Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (45 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

One pistol shot rang out, then two
more. Olivia, wrapped for all she was worth against the back of the coach, was
surprised to see a company of soldiers filing into the square behind her.
Napoleon's occupation army had been nothing but tolerant of the fevered crowd
for three days now, too approving or too intimidated to interfere. At the close
of today's battle, though, they expected their victorious emperor to strike out
for home. There would be no unruly mob and no civil unrest upon his return.

It was a bizarre world, when she
was relieved to see Napoleon’s soldiers. Whatever their motivations, Olivia was
grateful when more shots and long batons began working some sense into the
crowd. The moment a slight break appeared ahead, the driver stomped, cracked
his reins, and sent the coach rumbling forward. Screams punctuated feral cries,
and she tried to ignore a telltale thump beneath the wheels, refusing to look
back as they dashed north along the road.

From there, they'd gained enough
momentum that less hostile congregations leaped out of the way. It seemed to
take just minutes to reach the city gates, though she knew the route was much
longer. A soldier waved them down, first mechanically, and when the vehicle
didn't slow, urgently.

“Yah! Yah!” Hooves thundered, the
horses foaming under their master's order. Two soldiers ran out into the lane,
knelt down and struck bayonets at the ready. Olivia held her breath. Should she
jump for it now? Hold on, or just brace for the impact?

Her worry was for nothing. The
soldiers, losing their nerve under the coach's impending collision, fled for
the curb still yelling for it to stop. One took aim with his rifle, but they
passed too quickly for him to get off a shot.

The driver and horses tore like
hell hounds through the wide iron gates, and Olivia knew that they couldn’t
continue like this long. As if by fate, as soon as she had the thought, she
felt the coach’s wheel catch on an upturned cobblestone. The cab swayed left,
right, then left again. Olivia held her breath, knuckles white until they
steadied.

That was close
. She wondered
where they were headed until the coach veered left at an intersection with the
Rue Raspail.

Searching her memory of the layout
of the streets and trying to guess where they were headed, she decided that
they were bound for a small quay that bordered the river at the top of Rue
Ardoin, a sort of unofficial docklands.

Her guess was proved right moments
later when they passed from the rough open road onto dirt alleyways webbed
between towering brick warehouses. Late afternoon sun came in at a low angle,
unable to reach down into shadows. Sweat chilled on her skin. Their momentum
slowed, and she hunched lower, but there was a way left to go. They didn't slow
again until they reached Ardoin's rough cul de sac, sweeping in an arc along
the Seine.

The driver drew up the horses
halfway around the curve. Grasping both of the carriages rear brass handles
tightly, she hunkered low, centering herself on the back of the cab. It rocked,
groaning under a change in weight.

“What are you staring at?” This
from John.

“Shite! Lost the boy somewhere.
Hope he's fared all right,” muttered the driver.

“Your boy is your own concern.” A
smack, and a jingle of coins. “Our business is concluded.”

The coach was still. Footsteps
thumped off across the packed ground, but she could hear the driver rattling
money, muttering to himself. “...Three, four, five...”

At last there was a rustle and the
seat board creaked. The reins jingled, and he was off. She waited until the
last possible moment, when both John and the driver had their backs to her,
before jumping down. When she was certain of the coach being out of range,
Olivia reached into her pouch and found her wire. Wrapping its tails around
each hand, she rushed John without a moment's hesitation.

A small hop. The wire slipped over
his head. She dug one knee into the small of his back. A hacking, gurgling
sound wracked John's shoulders, and she pulled downward. He hit the dirt in a
cloud of dust, a felled oak.

Olivia didn't waste a moment.
Pinning a knee to his breastbone, she jerked John's pistol free of its holster.
Still coughing, he bent up and bit her thigh. Cracking him in the temple with
the pistol butt, Olivia stood up.

“DuFresne, I will shoot you in the
back and finish him with the wire, if I must!” Her shout stopped DuFresne's
short legged dash for a nearby wall. He froze, arms half outstretched and
turned around slowly.

John was sitting now, gasping. He
raised a finger and pointed at his gun. “It isn't loaded.”

“Don't heap your shite on me.”
Olivia raised the pistol, cranking back on the hammer with her thumb. “You are
not carrying an unloaded pistol with no shot bag.”

Both his hands raised in
supplication. “It's not. I wouldn't lie to you.”

She laughed in earnest. “
You
wouldn't lie to me? Just this one time? Not like all the other times.”

“We're on the same side, Olivia. I
swear it,” John pleaded. His hands up in supplication, he went on. “I'm not
betraying you, or even England. The information DuFresne has, Austria stands to
make the most of it. They can protect France, keep men like Napoleon and Fouche
from rising again.”

“This isn’t Austria’s fight, John.
Or England, or Belgium or Prussia. They are
allies
! It is no one
person's fight.” She massaged a throbbing temple. “Now get up.”

“Or you'll do what?”

“I'll shoot you with the goddamn
ball I know is in this pistol. Get up.” John had made himself an enemy. He had
gone outside their borders, betrayed Whitehall and their assignments, whatever
his motivations. She would shoot him for that alone, if he didn't cooperate,
and sort out her feelings about it later.

He made a show of getting up,
rubbing at his throat. Something occurred to her. “My knife. I know it's in
your pocket. Hand it over.”

He sighed, looking caught, and
reached inside his coat. She hadn't suspected that he would do anything but
hand it over, not until she saw a muscle in his neck twitch, observed the tense
angle of his thigh. He was going to lunge.

Olivia jumped back a breath ahead
of the blade's arc. John was on his feet, thrusting, forcing her back two steps
at a time.

Tucking, rolling, she flowed under
his next swing, coming up behind him. Her kick landed soundly above his kidney.
He was already turning on her, and the blow hardly staggered him.

“Fire, Olivia. Put me down.” He
slashed at her face, catching her chin before she blocked with her elbow.
“You're so confident that it's loaded. Let fly.”

Daring a single glance to behind
her, she judged the distance to the quay's stone ledge. Ty could have
calculated it to the inch; she would have to do her best.

“Now is your only chance, Olivia.
Otherwise, I'll dump you in the drink.”

She waited until her heels scraped
wider slabs, signaling she was just a foot or two from the river. Balanced on the
balls of her feet, she waited for John to lunge. He was quick, and strong, but
his movements were predictable.

True to her hunch, he darted in,
slashing her backward. He floundered when she didn’t roll behind him again,
instead keeping prone. Striking with her fist, she mashed tendons at the back
of John's knee. His leg bent and twisted. He cried out, tumbling over the wall.

Eyes on DuFresne, who was still
frozen but looking set to run, she waited for a splash. A few stray drops
landed on her cheek a moment later.

“God dammit, Olivia! When I get up
there...” John's arms were already stoking, propelling him back towards land.

When you get up here, you'll be
bloody well alone.
Leaping to her feet, she ran at DuFresne for all she was
worth. As she passed by, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and dragged. “You
can keep up or I can rake you along the gravel, but we
are
leaving
together.”

He swallowed and didn’t resist. To
his credit, DuFresne was spry for such a short-legged hostage. A bloody lower
lip hinted he might be more willing to take his chances with her than with
John.

She pushed him along in the
direction John had been walking, wondering what he'd planned to do with his
captive. A boat, perhaps?

They came out of the alley into a
narrow dock yard littered with broken crates and lumber scraps. An old post
chaise stationed inside the wall answered her question. Shoving against
DuFresne's heaving shoulder, she thrust him forward. “Go. Get in.”

The coachman frowned at their
appearance, looking from her to the alley again and again. “Where is the
gentleman?”

Panting, she shook her head and
grabbed for the door. “The mob got him. We have to go.”

She wasn’t sure if it was her
words, or DuFresne’s bloody face, but the driver was convinced. Not eager to
meet the same fate, he cracked the reins. They rocked forward before she had
even closed the door and she nearly tumbled out of the coach.

She settled across from a pale,
sweating, gasping DuFresne. He eyed her with as much contempt as his sickly
frame could muster. Grasping John's pistol tighter, she laid it meaningfully
across her lap. When she'd caught her breath and glanced out to be sure John
was nowhere in sight, she turned her full attention to her prisoner. “Now,” she
said, resting a hand on the pistol's stock, “tell me what you know. If what I
hear between now and Antwerp is of value, I might not shoot you and throw your
corpse to the gulls.”

*          *          *

He was too stubborn to retreat.
That was what kept him fixed at the center. They weren't winning, weren't even
gaining ground, but every time his guns exploded a French caisson into an
inferno, he felt satisfaction. To be irritating was sufficient.

He was his own commander now. Webb
was still standing but was too occupied by a folding center to give him orders.
Wellington, forced to take cover in one of the infantry squares, was entirely
cut off. The rest of the command staff was nowhere to be seen. Not, he guessed,
that it would matter much longer. Men picking up slack on both sides of the
hole were physically tired and flagging mentally. If God would afford him just
one small miracle, anything to push the French cavalry into his line of fire,
he’d be eternally thankful. Everything hung on a knife’s edge.

Ty hung his head, rubbing temples
and forehead, trying to formulate a plan.

It was a noise that broke his
contemplation:
hooves
. More cavalry. He didn't bother looking up. Seeing
them wouldn't make his plan any easier or their approach less ominous.

A sound that followed changed his
mind. A faint but strong, thoroughly British
'Hoorah!'

He snapped up, startling Alvanley.
The cheer flowed back through their lines. Ty grabbed out his scope and
squinted through the haze to see a distant ridge. A tidal wave of men broke
over the low hills. Heart thundering, he watched them come a moment longer.
Jamming the glass closed, he whooped and turned Alvanley in a circle. His men
stared as though he'd lost his mind.

“Prussians! The sodding Prussians
are coming!” Excitement got the better of him, and he rode behind his line shouting
the news to charred, bewildered men. It didn't take long to catch on. A murmur
grew in strength until it became a wild, joyful cheer.

Gasping, Ty rubbed his face and
shook his head. He had to get hold of himself. Given the very miracle he'd
asked for, now he had to make the most of it. In his mind, he aligned the
Prussian advance with the current melee, adding in Napoleon's Imperial Guard
waiting in reserve nearby. He squinted out at the field. The guard was moving
now, gaining momentum. They would try to break the allied lines before the
Prussians could arrive in full. That meant a straight line of targets, right up
the field's center. French cavalry arranged in a pleasing row inside the
trench, waiting for his guns.

He reached for his hat and realized
it was gone, then shrugged off his coat and circled it instead. “Move up,
gunners! To the ridge!” He pointed out a level spot only a few hundred yards
away. “Give them three, four hundred yards and then have at them!”

Twelve pairs of eager hands grabbed
the number one gun. Exhausted arms and trembling legs earned groans from every
man as they strained and moved it. Slipping down from Alvanley's back, Ty threw
himself into the mix, heaving, tugging until its wheels spun free. His men
moved slowly, almost beyond exhaustion, but their faces wore eager grins,
renewed by hope at the Prussian's arrival. Two gun limbers rumbled past, and he
swore even the horses stepped a bit higher.

Back in the saddle, he rode the
line, barking out adjustments or encouragement. “Three hundred yards,” he
reminded. “Save your shot and let them in close.”

The Old Guard flooded in, hoof
beats shaking the ground with violence. Focused on breaking the infantry,
confident that each battery had been abandoned, Ty guessed the guard never saw
his assault coming.

“Prepare to commence!”

Cries of '
Ready!
' echoed
back.

“Make ready. Hold...hold...” Ty
threw up his saber. “Fire!”

The result of their labor was both
brilliant and terrible. Lines of cuirassiers fell into a dark heap, crushed by
the dead and screaming horses. Some of them simply exploded, showering their
fellows in a grotesque rain of blood and viscera. Their lines shuddered.

“Make ready! Fire!”

Their next volley had a strange
effect. The cavalry moved like water nearing a boil, stirring in a circle.
Then, impossibly, a voice cried “Recule! Le Guard, recule!”