Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (44 page)

“This house is property of the
state. We'll come in as far as we please,” said the first man.

“And stay as long as we like,”
threatened his partner.

“You'll wait here!” insisted the
female. “Monsieur will be down directly. Or, I can carry a message to him.”

“We will not wait. We'll go up and
see him ourselves.”

Then, there were the sounds of a
struggle. The servants were either very brave or very stupid, considering the
furor outside. Olivia could hear the grunts and pants cutting through broken
protests. There was a thud, and then something fell over. Something that
sounded like porcelain shattered against the floor.

“You'll stay down, woman, if you
value your life!”

Racing for the bathing chamber, Olivia
almost felt sorry for the maid. The woman obviously understood the power her
master wielded, his place in the regime, and unspoken social rules that
prevented men such as her newly arrived guests from challenging DuFresne's
position. What she clearly did not grasp was that, in Napoleon's empire, when
you were out, you were all the way out.

Inside the bathing room, she
pressed the door shut behind her, sliding the lock as fast as she could manage
without making too much noise. She turned to John who was seated on a chair
beside DuFresne. Their captive was now awake and glaring hotly at them from
above his gag.

She pointed to the hall. “We have a
problem.”

John sprung up from his seat. “What
is it?”

“Assassins, perhaps?” They
certainly didn’t sound like friends. “I think Bonaparte is tying up loose
ends.”

Grinning, John poked DuFresne's
calf with his boot. “Looks like you only have value to one half of your
enemies. I'd keep quiet and do as we say if you wish to live any longer.”

DuFresne crossed his arms and
turned his face away, but he didn't make a sound.

“How are we getting out of here?”
John asked. “We cannot take him down the roof.”

The same thought had occupied her
mind. “I think all we can do is make a dash for it. If they start at the room
closest to the top of the main stairs, we can flee down the back. Clear the
landing before they come back out. But,” she poked a finger at their hostage,
“we have to go now.”

Leaning down, John circled
DuFresne's arm, hauling him up. They had managed him into breeches and a shirt
that he hadn't bothered tucking in. He wore no socks or shoes. They weren't
taking him far, so it didn’t matter.

Something occurred to her, staying
her fingers on the knob. “There's likely to be more of them outside. Which way
are we going?”

He passed her the small canvas
satchel she’d brought. “The crowds are moving northwest, towards the square.
We'll push opposite for three blocks, to the cab stand.”

Nodding, Olivia opened the door.

They moved single file across the
bed chamber to the outer door. Olivia pressed her ear to a small gap where it
stood ajar and listened. Two pairs of boots pounded up, striking the landing.
The men whispered between themselves, and, for a moment, she feared they would
start at the hall's opposite end. Instead, they opened the first door near the
steps and went in.

Now was their moment. Without
looking back, she rushed to the servant's stairs, hanging at the top just long
enough to detect any sound or movement further down.

Something bit the soft flesh above
her left hip, and she flinched, glancing over her shoulder.

John had shackled DuFresne's arm
with one hand and was digging her own small knife into her back with the other.
Frozen, she stared down at the blade's point, piercing her shirt. He was
jesting. He must be. Olivia blinked and shook her head, meeting his eyes. John
was not betraying her. He could not be.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “England
can never handle France the way that Austria can.” He shoved DuFresne past her,
down a few steps, still pressing her with the knife. “You'll stay here.”

She didn't comprehend what he meant
until a lean leg shot out, clearing her feet from under her. Olivia dropped to
her backside on the landing, her pride more wounded than her body, while John
took DuFresne down the stairs two at a time.

Bastard. She berated herself. She’d
committed one of the worst errors a spy could: trusting the wrong person. Their
engagement, her assumption that they were on the same side; she never thought
that he’d do something like this, but she should have.

Well, he didn’t know her very well,
either. Especially if he thought she would take this lying down.

The noise drew the other two men
who’d stormed the house back into the hallway. They weren’t assassins; probably
John's companions, if she had to guess. The timing was too coincidental. He’d
probably directed them to cause a commotion shortly after he climbed in the
window, distracting her and giving them a reason to team up. Smart.

Scrambling up, Olivia shot for the
door behind her as her pursuers closed the distance between them.

Digging her shoes into the wood and
her back into the door, she managed to seat it against the force of their
shoulders just long enough to close the lock. It would hold them for a few
moments, but not forever. She needed a way out. The window. It was the obvious
starting place, but one glance told her it was not an option. It had no balcony
and no real handholds.

The door shuddered under a blow
from outside.

Olivia threw open both halves of
the window and turned around, searching the room.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Battle crested on all sides around
Ty. Before him, men moaned, others roaring feral cries at their enemy. Horses
screamed, wounded by stray shells, while their burning ammunition wagons popped
and hissed, warning of impending explosions. Four hundred heavy guns kept time,
giving a measured tempo to the chaos.

Suddenly, something changed, a tide
shifted, and the guns shook the earth one last time. Then, everything around
him – neighing, shouts, gunfire – all was quiet. The absence of noise nearly
caused his ears to throb.

Napoleon's battery, belching out
the smoke of hell all day, had fallen silent. Ty didn't trust it. The
Grand
Batterie
was unmatched in its deadliness and accuracy. Well supplied and
hardly in danger of being overrun, there was only one reason they would stop
firing.

Thunder rolled out beyond low hills
behind the French guns. He knew the sound for what it was, by its rhythm and
because the enemy would not risk firing on its own. Cavalry.

Hoof beats grew louder. Lines
appeared through clouds of pewter smoke coming over hills bordering a
half-burned farmstead. Marshal Ney's cuirassiers formed an impenetrable wall,
breastplates gleaming dully under what little sun filtered down from above. Red
plumes waved atop their helmets with a predatory twitch, warning that they were
about to strike. They were veterans, men who'd done enough killing to make the
slaughter before them perfectly routine.

A decade ago Ty would have been
intimidated, green, and feeling alone on the field. Napoleon had given him an
education over the last ten years. Now, he felt only a grim determination. They
might get the better of him, but he would make them question the effort for a
long time to come.

“Form up! Clean lines, you rabble!”
He barked orders down to his inherited cavalry, leaderless thanks to an enemy
rifle company. They were regrouped now, after a brilliant route near the sunken
road.

A piercing whistle broke his
attention from the horses. Raising in the saddle, he caught sight of Matthew,
soot-covered and bloody-faced, perched on a nearby ridge.

Matthew held up three fingers,
shouting down the fracas. “Three hundred yards!”

Ty's gaze snapped to the field,
measuring angle and distance with lightning calculations. Had the general lost
his mind? “That's half of my effective range!”

Nodding, Matthew held up both
hands, indicating a narrow space.

Understanding began to dawn. His
guns could reach nearly seven hundred yards, but not
well
. Matthew was
telling him to lure the French in, let them get close. Their own men would be
at risk, but they could serve heavier casualties on the enemy.

Matthew raised three fingers. “Let
them come! Three hundred yards, understood?”

He didn't wait for Ty's salute,
back to shouting orders at his infantry. “Prepare to receive…
cavalry
!”

Ty felt dread at the order. He knew
it well; any experienced infantryman did; it gave them pause. A wall of heavy
horse hurtling toward you at full speed was a death sentence.

He skimmed the ridge while Matthew rode
his line, giving directions. When the general reached the north end of the
ridge, Ty caught his voice once more.

Matthew raised his saber skyward.
“Havercake lads, who leads the way?”

Heart hammering, Ty raised his own
blade, yelling in time with hundreds of his brothers. “
The thirty-third
does!”

Matthew thrust his saber higher,
raising in the saddle. “For the Duke of Wellington!”

French horsemen ate up smoldering
ground into a position that brought them against their enemy, and also into the
range of his guns.

A ferocious cry went up, racing
through the lines like wildfire. In answer to their battle-roar, Ty dropped his
sword level with the horizon. Six guns and two howitzers shuddered their
report, blanketing the ridge in thunder and smoke. In spite of damp ground,
shots found their mark. Shells bounced, tore, stirring up screams. A front rank
of French heavy cavalry tumbled into the dust. Few horses and fewer men got up
from the deadly tangle.

Snapping open his lens, Ty surveyed
the damage. It was not the decisive blow he’d hoped for. The cavalry charge was
broken and the French infantry fell short, but they were persistent. Their guns
made up the difference, cutting down whole swaths of Matthew's men. In spite of
brutal losses, the French were gaining ground.

The center lines heaved, buckled.
It was only a matter of time before the French broke through.

Shouts went up to his left, this
time from the rear. Ty wheeled Alvanley in time to see their Hussar
reinforcements turn and trot away.

“Von Hacke!” Ty grabbed his hat and
threw it to the dirt. “Von Hacke!” he screamed again. “You son of a bitch, turn
back!”

The commander heard him, Ty had no
doubt. The cavalryman threw him a sharp-eyed glance over his shoulder, then
hunched and spurred his horse forward.

“Goddamn coward.” Ty pinched the
bridge of his nose, trying to work some order into their dire situation. Olivia
always knew what to do in a bad spot. Not that she knew anything about tactics,
but she didn't need to. Olivia was the best he had ever seen at grasping
something entirely foreign and snapping sense into it.

A shout cut his thoughts in two,
and Ty realized he'd been far away for a moment.

A crease-faced Lieutenant Simmons
trotted up beside him, lifting his shako to reveal a stubbled head, the only
clean skin left on his body. “The Cumberlands are fleein', sir. What's your
order?” Ty knew that he was asking if they should retreat, as well.

The situation might look hopeless,
but they were committed till the end. Smoothing his coat sleeve, Ty straightened
in the saddle. He raised an arm and pointed out toward the column of smoke
where the village of Plancenoit had stood that morning. “My order is for guns
to aim northeast and fire.” Raising in the stirrups, he turned to catch the eye
of every gun crew in sight. “You will fire on that mark until one of two things
occurs: until you have no ammunition or until you take a French bayonet to the
chest. Understood?”

“Aye, sir!”

“Bring the smoke!” he shouted,
willing them to mend what seemed irreversible.

Their answer was swift, and the
shelling began at two minutes, by his count. A volley struck well beyond their
own lines, deep against the French, stemming one small stream of the greater
flood.

Ty refused to lose hope, but there
was no fighting pragmatism. Slipping one finger into his breast pocket, he felt
for Olivia's ring and pulled it out. He slipped it into place on his third
finger. If he died, he would be wearing it. And maybe it would bring them luck.
At the very least, it gave him comfort.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Olivia exhaled slowly, willing
herself to be flatter against the canopy slats. She also willed herself to
weigh less, appreciating with every faint groan from below her feet that the
boards were intended for nothing heavier than thick fabric. Footsteps circled
the bed beneath her. Wardrobe doors opened and slammed shut. Something
whooshed, she guessed the bed skirt being flipped back.

“Where in the hell is she?”

A sigh.
“He said she was
crafty.”

“He wasn't wrong. But he'll have
both our arses if she gets the better of us.”

Footsteps, to her left. “Window's
open. You don't think...”

“She came in that way...”

Boots pounded across the rug,
headed out to the hallway. Olivia waited until she heard them on the stairs
before raising up. She arched, ready to swing her legs over the side of the
canopy. Creaking one last warning, the canopy's frame cracked, plunging her to
the mattress. She would have laughed had she been able to suck in a breath. The
day was slowly progressing from bad to worse. At last able to pull air into
burning lungs, she jumped up and ran for the stairs, nearly toppling a
white-haired housekeeper who froze gape-mouthed in her path.

She suspected that her pursuers had
reached the back of the house now. Gaining the sidewalk, Olivia acted on her
hunch, running west like a madwoman with the flow of the crowd. Remembering
John’s alleged plan, she scoffed. 'East' her backside. John wasn't taking
DuFresne east to the coach stop. She'd bet good coin that he'd come in a
carriage, and that meant he would park close and leave in a direction which
offered the least resistance: with, not against the mob.

John had gained at least a
five-minute head start, but she was one person weaving through the crowd. He'd
had to manage a captive, and Olivia prayed that had bought her some time.

Rue Vimier opened onto a small,
fountain-centered square before branching into a Y farther east. The crowd
bustled through on its way to the Place Nationale, leaving the edges empty and
making the only two carriages present easy to spot. She immediately discounted
the one on her right. It was too large, too modern, and far too conspicuous. To
her left was a more modest conveyance, with black paint weathered from the step
and its canopy leather dry and chapped. It was as common as a vehicle could be
and was the most likely target.

Skirting buildings, weaving between
people loitering to watch the parade, Olivia aligned herself with the back of
the carriage just in time to see gray trouser legs disappearing inside.
John.
No time to congratulate herself on her correct guess. She had to move.

Tugging her red cap farther down,
she rushed the coach as it lurched forward. It took two lunging strides, but
she caught a footman's handle and pulled herself up. A bounce caused the driver
to look back over his shoulder. He scowled from under his hat brim. “Get off,
vagrant!”

Pointing a finger to the cab,
Olivia sneered and spit back in French. “I am with the monsieur and his guest.”

He hesitated, and for a moment she
feared he would get down and summon John. She decided to strike preemptively.
“Climb down and ask him. Then you can have your fee cut in half, for the wait.”

Looking sour at the prospect, he
eyed her one more time. The mention of a fee must have legitimized her claim in
his mind, and Olivia sighed in relief. The bluff had been sloppy, but effective
enough. The driver snapped his reins, and they jostled forward a few feet at a
time, pushing into a crush of bodies moving across the square.

At the north side, a group of people
constricted around them. Chanting housewives with red scrubbed faces, young men
with philosophical beards and poet hair, old men crying out through gapped
teeth; they were pushing past, trying to reach Place Nationale, and were
blocked more by their brothers and sisters than by the carriage. Through their
masks of hate and discontent, Olivia could already predict which way the blame
would fall for the delay.

No one should be riding, a woman’s
voice cried out. Citizens should walk, another cried out. Only a monarchy dog
would put his chaise in the way of the people. Get out on your feet, they
demanded. The voices came from all around her, and she braced for inevitable
violence.

Bodies pressed closer, rocking the
carriage, its frame groaning under the pressure. Fingers dug into her back,
twisting a fistful of shirt and dragging. The driver slapped his reins without
result, waving a hand and shouting for the crowd to move while his horses
reared and screamed. Two women on her left grabbed a wheel and began to tug.

“They'll tear us down!” she cried
to the driver, willing him to do more than swear.

He turned back, tossing something
over the cab.

A whip
.

“I'll knock some heads,” he called
back, raising a smooth oak club. “You swat 'em back good!”

It was one thing to injure, even to
kill an adversary. Whipping a crowd of people made her far more uncomfortable,
even if they did have murder in their eyes. Olivia squeezed the leather grip
tighter in her palm. She needed John, she needed DuFresne, and she had to get
out of the city. She looked them over again, at their hot dead eyes, the spit
flying from lips curled back, voices propelling vitriolic shouts; these were
people on the edge of anarchy. These were the same people, she reminded
herself, who had torn her mother limb from limb. They were crazed, irrational.
Every sane man and woman had fled Paris days ago, or locked themselves inside.

Olivia raised the thong up over her
shoulder and began to strike.

For a moment, it had the desired
effect. Guttural animal screams rose up behind hands and arms shielding faces.
Bodies in the front turned away, stumbled back. It only served to inflame the
ranks behind them, convinced now that their accusations of the coach's
occupants were justified.

They surged, forcing the welted and
bleeding closer, even tumbling and stomping them. Olivia's chest pounded. She
hoped John was smart enough to keep his head in the cab, both for his safety
and so he wouldn’t notice her on top of the carriage.

She skimmed her surroundings,
observing the crowd on all sides, realizing there was nowhere to run. Ty would
have thought it out better. He would have had a daring plan and a sound escape.
She hadn't really factored in his absence when she'd concocted her Paris
scheme, hadn’t thought she would need to. She imagined his smug, handsome
expression as he told her so, that she should have stayed out of Paris. She
just had to stay alive that long.

A stone kissed her cheekbone,
radiating threads of pain behind her eye. Another one barely missed her shoulder.
Raising the whip, she struck harder, faster, beginning to doubt the possibility
of making it across the square.

*          *          *

Ty hunched his shoulder forward,
spitting into his wound. He’d been grazed for a third time. The injuries would
have been bearable – after a few minutes the throbbing dulled and the injury
became almost numb – but powder smoke burned raw flesh like a spoonful of salt.
Still, it was preferable to a ball between the eyes.

A gunny, hunched lower than he
should be able while still running, rushed up to him from the left. The man's
soot-caked lips moved, but all that came out was a belch from the Grand
Batterie.

Ty leaned down from Alvanley's back
and cupped his ear. “What!”

“I’m D-Troop, sir. Gun six is dead
for ammo! There's nothing to spare.”

“Where's your commander?”
            The gunner raked a finger over his sweat streaked neck. “Got no
head, sir.”

Ty swatted a frustrated hand over
his shoulder. “Send them back, goddammit! Send them back!”

Thumbing a salute, the sergeant
loped back into the smoke. A breath later, drums beat out D Troop’s retreat.

He couldn't give ammo to another
detachment. His men were already rationing, and he'd be damned if they
abandoned their guns over something so simple. French streamed through their
center, a seemingly unstoppable hole in the dam, but at least he could give
enough fire to allow an infantry retreat.

A bullet sung past, cutting through
his saddlebag and charring the edge of dispatches inside. The fighting had
moved to their doorstep, French and Allied mingled together in a bloody crush.
Taking the gunner's message as a warning, he decided to conserve ammunition. Ty
raised an arm. “G Troop, cease fire!”

More carbine shots winged past. The
French skirmishers were growing bolder. “Get down! On the field, all of you!”
He exhaled his frustration when a tardy shot rang out. “That's for you as well,
second gun! Unless you don't need your heads to fire that thing.”

Bullets harassed his crews,
favoring guns three and four where they sat exposed by a dip in the ridge.
Losing patience, Ty spurred Alvanley out ahead of his now quiet battery,
promenading down his line.

“You've shown us your asses,” he
called out in French, forcing his voice above the clang of bayonets farther
out, “now show your faces, cowards!”

Chortling came from his left, and a
handful more reports from his right. His mocking was having the desired effect,
drawing fire to himself and away from his crews. Wheeling Alvanley, he trotted
back south. “Whites of eggs in your veins!” He shook a fist. “Moldy cheese
where your cocks ought to be. Show me a real Frenchman!”

A shot tore the loose fabric at his
arm pit. Laughing madly, adrenaline pumping through him, Ty ducked and tapped
his horse forward. Olivia would have come up with cleverer insults, but he imagined
she would be amused by his.

Out along the low plain, infantry
began to move, forming up. That meant a cavalry charge.

Huxley, one of General Maitland's
aides, was galloping the ridge at break neck speed. “Major! Major Burrell!” He
yelled the pair of words at the top of his lungs with the engineered repetition
of a cuckoo clock.

Ty yanked a wad of cotton wool from
his ear. “God man, I'm here. I know we're artillery, but I'm not bloody deaf
yet.”

Slumping in the saddle, Huxley
panted, scrubbing a sleeve at the sweat trickling down his full, ruddy cheeks.
“Webb's given the order for an artillery retreat. You're to take cover in the
squares.”

“Sod Webb!” Matthew should know
better, expecting him to give up the ridge and cower. If they hunkered now and
waited for later, ‘later’ would likely never come.

Huxley's red cheeks deepened to
scarlet. “Order came down from Wellington, sir.”

“Sod Wellington. Sod the king,
even. I won't abandon my guns.” Ty crossed his arms.

“You're disobeying orders.” The
aide stared, disbelieving. His lips worked, but for a moment no words came out
from between them. “Shall I... Shall I communicate that to him, major?”

“Not verbatim. You may say that
Major Burrell politely declines his request.”

“You mean 'respectfully'?”

“No. I am not being the slightest
bit respectful. But I am using please and thank you, and that qualifies as
politeness.”

Glancing around, wide-eyed, as if
he were the butt of an elaborate prank, Huxley claimed his reins in a firm
grip. “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.” Turning his back on
the man, Ty studied what remained of his line. He had six nine-pound guns, four
howitzers, and enough ammunition to keep them barking for a while, yet. If
Webb, the duke or anyone else thought he was abandoning that to hide within
abused, overworked infantry, they had lost their minds. Watching crews from
other gun units spill over the ridge's lip and mingle within the squares, Ty
realized that he was the only officer who felt that way.

Midafternoon, and G Troop stood
alone.