James McGee - Rebellion

He scanned the ridge through the overhanging limbs. The soldiers were still signalling madly. He looked away, concentrating on the path. To his consternation, the gaps between the trees were narrowing. Their progress was being hampered. The gods were definitely against them.

Without warning, Leon reined in his mount. He twisted in the saddle and spoke urgently in Spanish. “We stand a better chance on foot.”

He hesitated and then decided it made sense. On foot they’d be less visible to the troops on the high ground. He nodded and they both dismounted. Pointing the animals in opposite directions, they slapped them hard on the rump to set them moving. Then they ran.

He was content to let Leon lead the way. The Spaniard was lightly built with tousled black hair curling away from the nape of his neck. A neat goatee framed his jaw. His brown eyes were bright and intelligent and set in a face scorched brown by the sun. A scar, part-hidden by the beard, ran from the corner of his chin to a centimetre below his left ear. Despite the disfigurement, he was a handsome man whose looks suggested he’d be quick to smile and share a jest; though not this morning. In the sullen light, Leon’s normally animated face was set in a grim mask of determination as he concentrated on the task in hand: keeping them safe.

The sword at his hip was becoming a menace, but the weapon had been a staunch ally to him over the years and he was not about to discard it like an old shoe. He unhooked the scabbard from his belt and, holding the sabre like a baton, picked up his pace. His ears caught the jangle of metal; the dragoons were in the trees. Unless it was their own mounts doubling back towards them. That would be ironic, he thought.

A small clearing came into view. They sprinted across it, keeping low. A musket ball, even from the higher elevation, would never reach that far but he still felt the hollowness in his throat knowing how exposed they both were, though he also knew the French would want to take him alive. He was more valuable to them alive. Dead meant he couldn’t be exchanged for one of theirs. Dead, he wasn’t worth a damned thing, except perhaps a reason for the Duke or even Marmont to raise a silent glass and for someone to carve a notch into the hilt of his sword.

They cut left. The trees thinned suddenly and they were out in the open once more. He could hear the dragoons thrashing through the foliage behind them. They would have to dismount, too, and that would give him and Leon the edge. The ground rose before them in a series of small terraced fields bordered by dry stone walls. Two enclosures away another patch of woodland beckoned: more oak trees. Up on the ridge, the infantry were running, keeping pace.

His chest was hurting now; so were his legs. He spent more time in the saddle than he did on foot and it was beginning to tell on his lungs. Leon, despite his wiry frame, also looked and sounded as if he was struggling. And the gradient wasn’t helping. They came to the first wall and clambered over it. By the time they had negotiated the second one, the dragoons had emerged from the trees.

And they were still on horseback. Somehow, they had found a way through. Realizing from the tracks that their quarry was now on foot, they had known that by remaining mounted they’d have the upper hand once they were clear of the wood. Baying like hounds, the scent of victory in their nostrils, the dragoons dug in their heels.

He tried to ignore the burning stitch in his side.

As they reached the last barrier of stone before the woods began again, a volley of shots came from their right. He heard the crack as a projectile struck the wall a few inches from his arm. There was movement to his left; more riders, approaching fast. They were close enough for him to see their scarlet-edged epaulettes and the diamond motif on their helmets. Directed by the troops on the hill, the dragoons had split their force in two, with one party having circled the wood in a bid to cut them off while the other had remained to the rear, driving them forward, like gamekeepers beating grouse before them into the trap.

God-damned Frogs! he thought, acknowledging that the French had played the game well. Then he was over the wall and clawing his way towards the shelter of the next stand of oaks.

He could hear Leon trying to suck in air. The Spaniard was labouring. His face was streaked with rain and sweat. As they hauled themselves into the trees, the dragoons were less than a hundred paces away. The drumming of hooves was as loud as thunder and he could feel the earth vibrating beneath his feet.

The Spaniard drew a pistol from his bandolier and a knife from the sash at his waist. “Run!” he urged. “Save yourself!” His features contorted.

“No, we go together!” As if a pistol and a knife would have made a difference, anyway, he thought.

They staggered on, shoulder to shoulder.

Leon was the first to go down. One moment he was in motion, the next it was as if the Spaniard’s legs had turned to porridge. The transition was almost leisurely, bordering on comical; as if someone had slipped him a slow-acting sleeping draught. He managed to keep going for another dozen steps before his legs finally gave way and he collapsed on to his knees, chest heaving.

They had separated and he was ten paces in front when Leon fell. He heard the Spaniard’s exclamation of defeat and turned back in time to see the first of the dragoons explode into view, followed swiftly by half a dozen more.

Leon raised his pistol. A shot sounded and he fell back clutching his shoulder, the pistol dropping from his hand.

“NO!”

Running back, he started to pull the sword from its scabbard and found himself confronted by a semi-circle of plume-helmeted horsemen, their carbines aimed unerringly at his head.

He halted and gazed back resignedly at the look of triumph on their faces. It was over. There was nowhere else to run, nowhere to hide. He slid the sword into its scabbard and waited as the dragoon lieutenant got down from his horse and held out his hand. He handed the sword over. The lieutenant took it, nodded wordlessly then walked over to Leon, who had raised himself to a sitting position. His face had lost its colour. Blood from his wound was oozing from between his fingers. He let the knife drop to the ground.

The lieutenant stared down at the Spaniard.

“Cretin!” he spat and withdrawing the sword he drove the blade down through Leon’s throat. Leon’s legs kicked convulsively and then stilled. The dragoon placed his boot on Leon’s chest, freed the blade and wiped it on the Spaniard’s jacket before returning it to its scabbard and calmly remounting his horse.

It took a second for the shock to sink in.

“You utter shit! God damn your eyes, you bastard! He was no threat to you!”

He screamed the words in English.

The dragoons made no attempt to stop him as he ran to the body. Other figures were hurrying towards them through the trees; the infantry from the ridge had arrived.

He sank to his knees, ignoring the wetness soaking into his breeches, and gripped Leon’s hand in his own. He stared down at the man who had been his friend and at the blood-stained, rain-dampened moss beneath the ruined throat. He heard footsteps approaching from behind.

A voice spoke in English, with a marked French accent.

“Get up, Major.”

The rage bloomed in his chest. He started to turn.

“Get up, Major.” The order was given again.

And his eyes opened.

“Time to get up, Major.”

The hand was still on his shoulder as he reached for the pistol beneath the saddle he’d been using for a pillow, forgetting, not for the first time, that the weapon had been taken from him. The memory caused his face to harden. He moved his arm and felt for his sword. At least they had left him that. He traced the hilt reassuringly. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the man gazing down at him.