Chapter 35

“I should hate to fight out of malice or revenge, but have no objection to fighting for fun and glory.”

—Colonel George Napier, 52nd Foot, 1812

“Sir?” Rig felt his stomach drop to his knees. Shit, shit, shit!

Mel had tried to explain the situation to him. Mel had been so concerned about her reputation during the march, but then was willing to throw it all away for one night, saying, “I donna mind?” Damn this time, this damn society.

The Colonel said nothing but waited, his frown deepening the longer Rig didn’t answer. The truth, Starke, it’s all you have.

“My intentions? I intend to survive, sir. I intend to get to England. I intend to see Mel— Miss Graham again.” Still the colonel waited. Rig clenched his teeth. Hell, in for a dollar.

“Beyond that, sir, I have no plans or hopes at this juncture.” Rig paused remembering all the times Mel had pushed him away or insisted on propriety. Was he going to be forced into a marriage?

Meeting the colonel’s gaze, Rig said, “Miss Graham has been very concerned to not cause embarrassment to you or your family. Her reputation on the march and now here is without blemish, and I would say brightened considerably.” Still Graham said nothing. “Once we arrive in England, I hope my situation will improve.”

“I understand.” Graham looked at the ground for a moment. “War is a hellish business and a true inconvenience.” With a stern smile, but in a matter-of-fact tone, he said, “You and I, Captain, will have this discussion again when we are again on British soil.”

“I hope you are right, Colonel.”

Saying “Goodnight,” the colonel turned toward the front door, but at the top of the steps he called out, “Captain Sparhawk.”

Rig had started down the hill but came back.

“All the women will be boarding ships tomorrow for the evening tide along with the cavalry, artillery, and wounded. Moore will be deploying for battle in the early morning.”

Rig grimaced. His company will be deployed tomorrow.

“The general will be busy with plans the rest of tomorrow,” Graham said with an assessing expression, “if your prediction for the battle commencing on the 16th is accurate.” He thought he saw a slight curve to the colonel’s mouth in the doorway lamplight. “Melissa will send a note to you where you can meet to say your goodbyes before she boards.”

~ ~ ~

January 15th

Mel had helped the last of the women, children, and wounded on board the transport Maggy Shore. The ship made ready to leave with the evening tide, a strong wind coming up from the southwest. Still Rig had not appeared. The French, seeing that the fleet had arrived, pushed back the British picquets in the late morning, but a costly countercharge by the 5th Foot had halted what would have been a general assault.

She paced the dock in front of the gangplank, hugging herself against the wind, fearing Rig would not or worse, could not meet her. It was past the time she’d written in the note this morning. Had it even been delivered? The first mate was losing patience with her requests to wait a few minutes more before shoving off.

Then, in the evening light, a large figure strode down the walkway to the dock. Who else could it be with that resolute hitch in his stride?

He came up and smiled, black powder streaking his face. “Hi. Sorry I’m late. The French kept wanting our attention.”

“I’m so glad you came. In any case, I don’t have much time. The tide is going out.”

Rig glanced at the sailors scowling at them. He looked at her, pulled her close and whispered, “I will see you in England. But while we’re here, let’s make the crew’s wait worthwhile.” He held her face, fingers in her hair, and kissed her like he would never see her again.

Amid hoots and cheers, he pulled away and put his forehead to hers. “Come find me for I may not know how to find you.” He smiled softly. “We will have a great deal to talk about.”

Eyes wide, she nodded. He kissed her again, leaving her toes tingling.

“I am berthed on the brig Dispatch.” He turned and escorted her up the gangway, stopping at the deck to say, “Good sailing.” Melissa saw him pause to speak briefly to the first mate, slipping him a coin, and with that walked back down to the pier. He watched with that jaunty grin of his, waving his now not so white Panama hat, and disappeared into the dark.

Melissa stood at the stern to watch the city fade into the black night, the wind snapping at the sails in the relative calm of the of the crowded harbor, as the longboats towing her ship maneuvered among the other hundred sailing ships to reach open water.

Too soon, the wind blew stronger, and the waves rocked the ship and soaked everything with sea spray. The first mate told her and others to go below, clearing the decks for what would be a turbulent night. All she could think of was Rig facing battle tomorrow. Would he survive?

This remained the continual dread of a soldier’s wife. Even following her uncle and worrying during his secret trip to Madrid in the summer, she had never fretted so much as now. The insidious dread of the possible sapped her strength. Rig couldn’t die after all he’d given up, all that he’d faced, all that he seemed to promise her. For once, she cursed the social inability to say all that ought to be said.

She remembered Rig’s maxim, that today was all one had. She staggered her way down the stairs to the lower deck, checking to see if she could help with the women or the many wounded laid out on the main gun deck. A number were having trouble with their beds sliding across the sloped decks when the ship rolled in the swells. They were already passing slop buckets for the seasick. Then she made her way to the cabin she shared with Mrs. Sally Stansbury, the young wife of a major. She had met Sally on the pier along with several women she knew, glad they would be on the same ship.

On entering her cabin, Melissa found Sally huddled in her bunk, peeking out from under the covers. Melissa grabbed the doorframe as the ship leaned into the wind, tilting everything, toppling items from the wall desk, slamming their trunk lids shut. It was clear that young Sally was totally unprepared for rough seas. Mel smiled encouragingly and sat by her in the cabin’s one chair and sighed. If this gale persisted, it would be a long voyage.

~ ~ ~

Evening, January 16th

“Where is Payne?” Rig had been pushing his men up the gangway only aided by dim lamplight. He counted them as they passed, the last three companies of the Ninety-Fifth were assigned to the transport Horatio, including his Tenth Company, but not Rig. Most officers like Rig were berthed on other ships. The last of his riflemen passing Rig said he’d seen Payne through the smoke and fire, scrabbling up the slope to the city with the rest of the company, but hadn’t seen him afterward.

The Rifle Battalion had been south of the city downhill with Paget’s Reserve during the battle. Rig’s company had been at the front of the British column which headed off a French flank attack. It was the weirdest, stupidest thing he’d ever seen, men standing in row after row firing at each other, less than one hundred meters away, until everyone was enveloped by billowing black-powder smoke. He was glad he’d been with the skirmishers, able to duck and cover when volleys flew. He’d hoped to see the battle as it unfolded, but apart from his small front, all he saw were clouds of white smoke and dark silhouettes of men.

He turned to Calley who had been checking off those who boarded. “Did you see Payne?”

Glancing at his checklist, Calley said, “No, Captain, not here. Payne was with us when we filed in behind the Fourth into town.”

“Well, shit.” Rig looked south, up the pier at the city, fires reddening the smoke whipped by the wind. To the north along the wharf, a literal forest of ships’ masts, hundreds bobbing with the tide, obscuring the last rays of light on the horizon. “Calley, get aboard. I’ll go find Payne.”

“No, Captain, I be staying with you.”

“That isn’t a suggestion, Corporal. That’s an order.”

“Aye, it certainly is that. All the same, I’ll be going with you.”

“Well, then tell your Chosen Man he’s in charge until you return.”

When Calley scrabbled up the gang plank to the main deck, Rig shouldered his rucksack, rifle, and saddlebags. Grabbing a gangway lantern, Rig left to retrace the company’s path from the battlefield. The Seventy-Fifth’s mantra: Never leave anyone behind.

Calley wasn’t fooled and caught up with Rig before he reached the top of the rise outside the city. Cursing his leg and slow pace, Rig peered back through the smoke and red glow of the city fires to see the Horatio being towed out to catch the tide, the longboat crews straining at their oars. “Well, Corporal, you’ve lost your ride.”

Calley glanced back waving his Baker Rifle at the departing ship but shrugged with a grin. “So have you, Captain.” Sure enough, the Dispatch was no longer at the dock.

“All right, let’s find Payne.” Calley took Rig’s rucksack, and Rig hauled his rifle and saddlebags with more than forty pounds of Spanish gold and silver Doubloons up the hill to the city, and down the other side to the Company’s recent battlefield.

The fires and lamps around the city provided a dim light, but the Ninety-Fifth Rifles’ unique dark green uniform made it difficult to see Payne on a slope among the blue and red of French and British dead. But they did find him. He was crawling up the slope. Payne had been hit in the back of the thigh, then knocked unconscious. The lantern sputtered out.

Rig swore and retrieved his flashlight. Turning it on, Calley hissed but said nothing. Rig had him hold the light while Rig inspected his wound. Luckily, he’d been hit by a spent bullet, so had not gone very deep. The light had begun to draw fire from French skirmishers off in the dark. Taking the flashlight back from Calley, he eyed him, saying, “Not a word.” Calley nodded, round-eyed.

Between them, they were able to haul Payne to the docks. But it had taken too long. All the docked ships had been towed away. Now troops were being shuttled in long boats out to transports anchored in the harbor. None of the longboats returned to the docks that night.

~ ~ ~

January 17th

The morning had been blustery but dry, clouds roiling out to sea, the afternoon threatening rain.

Rig sat with Calley and Payne on the beach south of the piers among a large group of soldiers and women, watching another group of packed longboats slowly row to the remaining ships in the harbor. The tedious progress of loading the transports was only broken by the French artillery. They’d dragged a battery of cannon up to a bluff overlooking the harbor, taking shots at the waiting ships. Little damage was done, but the French cannon balls frightened at least three ships into grounding themselves, trying to dodge the artillery fire. More longboats were required to transfer those ships’ troops and supplies to other transports if they couldn’t pull the ships free. Two of the huge ships of the line drove off the French guns with a few thunderous broadsides.

Everyone talked about the death of General Moore and his burial. After the beating they’d received on the 16th, the French were not interested in attacking the city walls defended by Spanish militia, so the tail ends of the army remained free to embark.

~ ~ ~

January 18th

It rained that night, but Calley was able to roast potatoes for Rig, Payne, and himself. On the afternoon of the 18th several longboats took pity on their motley band and rowed them out to TheBlack Swan, one of the few ships still anchored in the bay. Luckily for their group, the ships were only paid for what they transported, so the ships needed enough equipment and people on board to pay for the voyage. The Black Swan had been quickly converted from hauling horses which didn’t exist anymore to hauling people, most passengers sleeping in the horse stalls. For some silver, Rig, Calley, and Payne obtained a cabin with two beds, smelling of horse, old cheese, and unavoidable damp. As the ship rocked, fighting the wind, Rig braced himself at the cabin door frowning. The bunkbeds looked used, the slop bucket small, the paint on the one cupboard was pealing. The only place to sit in the cramped quarters was a small stool.

Passengers were allowed on deck only in rotations, so the three of them would have to occupy the cabin, the three sharing two beds, The Black Swan sailed with the evening tide into a howling storm. That night, fighting the rain to the ship’s railing, Rig threw his rifle, GN googles, scopes and other equipment overboard. It wouldn’t do to have them discovered. With no ammunition and exhausted batteries, they were useless.

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