1635: A Parcel of Rogues: Chapter Fourteen

    “Leebrick, do you see them?” Alex Mackay murmured into the walkie-talkie.

    “I do. They’re coming right toward me and Stephen. We’ll have them in full view when they get to the bend.” Leebrick’s voice had the calm-but-tense air that all professional soldiers got with action in view. “Have I mentioned how much I love these things?” he added.

    “Repeatedly, and no more than I do,” Alex said, grinning. Being able to communicate instantly, undetectably and reliably across hundreds of yards with no line of sight? Professional soldier heaven, as far as he was concerned. The Ring of Fire could have brought nothing else back at all and he’d have been satisfied with the matter of radio alone. Of course, for him to be happy it had to bring him a wife —

    “Tell him to marry the thing,” Julie said, fussing at her scope with a cloth. “Gonna have to go to iron sights, I think, this drizzle’s not agreeing with the scope. Wind’s shifted into our faces and we don’t got enough shelter to keep the lens dry.”

    “I’ve the case for it here,” Alex said, passing it over and elbowing up on the tarp they’d spread to peer out from under the hedge they were using for a hide. Waterproof, lightweight tarps. Och, you could keep your internal combustion engines for another day, dry above and below in this weather? Marvellous. Of course, they had to poke their faces out at the enemy and that meant a little cool, refreshing rain on those faces. Quite pleasant, actually. But even the superb optics Julie had brought back from the twentieth century had their limits and shooting in the wet was one of them. A proper hide would have solved that handily, but they had neither time nor reason to build one, and it would have had to be deep to keep out the swirling drizzle of this otherwise-mild English summer morning. It would be glorious sunshine by eleven, but right now it was two hundred yards, if that, of swirling grey shite. His binoculars and spotting scope were handling it fine, but he didn’t need to pick up precise detail with those. Didn’t need them at all for all the ranges he could actually bloody see, come to that.

    Naturally, whoever this was coming down the road from St. Ives had picked this moment to show up. Julie, who was working rapidly but carefully to get all of the screws on her scope rings loosened — and re-zeroing the thing was going to be a tedious bastard of a job — muttered “the enemy shows up at one of two times…”

    “When he’s ready and when you’re not,” Alex capped the quotation. “It’s like you read ma’ mind, love.” One of his old regimental lads, one of the ones who’d studied for his literacy certificate, the one they all called their ticket of letters, had come across “Murphy’s Laws of Combat” that someone in Grantville had saved from the internet of mystery and legend. Not a single professional soldier who’d heard the thing hadn’t laughed himself puking over the thing, and Alex could quote the bloody lot. He’d seen at least half of them happen with his own eyes, and knew some old sweats who’d let on that the whole thing was nothing but flowery optimism.

    Mirth didn’t distract him, though, and he kept watching. “Leebrick, is that someone coming oot frae the Hall?”

    “Yes,” came the response, “And he’s armed.”

    “Shite,” Alex murmured. “I’ll no’ hurry ye, love, but I think someone’s about t’be very, very stupid up at the hall.” There were four of the presumed enemy moving up the lane; they’d passed Alex and Julie’s position entirely oblivious. Towson and Welch had spotted them first, from the spot they’d taken in a couple of trees, with the other two pair of binoculars they had. They were the two who’d actually met their presumed enemy. At least one of the mounted foursome they could see looked familiar. They’d been spotted coming up the lane, it seemed, and someone from the Hall had wandered out to the road. Slepe Hall wasn’t one of those manor houses with a long drive, but stood about twenty yards back from the road. It wouldn’t take much of a watch to be kept to see someone coming. Some oldish fellow, probably one of the house servants, had wandered out, with what looked like a middling-length fowling-piece under his rain-cape, the lock tucked away dry and a plug of rags keeping the charge at least in the barrel if it slipped out from where it was wadded. Not, when all was said and done, a particularly unusual thing to do, and in fact with a river full of ducks less than half a mile away, there was every possibility he’d picked just that moment to go out and administer a hearty dose of birdshot to today’s lunch. From the size of the thing, probably a couple of meals over the next couple of days while he was about it. The fact that he had a dog with him, plainly pleased to be off out with master, might have suggested as much. Of course, with four out-and-out scunners coming up the lane, doubtless armed to the teeth and expecting trouble, carrying a fowling-gun was not going to help.

    “Working as fast as I can, here, honey,” Julie said, through gritted teeth.

    “I ken richt enow, love,” Alex said, easing his .45 up to where he could grab it for the fifty-yard charge he’d need to get amongst the bastards. “It’s only that circumstances are conspirin’ good an’ quick, here.”

    “One word and we’re at ’em,” Leebrick’s voice came from the radio speaker. Leebrick and Hamilton were closer. Alex was where he could cut them off. Towson and Welch were out of the fight — by the time they got out of those trees, it’d all be over one way or the other.

    “Wait until you see me close enough,” Alex replied to Leebrick. “I’ve more experience with a modern pistol than either of you two. Charge the back o’ ’em when I’ve fixed their attention firmly to the front.” A quick check of sword and pistol. “Have my back, love, I’ll stay to the left o’ the road.”

    “Gotcha,” Julie said, a little distantly as she got her rifle back into battery and began picking aiming marks for iron sights. They’d paced the road in the half-light of dawn, and noted clumps of flowers, easily-spotted rocks and so on. With that much preparation and over these ranges, Alex knew he was tits on a bull as a spotter, and stayed with Julie for her close protection. His wife was lethal past fifty yards. Inside that, there wasn’t a man to touch a Mackay with his blood up. Ahead the foursome had turned on to the flinted forecourt to the front of Slepe Hall, and looked like they were talking to the old fellow. If there was to be trouble, it would be starting soon, so he eased himself out from under the tarp and began feeling under the hedge. It took half a minute or so, during which time he had no idea what was going on at the hall, but time enough to look again when he got up.

    He was halfway to his feet when the first shot punched a shot of lightning through his veins and propelled him five yards down the road with barely a thought in his head.

    “Clear my shot!” came a sharp yell from behind him and he jinked hard left. They’d picked a spot on a slow right-hand bend that gave Julie a good view of the Hall; as long as he kept to the outside of the bend he’d only be obscuring hedge.

    He dropped back from the sprint, taking it at a fast walk. A second shot. Heavy pistols; dragoons? The smoke cloud about the front of the hall was thick and probably reeking. Cheap powder, at that, and Mackay had already grown used to smokeless. Swift check of pistol, left hand, ready to fire. Sabre, check, even though he’d no memory of bringing the weapon to hand. As natural as breathing to fill his right hand with steel.

    The drizzle washed some of the smoke away and a puff of breeze did for the rest. The old man was on his knees, clutching at his belly, or possibly one of his legs, it was hard to tell. Alex’s heart sank. They’d shot the puir bloody dug. There were some things that just were. Just. Not. On.

    Julie had seen too. One of the riders jerked upright in his stirrups, back arched and a heavy pistol — dragoon, yes — flew from his hand. The puff of blood from the front of his chest washed out almost immediately in the drizzle. Almost as an afterthought Alex was conscious of the sound of the round passing him and the muzzle report from behind. ‘At’s ma girl, he thought, with a grin.

    Time enough for three more brisk paces, his breathing falling into a nice, steady cadence, and another shot. A second saddle emptied, this time the shot going high and to the left, taking the side of the bastard’s head clean off. Alex hoped that was the one that’d shot the dog.

    Not breaking stride, he barked over his shoulder, “Prisoners!” Julie would get the idea. He’d want to take one of them no more seriously wounded than he had to be, and two-for-one odds with their morale already shot? Difficult, but he could manage the business. Besides, all he had to do was hold them while Stephen and Kit caught up from the other side. Stephen had brought a quarter-staff, really only the pole of his halberd with the blade taken off, and a little singlestick practise against him with it had Mackay entirely happy the man knew what he was doing with it.

    He was all but on them by the time they got their horses turned around. Plainly not trained warhorses, but beasts that needed careful management around the sounds and smells of gunfire and blood. To his professional’s eye they were making not too bad a fist of things, but it was about to get a lot more difficult for them.

    Beyond, Kit and Stephen were on their feet and charging hard. Silent, quick, no wasted breath in shouting. Mackay stepped smartly to the middle of the lane. Room enough for both horses to pass either side of him. He’d have to defend against one and stop the other. Tough, but do-able. He took a deep, cleansing breath and brought his pistol to the aim.

    There are a limited number of tactics for a lone man on foot against charging, mounted opponents, and most of them consist of methods to not die in the brief slice of time while the cavalryman passes. Most of them, on the record, work fairly well provided the footman isn’t outnumbered and doesn’t panic; all of the truly high-scoring slaughters of infantry by cavalry have been worked on fleeing soldiers. And, of course, being outnumbered is a major problem whatever the other tactical factors.

    It was a given that Mackay wasn’t going to panic. He knew, to a nicety, the limits a cavalryman faced in this sort of a situation, and he had the means to keep himself alive and, in theory, no worse than a little bruised. The trick was going to be hurting one of them — or his horse — badly enough that he could make no escape but not so badly that he died before he could be questioned.

    To do that would take someone who was truly good. Alex Mackay of the Clan Mackay grinned. He needed drop only one.

    They’d seen Alex and Stephen coming. Where there were two armed men on watch, there were more, went the reasoning, and there were enough sharpshooters hidden about to empty two saddles already. The rate of fire of modern weapons was leading them to all manner of wrong conclusions, and Mackay was pleased to see the first knockings of panic on their faces.

    A rapid gabble of Erse between them and they picked Alex’s direction. The way they’d come, and only one visible enemy. With a yell of “Fág a’ Bealach!” and a hiss of drawn steel they spurred their beasts hard at Mackay.

    Daft wee laddies, he had time to think. Fifteen yards of charge was no time at all for a horse to come into a good gait for fighting. They did right with the steel, though; pissing about with pistols when it was close work was a fool’s business.

    Unless you had a big, solid, down-time-built 1911-pattern .45, of course. Mackay had the moves planned out in his mind as soon as he saw what the bastards were about. Time for one shot with the pistol, maybe take one of them in the guts or leg, hopefully hurt the horse enough to throw him, take high guard and be ready to drop under the blow. Had there been more room, he’d have been able to manage a sidestep and a cut at a horse’s face, which would throw the beast into an utter terror and probably make it throw its rider as well.

    And had ma granny baws, she’d be ma grandda, he thought as he settled his front sight neatly on the left-hand rider’s nearer hip. He hoped the riders could see his grin. Even just feeling it from the inside was unnerving.

    The shot came, as all good ones do, as a surprise and even so he was already twisting to get his sword into guard as the other rider closed. A flash of steel at him, and a calm quiet little voice in his mind that sounded exactly like the master-at-arms who’d taught him the cavalryman’s trade said dinnae cut at the charge, ye fool, thrust as nicely as ye may and it was a simple roll of the wrist and sway back, so — and that was the last he knew for a moment until he was on the ground trying to cough some wind back into himself.

    Distantly, two more shots, pistols, three cracks from Julie’s rifle, and he heaved himself to his feet to see four horses and two filled saddles vanishing into the murk and drizzle.

    Leebrick arrived just at that moment. “Loose horse knocked you on the way past, Colonel. Too busy looking at the one with a man on it. You were doing really well up to then.” Leebrick was grinning. “I don’t think your first shot did more than score the horse’s arse, though you’d have had a good ‘un on the way past if you’d not gone down. I don’t think Stephen or I hit anything, but I’m pretty sure your good lady drilled a third one.”

    “Yep,” Julie said, coming up the lane. “Alex, I need more practise over iron sights. I’ve been keeping ’em properly zeroed, but I need me to be zeroed with them. Can’t assume I won’t ever get into anything this tactical again.”

    “Did ye not shoot at the horses?” Alex asked, without thinking, and immediately regretted it.

    Of course, she’d not have shot at the horses. It was hard work to get her to shoot at deer, and about the only prey she was really happy about shooting was boar, because they were “gross” and when you got right down to it, shooting a boar wasn’t just hunting but pre-emptive self-defence because the bastards were — very tasty — murder on four legs. He’d known that, he’d accepted that, he even cherished the softness of heart it showed as one of the many things he loved about his wife. It was, therefore, very much the case that the resulting chewing-out was his just and lawful punishment, to be endured stoically.

    It was, he accepted, not the horses’ fault they had assholes on their backs. True, he agreed, there was no good reason to be hurting the poor beasts for what their riders were doing. He accepted entirely that it would be cruel to hurt a poor beast that didn’t understand why it was there and was already frightened with all the shooting. In truth, Julie had nothing to say on the matter that, from time to time, most cavalrymen would say. All of the good ones, certainly. A man who did not care greatly for horses did not long remain a cavalryman. Nevertheless, without taking the horses into harm’s way, a cavalryman was nothing but a dragoon, and dragoons were a sorry lot. That didn’t mean that horse-soldiers didn’t quietly regret the harm the horses came to. Just not quite so vehemently as Julie put it.

    “All clear out here,” came Welch’s voice over the radio. “They’ve gone by the Huntingdon road, too far for a good shot, sorry to say.”

    McCarthy and Cromwell had come out from the house by this point, accompanied by what had to be Sir Henry Steward, who’d gone immediately to see to his man, who was still clenched around a wound in his side. Mackay hadn’t noticed, but two women had already come out from the house and were starting to tend to him. He couldn’t see the dog any more, so with any luck the poor beast had only been wounded and had limped off somewhere. They’d have to find him and tend to him later, but for now the people were the main thing.

    “They didn’t send anyone round the back, Oliver and me just checked,” Darryl said, “so I think them showing up was just an accident.”

    “An unhappy one,” Sir Henry put in from where he was, really, doing no more than fuss over the care the two ladies were providing, “for now I am known as sheltering you.”

    “We might be able to do something about that,” Darryl said, “if we can make it look like we came here to rob you or something?”

    “Aye, I care not that my name be blackened with such as they,” Cromwell said. “Give it out that I came here furious that my goods and chattels were gone from the farm I leased from you, which is truth enough. Let the king’s men think I came to take them back from you, or rob you of goods to their value. ‘Tis as foolish as any justification a thief gives before the bench, and plausible thereby. Give it out that the king’s tyranny is turning gentlemen bandit — truth, too, for I am indeed outlawed by the king — and how long before any man is safe in his home? None of it false witness, and only the false of heart will hear it as lies.”

    “True, from a certain point of view,” Gayle said, as she knelt by the wounded man and began unpacking an aid kit.

    “From the point of view of Prince John, Robin Hood was naught but a thief,” Cromwell said, with a smile, “for all he was a good Huntingdon lad.”

    “A Puritan Robin Hood?” Darryl was plainly amused by the idea. Especially, since in his heart of hearts, Robin Hood was and would always be a singing, animated fox.

    Mackay had to put in something at this point. Robin Hood wasn’t really a Scots legend — Wallace and the Bruce were real, historical figures, after all — but he’d heard the stories. “I was always told Robin Hood was a Yorkshireman,” he said, “not that I’ve any great caring in the matter, ye ken. But I led borderers for a few years and the ones from the English side of the border would say ‘Robin Hood in Barnsdale Stood’ when they meant a thing was entirely plain. And Barnsdale, Gisburne and Loxley are all in Yorkshire, are they not?”

    He had, over the years, wondered what the national argument of England was. They just didn’t seem to feel most of the differences you could bring Scotsmen to blows over. The next ten minutes seemed to settle it in his mind; they all wanted to claim their most notorious criminal for their own. Even Leebrick had a word or two to put in for Derbyshire.