‘Stratton?’ she asked, confused, looking into the face that was a blur.
‘It’s me, David,’ a familiar voice replied.
Louisa’s vision came back into focus. It was indeed David. Blood and black powder burns covered his hands and face. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’
‘I . . . I think I’m okay,’ she said, not really sure.
‘Quickly!’ he said, helping her to her feet. ‘Come with me.’
He guided her across the courtyard to his sandbagged emplacement and they dropped to the ground as a burst of machine-gun fire raked the position.
David’s machine-gunner was lying slumped over the ammunition boxes. Louisa reached to help him.
‘He’s dead,’ David told her as he lifted up the feed tray from the M60 and placed a new belt of ammunition in it.
Louisa saw the bullet hole through the corpse’s head and lowered her gaze despondently. ‘Are they going to kill us all?’ she asked.
David cocked the weapon. ‘We should expect that,’ he said before firing several bursts. The noise hurt Louisa’s ears.
The gun jammed and David pulled up the slide to clear it, only to discover a bullet stuck in the breech.
‘Damn,’ he cursed. Without bothering to try and remove the obstruction he struggled to twist off the M60’s barrel while looking around the debris inside the emplacement. ‘Hand me that other barrel,’ he told Louisa.
She followed his gaze, saw what she assumed he was talking about, grabbed it up and held it out to him. Several enemy rounds struck nearby. David hardly flinched as he pulled the old barrel off, threw it to the floor, grabbed the spare from her grip, placed it in the bracket and in a few seconds was firing the machine gun again.
Louisa lay back against the sandbags, her hands over her ears, lost in hell.
A machine-gun emplacement at the top of the track near the side of the stables covered the approaches up from the cabins. Two young rebels manning it aimed their gun at the individual marching up through the wisps of smoke towards them. They recognised Sebastian as he walked at a brisk pace, seemingly unaware of the bullets flying around.
He was not wearing his usual civilian clothes. Instead, he had on the perfectly tailored officer’s uniform that he had taken from his wardrobe earlier. His epaulettes were finished off with gold braid, the brass buttons down the front of his jacket highly polished. The outfit was completed by a leather Sam Browne belt with its supporting strap passing over his shoulder to his waist. An ornate cavalry sword dangled at his side.
Sebastian passed the men in the emplacement with not so much as a nod and turned the corner of the building. He went to the first stall and opened the door to see his white stallion inside.
Stratton walked across the open ground towards the stables, his eyes focused on the rebel machine-gun emplacement tucked against the side of the building. He waved as he walked, holding his gun in the air, praying that those manning the position could see his rebel uniform through the smoke. He could see movement behind the sandbags and halted, ready to dive to the ground. To his relief a man stood up briefly and beckoned him to keep coming.
Stratton broke into a run towards the position and slid to the ground behind it. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
The two men in the emplacement were wide-eyed and anxious. ‘What’s happening?’ the gunner asked.
The noise of battle was not as heavy as it had been, suggesting that the Neravistas were consolidating their positions. The mortar explosions continued at random.
‘You have a radio?’ Stratton asked.
The men shook their heads.
‘The perimeter’s been breached,’ Stratton explained.
‘We thought so,’ the loader said, looking worried.
‘What shall we do?’ the gunner asked.
Stratton didn’t know what to suggest that might reassure them. With some luck the Neravistas would call for a ceasefire and they would have to take it from there. But then again, perhaps not. But he had his own problems. ‘Keep an eye on your flanks as well as to the front,’ he told them. ‘I’m heading down to the cabins. I’ll tell your commanders you’re okay and holding this position.’
They nodded but the fear remained in their eyes.
Stratton got ready to move on. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
‘You too,’ the gunner said, as Stratton headed to the corner of the building.
He stopped to look along the fronts of the stalls. He was about to move off when the door of the far stall opened and out strode the white stallion,