Chapter 13 #2
“Colonel, there’s a problem ahead.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned. “Come on, man, whatever it is, I’m sure we can take them.”
“’Tis not the Frenchies, sir.” Donnelly gestured down the path. “He’s a Spaniard, leastways, he doesn’t speak Frog.”
“How many?”
“Just the one that we can see. Came up the path as easy as maybe. He’s been waiting for a while—reckon for you to come up the cliff.”
“Quiet,” Fitzwilliam hissed, dropping to one knee. The riflemen froze, their green jackets melting into the early morning gloom. Somewhere ahead, a jay shrieked and was silent. Wind stirred the bracken.
Then, a figure appeared, as if conjured from the earth itself—a Spaniard, his face shaved close, his jacket stained with blood and powder, a long knife in his fist. He watched them with the wary defiance of a hunted wolf, then muttered a word in Spanish.
Fitzwilliam rose, his hands spread. “Somos amigos,” he said, his tongue switching to the soft lilt of north Spanish. “Ingleses. Buscamos a unos franceses—we are friends. English. We seek some Frenchmen.”
The Spaniard’s eyes narrowed. He spat, then jerked his head back, motioning them to follow.
Fitzwilliam barked a quiet order; Goulding signalled Donnelly and Simms to the rear of the party, and the rest followed the Spaniard along the ridge, then turned to follow the trail towards the rocky outcrop.
They came on the sailors’ bodies in a little hollow, the corpses sprawled among the bracken, their rough jackets stained red.
The Spaniards—six of them, rough men in threadbare coats, one with a bandaged head—stood over the dead with expressions of grim satisfaction.
Wickham was not among the fallen. Fitzwilliam’s eyes darted, searching for any sign of the women.
One of the Spaniards stepped forward, a tall man with a battered musket and a silver cross at his throat. He addressed Fitzwilliam in rapid Spanish.
“The partisans caught them unawares.” Fitzwilliam translated for Darcy. “They had pistols but the rain prevented them from firing. The women are safe. Here, in a cave.”
Darcy’s breath caught. He dropped all reserve, striding forward until he came to a narrow defile. Fitzwilliam followed, ducking under a scab of rock.
“Georgiana!” Darcy’s voice cracked.
She was there, lying on the rough ground. Pale, her dress torn at the hem, her hair lank. Lydia clung to her, sobbing, while Elizabeth, Miss Bennet—her face streaked with grime and tears—looked up, hope dawning.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam! Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth’s voice was raw with relief. Darcy knelt beside Georgiana. “You’re safe now, dearest.”
“Mr. Darcy, she’s very ill. She has a fever and cannot walk. Do you have water? For we were given very little on the boat.”
“Goulding, a flask, if you please.” The Colonel took the flask and handed it to Darcy, who very gently held it to Georgiana’s lips.
“Lizzy,” she murmured, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Is it really William, or is this just another nightmare, sent to torment me?”
Elizabeth immediately knelt next to her, stroking the girl’s brow. “’Tis your brother, and the Colonel, come to take us home.”
The Colonel rose, addressed the Spanish leader, Don Mateo, in his own tongue, talking quickly.
He turned to Darcy. “We must move. There are many patrols along the coast—searching for the sloop which ran aground. It is only a matter of time before they find the cove and come searching along the trail.”
“But Georgiana, and Miss Lydia. I’m not sure they can walk.”
“We’ll carry them on stretchers, the quickest way, but we must hurry.
The Spaniard says the only safe route is further inland.
There are French garrisons nearby at Avilés and at Oviedo.
He will guide us on an old pilgrim trail, which bypasses the towns.
The French dare not travel by such, for they fear—rightly so—ambush by the partisans. ”
“Goulding, take point with the scouts. Keep the women in the centre. We’ll march till nightfall and take shelter in the hills. If the French come, we’ll give them a taste of greenjackets.”
The riflemen grinned, their teeth white in the shadow. They moved out, Elizabeth wrapped in a jacket—its origin she cared not to know, only that it was warm and dry. The Spaniards melted into the scrub.
The party walked through the heat of the day, boots thudding on the stony track.
Darcy kept Elizabeth at his side, his eyes never leaving the shadows, every sense straining for the sound of pursuit.
Fitzwilliam walked with Don Mateo, trading news of the French columns and the movements of Wellington’s army to the south.
Frequently, Elizabeth would stumble, only to be held by Darcy’s strong arm.
Her boots, still not dry from the soaking they received on board the ship, gave her scant support as before.
The path was rocky, piercing the soft canvas soles—boots designed for promenading, not for marching across the mountains of Asturias.
“Sir, would it be so improper if I were to lean on your arm, for I am very weary? You may laugh, for my mother often accused me of walking out too often near Longbourn. To think that Oakham Mount was considered too difficult for a woman to climb. Already we have climbed higher hills in just the past few miles.”
“Not at all, Miss Elizabeth. Please, allow me to hold you steady.” Darcy had never walked with a woman so close before. Her arm was frequently around his waist—there was a rightness to it, he could scarcely conceive—his arm was about her shoulders, pulling her close to his side.
“Did you speak much with Wickham? For I cannot understand his motive in abducting yourself, Georgiana, and your sister.”
“He was a fool,” said Elizabeth, sighing deeply.
“He thought that I knew the future, that I possessed some form of far-sight, that I could tell him where the French garrisons were. His intention was to take us—me—to Napoleon, for a large reward, no doubt. Of course, he wished to ransom Georgiana. Oh, that poor, poor girl. Why does she have to endure so much pain from that man!”
“He evaded us, but when we find the cur, he’ll not escape lightly,” Darcy growled, his anger palpable.
Elizabeth winced. “Perhaps his escape is partly my fault, for he questioned me closely about my gift. I told him I sometimes see future memories, dreams perchance. Yet, when I thought of the French sailors, there was nothing—it was then I realised they would die. In any town, people die, even as they are born. In Meryton those near death never pressed against me.” She paused in recollection.
“‘Tis likely that Wickham slipped away during the night.”
Darcy looked down at the lady, her chestnut hair now free, hanging in long tresses down her back—she had lost all her pins someplace during the long chase from England. He was once besotted by her; then resentful. Now, he knew not, but she was unlike any woman he had known before.
They marched on. Night fell swift and black.
They found a ruined shepherd’s hut among the rocks, and there they made camp—riflemen spread in a ring, flints primed and ready.
The women huddled by the embers of a small fire, the wind howling through the broken roof.
Lydia, exhausted, slept at once, while Georgiana lay with her head on Elizabeth’s lap.
Darcy sat beside the fire, cleaning his pistol. Fitzwilliam crouched beside him, eyes on the darkness. “She’s strong, Darcy. Stronger than you know.”
“I never knew her,” Darcy whispered. “Yet, I would tear the world apart for her.”
“But you didn’t need to. They’re here. And Wickham—” Fitzwilliam’s mouth twisted. “He’s a cockroach. He’ll turn up again, but next time, we’ll be ready.”
Goulding came in from the dark, rifle over his shoulder. “All quiet, Colonel. Spaniards have the hill. No French within a mile.”
“Good.” Fitzwilliam stood, stretching. His back ached from the climb, and his mind hummed with the memory of the Spaniards’ knives, the Frenchmen’s blood on the moss. He looked at his men, at the women huddled by the fire, and felt for a moment the weight of command.
He thought of the war, of the endless marching, the cold, the hunger, the fleeting moments of respite snatched from the jaws of chaos. And he thought of Miss Bennet’s face, lit by the fire, and the way Darcy’s hand never quite left hers.
There would be more fighting. The French would find the bodies, and Wickham—slippery as an eel—would not stop until he was brought to heel. But for tonight, there was safety, and victory, and the company of friends.
The wind rattled the stones of the crumbling walls of the hut. Fitzwilliam drew his cloak tighter, and let himself hope, just for a moment, that dawn would bring better things. Somewhere in the darkness, a rifleman began to hum a tune.
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