Dubious Allegiance Read Online Free PDF Page B

they were to storm the barricade with bayonets at the ready while the enemy was distracted. But the company would wait ten minutes or so to begin the assault in the hope that the snow might start up again.
    Marc was only half paying attention. His eye had caught sight of a horse in its death throes about twenty yards from the rampart. Its lips were foaming, and one huge eye was slowly rolling to a ghastly stop. And trapped underneath the animal’s hindquarters was its rider. He was on his stomach, so the only way he could attempt to raise the dying creature’s haunches off the lower part of his own body was by rising uponto his knees. But the dead weight was too much for him, and he was now clawing at the earth with both hands in a fruitless effort to pull himself free. Fortunately, he was facing the little woods, with the animal’s bulk shielding his presence, and plight, from the rebels behind the barricade. Any sounds he might have been making were drowned out by the continuing fire from skirmishes going on over by the outbuildings and the stone house.
    â€œWe can’t just leave him out there,” Hilliard said. And he took a step towards the open ground.
    Marc put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go,” he said, and, without looking back, he rushed towards the stricken man in a low, trotting crouch, well within the range of any rifles poking out of the improvised loopholes in the enemy barricade. But it wasn’t until he had dropped down beside the surprised, and terrified, horseman that the first shots snapped at the breeze. One of them struck the upraised foreleg of the horse and shattered the bone.
    â€œIt’s all right, I’m British,” Marc said reassuringly. He realized that in his mud-caked clothes he could have been anyone: only his shako cap would be a certain sign of his allegiance.
    â€œI can’t move my legs! I can’t feel my foot!” The “officer” turned out to be a corporal, a young man no more than twenty or so, beardless, handsome despite his pain-distorted features and glazed, goitered stare.
    â€œI’ve got to lever the hindquarters of your horse so you can drag yourself free,” Marc said. “Then we’ll have to make a sprint for it. If we’re lucky, one of the troops in the woods will give us a volley to get us started.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t Prince move? I can’t get him to move!” The lad’s cry was anguished.
    â€œYour horse is dead,” Marc said, as he drew his sabre carefully from its scabbard without raising his head above the cover being provided by the faithful Prince. The shooting had stopped, but Marc knew that the rebels would be waiting for the next act in this diverting little drama. Perhaps he should just wait here until the next assault began. But he was supposed to be leading a phase of it: technically, he had deserted his post. Moreover, his clambering about in the middle of the attack zone could well interfere with any covering or distracting volleys being planned. He would have to risk returning now. His concern for an individual soldier had overridden his duty to the troop and the company.
    The corporal groaned horribly, either at the news of Prince’s demise or his own considerable pain.
    â€œHang on. I’m going to lift up the horse’s rump as far as I can, then you’ll have to do the rest. And it’s going to hurt. If you can’t manage it, we’re both dead men.”
    The lad’s eyes widened. “I’ll manage it, sir.”
    â€œGood. Now here we go!”
    Marc wedged the flat blade of his sword as far under the horse’s huge thigh as he could; then, using his shoulder for leverage, he began slowly to lift, mustering all his waning strength in the effort. Even so, he could not have levered the beast nearly enough for his comrade to pull free if the latter had not had the good fortune to lie in a small furrow. Marc merely needed