Siren

Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

 

June 18, 1815

“Can you walk on that leg?” James knelt beside Corporal Jonas Walters, hastily bandaging the gaping gunshot wound in his left leg. All around them musket shots popped and echoed off the trees.

The young corporal looked up to James, green eyes grim. “I don’t think so, sir.”

James flinched and hunkered lower as a shot splintered a tree just three feet from his head. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. The correspondence intercepted by General Boland had been nothing but a trap. It was fortunate only a small party had been sent to investigate as opposed to the entire army or a large brigade. James and his men had walked right into it. Now he and Walters were the only members of the scouting detail left.

“Just leave me, Colonel. I’ll only slow you down. Better I bleed to death here than we both die picking through these woods.”

“Nonsense.” James knotted off the linen bandage. “We’re a half-mile from General Boland’s camp at most. I’m not leaving you here to rot.” Odds were they’d both die within ten feet of this very spot, but he didn’t share such with the young corporal. James pulled Walter’s arm across his shoulders and hauled the soldier to his feet. He’d never left a breathing man behind and he wasn’t about to start now.

Musket balls kicked dirt up all around them.

“Keep your head low,” James muttered grimly, guiding Walters behind a long row of boulders. “We have a long run ahead of us.”

Two hours later James and Corporal Walters approached the Brussels Road. British flags and familiar regimental standards flapped in the breeze. Carts, horses and soldiers rushed back and forth along the road carrying wounded and ammunition. James frowned. This battle was far bigger than skirmish fire in the woods.

“By God,” Walters sobbed, tone wrought with exhaustion. “Our colors. I see our colors.” The young man slumped weakly, nearly falling to his knees and dragging James along with him.

“Stay strong, lad.” James hefted him up once more. “We’ve got a stretch to walk yet. Then we’ll get you to the medical tent.”

“To hell with the medical tent. I want water and a pint of ale.”

James chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Within twenty minutes, Corporal Walters was safely ensconced within the medical tent with a water canteen and a whiskey flask. James clasped the younger man’s hand warmly, thanked him for his loyalty, and left him in the surgeon’s care. Despite the evidence of a major battle waging, the medical tents were not yet over run. That would change soon.

James vacated the medical tent and went in search of General Boland. He needed to update the general of his mission and catch up on the major events which seemed to be unfolding all around him.