dh’ àirde,’ worry did not add an inch to one’s height. Of course, there were courser versions such as ‘worry won’t add an inch to one’s tall tree,’ but they were never spoken in mixed company.

That evening, as officers and their ladies arrived for supper, Melissa forced herself not to continually turn to the door hoping it was Rig when someone came up the steps. Supper was served and only one seat remained empty. She thought she’d go mad if she had to make small talk, so she continually scurried between the kitchen and dining table, with glances at the front door and the empty chair.

Then as she came out with a tray, there Rig was, sitting tall in his chair, apologizing for being late, but he’d had to clean the black powder dust off his face. She sat as he was questioned about the day. Were there any casualties? Was he hurt? No, just a flesh wound. The officers at the table chuckled and asked what a flesh wound was. Graham asked how the company performed.

“Well. With the rifles, they were able to keep the French out of range. Corporal Calley did the work of two sergeants today. He deserves a promotion.” He pointed to his sling, saying, “I wasn’t much help.”

Graham grunted, Mel wondering what that heralded.

Her uncle suggested he needed to speak to Major Beckwith about any promotions.

Having been served his food, Rig set to work on it, never giving Mel as much as a glance. She immediately feared she’d put him off with what she’d said last night, then chided herself for a loss of wit. She was sure he was just being circumspect. She wondered where her long-cultivated presence of mind had fled since last night’s kiss.

Melissa was certain the supper had lasted far longer than any so far. At eleven, officers and couples made their excuses until the room held only her uncle, Rig, and herself.

Rig, with a sheepish expression, asked her uncle if Miss Graham could remove the stitches from his shoulder and arm. Melissa received a nod from her uncle, so the three of them retired to the front room on the other side of the house. She gathered together a bowl of hot water from a teapot, a small knife, scissors, gauze, and tape, and sat him down in a wingback chair, bringing an oil lamp close. She brought up the footstool and arranged her tools. Her uncle asked Rig if he would enjoy a tankard of beer. Rig nodded, but when Graham returned with two mugs, Graham sat in the dim light across the room. Rig ignored this and removed his sling, pelisse, and his coat. Unbuttoning his linen shirt, he wriggled the sleeve off his bandaged arm.

While Melissa worked and Rig sampled his beer, her uncle remained quiet, watching them. It was making her anxious by the time he spoke.

“Captain, I understand you employed rather unorthodox tactics today.” Melissa closed her eyes for a moment, dreading where this was going, but continued removing stitches.

“Colonel?”

“You didn’t pair your men by file, but deployed two single lines, with only a few in reserve. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, what in the devil were you thinking?”

Wincing as she yanked out cut stitches, Rig said, “My men relieved a company of ninety with our thirty-five. We couldn’t cover the same front, so I simply used the gun smoke as cover while my men repositioned themselves back and forth, hiding in the tall grass. They would rise up in this new position and fire, then move back to their first hiding places covered by their smoke, leaving the French thinking there were more men than we had. Only once did their skirmishers attempt to force us and the reserve sent them packing.”

“I see. I heard your company brought down a good many of the devils.” Graham ended with a fierce, “Well done.”

Rig studied a miniature lying on the lamp table. A faun-like, beautiful woman was expertly portrayed there in a wide-brimmed hat. Her uncle came over and claimed it.

“A striking portrait, Colonel.”

He gazed at the miniature for a while and then nodded, “Yes, yes, it is. It’s taken from a large portrait by Thomas Gainsborough, the artist.” He breathed in deep and expelled it before saying, “Mary Cathcart. She was heralded as an exceptional beauty. I married her soon after that portrait was painted.”

Rig checked the new bandages and returned his arm to the empty sleeve. As he donned his coat, Colonel Graham said good night, giving Melissa a kiss on her forehead at the parlor doorway. “I’ll leave Melissa to show you out.” He shot Rig a significant look before retiring upstairs.

In a quiet voice, Rig asked, “Where is his wife?”

“She died in 1793. She was never strong and suffered from consumption in her last years. She died sailing to Italy where my uncle hoped the dry air would help her breathing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He moved the chair closer to her. “Your uncle seems to really hate the French.”

“Yes. When he was returning to England with her body through France, the Revolutionary Jacobins, distrusting the British, searched the casket several times, thinking to find smuggled arms for the Bourbon rebels. The minkers disrespected his wife’s body in his presence. Once she was buried in Scotland, he devoted himself to destroying the French. He raised two battalions of the 90th Foot in 1798.”

“Well, that explains a lot. He’s a very dedicated soldier.”

“Aye. As you are.”

He leaned close. “At the moment I have other tasks I want to dedicate myself to.” Melissa smiled thoughtfully at him. So he said, “How was that? Too English?”

She swatted him on his good arm and kissed him. Rig returned the kiss, and without looking found the lamp and turned down the light.

Melissa shook her head. “My uncle gave you a weighty eye. He expects you to leave, though he gave us his trust and privacy. He will be upset if you linger, as much as I want you to.”

Rig expelled a breath, eyes closed. “This is maddening. I wish we were still on the road.” He gave her a brief kiss and reluctantly said good night. Melissa promised a dinner invitation on the morrow as she walked him to the door.

~ ~ ~

January 14th, 1809

Rig cringed. Another pistol shot, another dead horse. Everywhere in the city streets, outside the gates, by the bay, and in mounds across the surrounding fields, the bodies of the horses could not be avoided. Bloated equine corpses piled up against the docks and ships. Major Brooks had told him that it had been decided only 250 out of over 2,500 cavalry mounts were fit to be saved, the rest being completely ruined by the march. Of the 4,000 artillery and draft animals, similar numbers would be destroyed. They couldn’t transport them all to England anyway. He saw several soldiers crying as they removed the harnesses from lame or skeleton-thin horses, before leading them away.

There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to where the soldiers were executing the noble creatures, the horses having given their all to reach the sea. First thing in the morning, Rig went to the don’s stable to make sure Chief was still there. He then asked Brooks how he could ship his horse with the army. It was done with more paperwork and more Spanish silver. He was continually grateful he’d taken those sacks of Spanish doubloons.

His company had thought him mad when he sat them all down to ‘debrief.’ They began to participate when Rig didn’t become angry after one stalwart private complained about having to load their Baker rifles lying down or trotting to new positions. Rig simply asked him if he had a better option to standing up where there was no cover. The young soldier said “No” but added, “Hiding flat out on our stomachs like a dead partridge in the grass seems the coward’s way. Officers have told me so. It be embarrassing, Sir.” Several men nodded.

Rig didn’t respond immediately but took on a thoughtful stance. “Those weren’t officers in our regiment.” The soldier nodded. “I know you men are no cowards, particularly after yesterday’s skirmish. You have nothing more to prove to me or anyone else.”

He met several men’s eyes. “The only embarrassing thing for a soldier of the Ninety-Fifth is stupidity, which can get you killed. I have just two goals in whatever we do together: To keep you healthy and to successfully carry out our orders, in that order. Embarrassment be damned.” He turned to the private who issued the complaint. “So, if it means keeping you from catching a French bullet, leaving your mother grieving, then you will lie down when I order it. Understood?” He waited until the whole company murmured, “Yes, Captain.”

After inspection, Rig told them that the battle they were anticipating would happen in two days and that the fleet would arrive tonight. The men looked at each other, incredulous. Rig cut off any questions about how he could know by saying that he’d received no orders today, so the company was dismissed. They had a day of rest. Calley came up to him and stood at attention, asking if he had any orders for him. His expression was now one of unquestioning respect.

Taken aback by the change in his demeanor, Rig said no and turned to go, when Calley quickly said, “If the captain needs a batman, I be that man.” Having no idea what he was talking about, Rig said he’d talk to him later rather than expose his ignorance.

Rig spent the rest of the morning securing Chief’s transport and deciphering the manuals Major Brooks had loaned him. He received the promised invitation to dine with Colonel Graham. Providing social gatherings for officers appeared to be expected of high-ranking officers, or at least those who were wealthy, which he was told Graham was.

Near noon, he also received a supper invitation from a Major General E. Paget, who Rig learned commanded the Reserve, which his company was a part of. At Don Mascoso’s house, Rig cornered Brooks during lunch to ask what to do.

Brooks offered to write out the note to Paget explaining his earlier acceptance of a supper invitation, thanking him for the honor, and hoping for a future opportunity. Reading the note, Rig ran his hand through his now longer hair. Not only would he have to learn long-hand all over again with a quill, but such formalities just added more acres to the social minefields. Signing ‘Captain R. Sparhawk’ was becoming easier.

~ ~ ~

“Captain Sparhawk, what was it like to fight the savages in Canada?”

Rig groaned to himself. Dealing with such questions, whether about Sparhawk’s past or explaining his tactics and leadership decisions, events everyone seemed to be aware of, forced him to lie about his past and attempt to explain his unconventional approach to combat. As a consequence, he was doing all the talking. Not his style. It exhausted him, causing Rig to wonder just when he’d trip up and screw the pooch, betraying himself.

“I never fought the tribes. They were peaceful where I was stationed, and I learned a number of useful skills from them.” Of course, that ignited a flurry of questions.

Luckily, the Montharron jerk and the Havelocks did not attend the dinners after the first night. Mel again was barely in her seat during the dinner. Only at the end of the meal, when all the dishes had been removed and the brandy brought out, did she stay. She didn’t look at him much, engaging in discussions with those around her. He was only three seats away, but it might have been miles.

Mel was proving to be several square kilometers of social minefields all by herself. He was left to talk with those next to him or directly across the table.

There was another ‘incomparable’ sitting across from him, according to Brooks’ whisper as he sat next to him. She had blonde hair fashioned into ringlets around her face, very sloped shoulders, bared by the dress, attractive blue eyes, but held that small pouty mouth, which left her speaking in a pretentious lisp.

As an officer across the table was asking him something about yesterday’s skirmish, there were shouts outside. The front door burst open, and a young ensign no more than sixteen came to a stop before the guests.

“My pardon, Colonel.” Waving a hand, he declared, “The fleet has arrived! They are coming into the harbor, scores of ships.”

There was a general hubbub going on outside, lamps swirling in the street. The supper broke up in a hurry, with everyone rushing to the top of the hill to see the harbor. Rig remained in his seat along with Mel and the Colonel. He grinned. “What are they going to see at night?”

“Perhaps lanterns hanging from the yardarms.” Graham chuckled. “They are off to see the army’s salvation.” He gestured to all the empty places around the table. “Well, Melissa, I imagine now is the time to start packing. You and the rest of the women will be sailing for home with the wounded late tomorrow.” Mel and Rig looked at each other with the same expression of sad understanding. This was their last night.

Graham rose. “Captain Sparhawk, a word before you leave.” He came and laid a hand on Rig’s shoulder, nodded to Mel, dismissing her, and then turned to Rig with raised eyebrows. When Graham didn’t say anything, Rig got the message.

Holding back regret and resentment, he said, “Good night, Miss Graham. The food was great.” Both Mel and Graham looked askance at him. “Uh, the food was delicious. Thank you.” With that the Colonel led Rig outside and down the stairs.

Stopping at the bottom, Graham dropped his hand. “Captain, I know you and Melissa have been through a great deal together. You seem an honorable man. I felt little concern in leaving before you and Melissa said your farewells last night.”

He stepped to face Rig, and said with the tone of a superior officer, “I recognize Melissa’s glow these last days, I am sure inspired by you.” Before Rig could respond, he added. “I was in love once. So, I must ask, Captain, what are your intentions concerning my niece?”