could see the stain of spreading blood. He staggered backwards until he slumped against the wall, the blade of his sword clattering uselessly to the floor. As Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s strength failed, he slithered down the wall to land half-sitting, half-lying at its base.
‘Papa!’ In two steps she had reached him and was pressing the sword back into his hand where he lay.
His breathing was laboured and the blood was spreading across his coat.
Sergeant Braun heard her cry, and positioned himself in front of the Lieutenant Colonel and his daughter, firing shot after shot, and reloading his rifle so fast as to make Josie’s paltry efforts seem laughable, and all the while roaring his defiance at the French force that had not yet crossed the threshold where the skeleton of the door still balanced. It seemed that he stood there an eternity, that one man holding back the full force of the French 8th Dragoons, until at last his body jerked with the impact of one bullet and then another and another, and he crumpled to the ground to lie in a crimson pool.
There was no more musket fire.
Josie moved to stand defensively in front of her father, aiming her rifle through the gun smoke, her breathing ragged and loud in the sudden silence.
The holed and splintered wood that had been the door fell inwards suddenly, landing with a crash upon the floor of the barren room that housed the bodies of the riflemen. There was silence as the smoke cleared to show Josie exactly what she faced.
The French had not moved. They still stood clustered outside around the doorway, in their green coats so reminiscent of the 60th’s. Even the facings on their coats were of a similar red coloration; the difference lay in their white breeches and black riding boots, their brass buttons and single white crossbelts and most of all in the brass helmets with black horsehair crests that they wore upon their heads. Even across the distance she could see their faces beneath those helmets—lean and hard and ruthless—and she saw the disbelief that flitted across them when they realised whom it was that they faced.
She heard the command, ‘Ne tirez pas!’ and knew that they would hold their fire. And then the man who had issued that command stepped through the doorway into the room.
He was dressed in a similar green jacket to that of his men, but with the white epaulettes upon his shoulders and a leopardskin band around his helmet that was given only to officers. He looked too young to wear the small, silver grenades in the carmine turnbacks in the tail of his jacket. He was tall and well muscled. Beneath the polish of his helmet his hair was short and dark, and down the length of his left cheek he carried a scar. In his hand was a beautifully weighted sabre, from the hilt of which hung a long, golden tassel.
When he spoke his voice was hard and flinty and highly accented. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Mallington.’
Josie heard her father’s gasp of shock and she raised the rifle higher, aiming it at the Frenchman.
‘Dammartin?’ She could hear the incredulity in her father’s voice.
‘You recognise me from my father, Major Jean Dammartin, perhaps. I understand that you knew him. I am Captain Pierre Dammartin and I have waited a long time to meet you, Lieutenant Colonel Mallington,’ said the Frenchman.
‘Good Lord!’ said her father. ‘You are his very image.’
The Frenchman’s smile was cold and hard. He made no move, just stood there, seemingly relishing the moment.
‘Josie,’ her father called with urgency.
Josie kept the rifle trained on the French Captain, but she glanced down at her father. He was pale and weak with lines of pain etched around his eyes.
‘Papa?’
‘Let him approach. I must speak with him.’
Her gaze swung back to the Frenchman, whose eyes were dark and stony. They watched one another across the small distance.
‘Josie,’ her father said again. ‘Do as I say.’
She was loathed to let the enemy any closer to her father, but she knew that she had little choice. Perhaps her father had a trick up his sleeve, a small pistol or a knife with which to turn the situation to their advantage. If they could but capture the French Captain and bargain for just a little more time….
Josie stepped to the side, leaving the approach to her father free, yet never taking her eyes from the Frenchman’s face.
The French Captain’s sabre sat easily in his hand as if it were an old friend with which he was so comfortable that he ceased to notice it. He advanced forwards to stand before the Lieutenant Colonel, taking the place that Josie had just vacated, waiting with a closed expression for what the older man would say.
And all the while Josie kept the rifle trained upon the Frenchman’s heart, and the French soldiers kept their muskets trained upon her.
‘Captain Dammartin.’ Her father beckoned him closer.
The Frenchman did not move.
Lieutenant Colonel Mallington managed to smile at the young man’s resistance. ‘You are of the same mould as your father. He was a most worthy opponent.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel.’ Dammartin’s mouth was grim. ‘A compliment indeed.’
The Lieutenant Colonel’s eyes slid to Josie. ‘She is my daughter, all that I have left in this world.’ Then his gaze was back fixed on Dammartin. ‘I do not need to ask that you treat her honourably. I already know that, as Jean Dammartin’s son, you will do nothing other.’ He coughed and blood flecked red and fresh upon his lips.
Dammartin’s eyes glittered dangerously. ‘Do you indeed, Lieutenant Colonel?’ He slowly extended his sword arm until the edge of the blade was only inches from the Lieutenant Colonel’s face. ‘You are very certain for a man in your position.’
The French dragoons in the background smiled and sniggered. Dammartin held up a hand to silence them.
Josie took a step closer to the French Captain, the weight of the raised rifle pulling at her arms. She showed no weakness, just tightened her finger slightly against the trigger and took another step closer, keeping the rifle’s muzzle aimed at Dammartin’s chest. ‘Lower your sword, sir,’ she said, ‘or I shall put a bullet through you.’
‘No, Josie!’ came her father’s strained voice.
‘Think of what my men will do if you pull the trigger,’ Dammartin said.
‘I think of what you will do if I do not,’ she replied.
Their gazes locked, each refusing to look away, as if that would determine whether the sabre blade or the rifle trigger moved first.
‘Josie!’ Her father coughed again, and she heard his gasp of pain. ‘Lay down your weapon.’
Her eyes darted to her father’s face, unable to believe his words. ‘We will not surrender,’ she said in a parody of his earlier words.
‘Josie.’ His bloodstained fingers beckoned her down, their movement weak and fluttering with a control that was fast ebbing.
One last
