1802: A Romance (Patreon)

1802

J.E. Melton

Connor Pembroke crouched in the ditch, checking the load in his pistols. “Jason,” he called softly to the big redhead keeping watch by the haystack. “What was the name of that woman you were swiving in Portugal?”

“I wasn’t,” Jason Mallory said. “It was Spain, and her name was Madalena.” He had a charged gun in one hand and his sheathed saber in the other. The farmyard around them lay desolate; the doors of the buildings broken, though still hanging from their leather hinges. The hay in the stack Jason crouched behind had a moldy smell as if after weeks of bad weather.

“But she was Portuguese?” Connor persisted in his questions.

“She claimed to be. She didn’t speak Spanish, so I had no reason to doubt her. Not that the Spanish spoken in that province is much different from Portuguese,” Jason said. He’d told this story to Connor before and sounded amused to be retelling it.

Connor looked thoughtful. “And she had a mole…just there?”

Jason snorted. “That fascinates you?”

Connor grinned. “Aye. I’ve never encountered the like.”

Shaking his head, Jason agreed. “No, and you’re not likely to,” he laughed.

Connor started to sneer something about not everyone could be God’s gift to women like handsome, heroic Jason Mallory when guilt seized his tongue. He glanced back toward the dilapidated farmhouse, knowing why he’d been thinking about—and making jokes about—naked women.

He finally opened his mouth but had no idea what might have been about to come out.

“Sh,” Jason urged. He did not move, but his attitude had changed. A brown cap concealed his red hair, and the rest of his clothing was of similar drab color with the collars of his coat turned up to hide his face. No one approaching the farm buildings from the road would be likely to notice another dun-colored lump. He listened and waited.

After a moment, Connor heard it too—horses hooves on the road that passed in front of the little farm. In the ditch, he could not be seen from the way, so he felt free to move and take a pistol in each hand. He eased the hammer back to cocked position, worrying a little that the powder he’d used to prime the pans had been exposed to the damp weather of their recent travels.

He'd loaded all six of the handguns they had with them, four smooth-bore pistols and two lighter, rifled ones. Jason had one of the better shooting irons and he, being a better pistol shot, had all the rest, in his hands or tucked into his belt or sash. Six shots might not be enough to do what they needed to do, but then they would have their swords.

The noise of horses traveling grew louder. Now Connor could make out the jingle of harness, the murmur of voices, the cries of small birds disturbed along the road. “Do I dare lift my head to see better?” he whispered to his friend.

“No,” Jason answered just as quietly. “We’ll know soon enough. If they ride past, they’re not the men we’re waiting for but if they turn into the farmyard….” He let that thought trail off.

Connor nodded, though Jason could not see the gesture. “The women,” he breathed. His stomach clenched on emptiness, remembering. A few minutes before, he’d been able to forget the hostages they’d found cowering naked in the ruined buildings. A rude shock loosens the hinges of the mind, he reflected.

But now he steeled himself to do what had to be done if the men on the road turned out to be the kidnappers and rapists returning for another round of…he didn’t know a word sufficiently filthy to describe what had evidently been going on before he and his friend arrived. After discovering the women in their plight, he and Jason had committed themselves to their rescue. Gentlemen could do no less.

Jason, Conner knew, would not flinch from any necessary deed after his military experiences in India, Spain and Canada. He’d been hardened, or perhaps tempered was a better word. Most of the time, Jason was still his carefree, jovial self. Maybe he drank a little more than he should now, or gambled his life on untried jumpers a little too readily.

Connor winced, remembering the bruised and bloody mess that last mount in Derbyshire had left of his friend. But Jason had got back on the treacherous horse and won the race, laughing as he collected his fifty-pound wager. And that extra cash had led directly to this adventure, crossing the border from Belgium into Napoleon’s France on a mission to get Jason’s Aunt Karolie’s daughters safely out of France.

Hearing the change in sound as the riders left the road, Connor did not need Jason’s hiss to alert him. He checked the position of the hammers on his pistols one more time then lay still, waiting for the renegade French soldiers to ride past.

The women had said there were five of them. With luck, surprise and three pistols, the Englishmen might be able to even the odds, but then it would come bloody sword work and be quick about it because they could not let even one of the soldiers escape to bring a whole company down on their heads before they could get the women safely away.

Connor licked dust off his lower lip, tasting as well as hearing and feeling the approach of the horsemen. He knew he didn’t have Jason’s leadership, bravery or experience but he could follow his friend’s model and rise to the occasion. At least, he hoped he could.

The bearded sergeant the women had described came first, riding a tall dun with a regimental brand on its flank. The hidden Englishmen let him pass.

Two more soldiers in partial French uniforms rode by. They were making jokes about what they were going to do with the women they had left in the farmhouse. Connor gritted his teeth but kept quiet, lying hidden in his ditch.

The fourth man’s face twitched as if in the command of some inner demon. He glanced from left to right continually but seemed to see nothing. A reek came from him, stronger than the odor of horse and barnyard, a stench of lust, anger and fear. His horse was the only other one wearing a brand, not military but of some commercial company.

The fifth man was really a boy, beardless and wide-eyed. According to the women inside, this one had taken no part in the rapes and beatings but had watched and done nothing. Guilty as much as the others, thought Connor, yet Jason had indicated that the boy should not be killed if it could be avoided.

Once the boy passed, Jason stood from his concealment and shot the sergeant in the back. Connor committed, too, having chosen his targets. He fired left-handed at the savage-looking fourth man while his right-hand pistol sent lead toward the nearer of the two ahead of him.

Jason dropped his pistol, pulling a dirk out as he moved. Connor dropped his guns, too, and pulled out two more. Being the better pistol shot, and capable with either hand, he’d taken the bulk of their powder weapons.

Screaming the full-throated ululating cry he had learned from the natives in Canada, Jason leaped onto the back the fifth horse, dealing a blow with the flat of his saber and dismounting the boy there. The horse tried to rear, but Jason leaned his weight against its neck and forced it back down.

Connor fired his second volley, missing as he aimed at the untouched man furthest from him and sending a second shot at the sergeant. He had one pistol remaining which he drew in his right hand as he pulled his saber with his left.

The boy, with a bleeding scalp wound, sought safety from hooves in the ditch with Connor, earning him a back-handed saber slash to the thigh. The boy went down and stayed down.

Jason and the wild man were trading blows on horseback. The one man who had not been hit by gunfire rode for the trees while the other two headed for the farmhouse. Connor drew down and aimed, hitting the sergeant in the back of the head and knocking him from the saddle to be ridden down by his own confederate.

That man reached the farmhouse and rode his horse directly against the door, bursting it inward. The horse screamed like a woman and was answered by screams from inside.

Jason left the wildman still on his horse but holding his guts in his arms and rode after the escapee, screaming the aborigine warcry again. Without looking, he pointed his saber to the farmhouse and shook it once before bending over the horse’s neck to urge it in pursuit.

Connor understood, he was to take care of the man who had made it into the farmhouse. He debated on reloading a brace of pistols but decided against it. He checked the boy in the ditch to see that he was still alive, though unconscious or shamming effectively. Blood flowed sluggishly from the young soldier’s wounds, and Connor shrugged. The boy would live or die, stay where he was or try to escape; but if he did the last, he would not get far.

In the distance, Connor could see Jason begin overtaking their runaway just before both disappeared into a thicket of woods. Adjusting his grip on the straight-bladed infantry saber he carried, he picked up one of the unloaded pistols he had fired and discarded; it would do for a bluff.

The excitement he had felt in the first part of the fight faded, and he suddenly felt weary. The wildman dying on top of his horse moaned once and toppled sideways, causing his mount to crabstep and shy away from the blood. Connor smiled grimly and trudged toward the farmhouse.

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