1635 The Papal Stakes by Eric Flint, Charles E. Gannon

discharged behind him; either Tom was not hit, or he did not feel it. Either way, he continued his uneven progress across the ford, wondering how long the gun smoke would obscure the vision of the Spanish line, and how long it would take them to reload.
     
    Harry Lefferts was so focused on finding a way to get closer to the cataract that he was completely surprised by the buff-coated man who rose up in front of him. Jerking to a startled halt, Harry squinted into the near-dark: the man’s weapon was an immediate giveaway as to whose side he was on.
    Harry moved the barrel of the down-time box-magazine Winchester away from his belly. “Wondered where you guys were,” Lefferts drawled.
    “Waiting for you.”
    “Oooh, snappy. I like that. You also just about scared me out of my pants.” He looked the mercenary up and down. “You’re pretty damned good. Wanna work for me?”
    The man shrugged. “I like my boss.”
    “I pay better.”
    “I doubt it. And I’ve got a family. Lieutenant Hasting is just down the slope.”
    “No time to find him. How are you deployed?”
    “Loose skirmish line from here to the river to cover Captain Simpson’s group as they come up the track.” As if to emphasize the harried approach of that group, a clatter of musketry rose above the dull thunder of the cataract.
    “Any force closer to the ford?”
    “No. None to spare. We’ve only got two squads.”
    “You’re only one squad, here. Where’s the other?”
    “Landing zone security and uncommitted reserve.”
    Harry scowled a little. Frequently, the word “reserve” translated as the hiding place for cowardly commanders . “I see Colonel North is sitting this one out.”
    “That’s not how we see it.”
    “Well, we can debate that over a beer some time. We’re going in.”
    “In? In where?”
    Harry pointed in the direction of the recent fusillade. “In there.”
    “You’re going to attack the Spanish?”
    Harry smiled and waved for the Wrecking Crew to follow him southwest, angling to follow the upslope limit of the woods. “Not directly.”
     
    Tom reached the other side of the ford just as the muskets started sporadically barking at him again. However, from the sound of it, most of the Spanish were giving chase, not stopping to reload. In the dark, any gunfights at ranges greater than ten yards were pretty much pointless.
    Feeling solid ground under his feet, Tom up and sprinted forward, following the cart-track. The pain of his reopened wound returned sharply, now reaching up into his lower back. When the shooting had started, adrenaline had swept the discomfort away, but that relieving rush was gone; soon, he’d start limping, stumbling—
    He heard movement upslope, some yards beyond the trees linking the track.
    Impossible. There had been no way to cross the cataract higher up; how could the Spanish have anyone on his northern flank?
    Desperate, and experiencing true panic for the first time in many years, Tom Simpson found another surge of strength which sent him dashing forward along the track.
     
    Lieutenant Hastings watched the man and woman help the little priest stumble past his position, and right behind them, an odd couple indeed: a fit, yet clearly older woman with a useless, dangling foot, being almost dragged along by a fit, but equally aged Moor. And, still farther back along the track, another very large silhouette was emerging from the darkness…
     
    Corporal Eugenio Morca de Torres clambered out of the frothing current, cocked his miquelet musket, aimed after the fleeing figure, then lowered his weapon. Coño , the big American was fast, even when wounded. He waved for his men to follow and ran in pursuit.
     
    Harry skidded to a halt, five yards from where the woods ended at the cart-track. He saw a figure running down there, heading towards North’s forward skirmish line. A big figure. Tom Simpson. Had to be.
    Catching a tree branch to slow himself, George Sutherland readied his up-time