Page 43 of Triumph at Pemberley

The blast of the signal rocket made her ears ring. She counted slowly to a hundred, as she had been instructed, and then it was time. Do or die.

She took a deep breath and sprang to her feet, all that coiled up energy just waiting for her to spot her target. There it was, a bit off to the right, a whole section of cannons. Dozens, if not a hundred or more, all lined up and ready to be delivered. Beside them, a makeshift building that must be the ammunition depot. All around them were soldiers in blue uniforms. Thousands of them, like a swarm of ants at a picnic, covering the beach and spilling over into the marsh. Beyond were the invaders’ landing barges.

There was no time to think or to let herself feel the horror of it. She raised her arms and released all the braided energy into a storm of wind, more powerful than she had ever allowed herself to attempt before. The fabric of her breeches snapped and her hair came tumbling down, whipping painfully into her face.

But it was working! French soldiers were tumbling to the ground, blown off their feet and away from the cannons. Frederica pushed harder, and beyond the beach several barges tipped and then slowly overturned.

She hoped anyone still aboard them could swim the short distance to shore.

But where was Jack with his part of the effort? Her wind had cleared the men away from the weapons, but they could return the instant it died down. Which would be very soon.

Then she saw it. The cannons were sliding slowly to one side. She forced the wind to continue; Jack needed to do more than just dislodge them!

Suddenly a sinkhole yawned, and cannons tumbled into it. Thank goodness! She cut off her flow of Talent, and just in time; she was already starting to feel dizzy, almost giddy. But she stared at the sight before her. The munitions shed seemed to be bulging at the sides.

A deafening explosion filled the air with billowing smoke. Whirling bits of wood and metal sped in all directions – including directly at her.

A heavy weight toppled her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Frederica tasted dirt. What had happened? She could wiggle her fingers and toes, but she was buried by something. And still giddy, as if she had drunk too much ratafia.

“Don’t move, yer ladyship,” a man’s voice growled. “Not till it dies down.” The sergeant, perhaps? Was he pinning her, protecting her with his own body?

“Understood,” she gasped. Until her mind settled down again from overextending herself, better to let someone else do the thinking. How Elizabeth would tease her for this, after all the lectures Frederica had given her on protecting her reserves!

But first she had to survive this.

After a few minutes, the weight on her lifted as the man crawled off her. “Stay down, yer ladyship,” he grunted. “They can still shoot you. I’ll get someone to help you.”

Frederica turned her head. Yes, it was the sergeant – with blood pouring down his back and a ragged chunk of metal sticking out of his side. His arm was at an unnatural angle, with bone and flesh exposed above the elbow.

He had likely saved her life.

This was a real battle, where real people would die and be maimed. The sergeant would lose that arm. Because she had lacked the good sense to duck.

With his other hand, the sergeant struggled to hold out a flask to her. “Drink it. Captain Jack’s orders.”

The least she could do was obey. Somehow she managed to unstopper it and take a sip. Lukewarm over-sweetened tea, strongly flavored with the metal of the flask and the sulfuric taste of gunpowder.

She drank every drop. It was medicine, and she deserved worse than the awful taste.

“Wilson!” the sergeant called, the effort clearly paining him.

One of the soldiers, a heavyset young man, came towards them, bent over double to stay behind the scant protection of the stone wall. “Sir?”

“Get her ladyship back to camp. Carry her. Don’t let her walk. And give her this bag at my belt. She’s to eat it.”

Frederica gasped out, “No. Help him first. He is hurt!”

Wilson looked torn until the sergeant growled out. “Captain Jack’s orders.”

Apparently ‘Captain Jack’s orders’ was a magic phrase, because Wilson took the leather bag and otherwise ignored his wounded commanding officer. “Pardon, miss.” He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing and set off down the embankment at a quick pace.

But before they left the top, she caught a glimpse of the other side. Whirlwinds danced across flat marsh, and a giant wave was toppling over the beach, covering struggling French soldiers. Frederica’s jaw dropped. The whirlwinds were not hers, and certainly not that massive wave. It must be Jack.

How many of those blue-uniformed men were drowning? Or killed in the explosion? How many families would never see their loved ones again?

She buried her face in the rough wool of Wilson’s uniform, which reeked of sweat and smoke. The image of the sergeant, bloody and wounded, was seared in her brain.

When they reached Jack’s empty tent, Wilson set her on the rough camp chair and placed the leather sack in her hands. “You’re s’posed to eat that, miss.” He sounded embarrassed.