In addition to the three Spaniards he and Sherrilyn had gunned down, four more had been killed coming in from the kitchen and pantry area, and three more by the rectory’s garden door where-for some idiotic reason-the earl and a few of his bog-hoppers had gone outdoors to have a little sword fight. But Matija and Sherrilyn were moving in that direction, too, and they’d be sure to make a quick end of that little machismo-induced melee. Of greater concern was the doorway that led from the rectory anteroom into the short corridor leading to the apse of the church. That was where most of the on-duty guards would no doubt fall-back, make a plan…
Which would involve a flanking maneuver. Probably making use of the same arboretum through which North had entered, since it was easily accessed from the front of the church. But that flanking move would be a feint only. The widest, yet shortest approach route was through the anteroom corridor linking to the apse “Harry-”
“Yeah, I know. You take Felix and George, as well as any Irish that aren’t needed in the rectory, and cover the corridor to the church. Donald, Gerd, and I will set up a cross fire in the arboretum; they’ll be coming that way, too.”
Thomas waved to George. “You heard Harry; on me, Sutherland. And you-” he turned to a particularly well- groomed Irishman who had just recovered his pepperbox revolver “-how are you with a sword?”
“I’m better with a scalpel.”
Thomas stared, then realized, judging from the easy, elegant diction, that this “bog-hopper” was telling the truth. “Then get in the rear, Doctor, and order your two mates here to cover this door. Swords and pistols, and stand to the side until I say; they’ll come hard, when they do. George, Felix, either side of the door. Shotguns out, pistols ready. Doctor, do be good enough to watch the door leading back into the main annex. If you detect any-”
Shotguns started firing rapidly out in the arboretum; the fast-paced BOOM-thra-thunk-BOOM-thra-thrunk sequence was consistent with a rapid pumping of double-aught rounds downrange.
Thomas edged close to the apse-hallway door, cheated it open a sliver And saw the double-doors at the apse-end of the corridor swing wide, the Spanish bursting through them three abreast, swordsmen in the lead, musketeers behind.
He let them come half the twenty feet. Then he pulled open the antechamber door. Too far into their charge and too far away from cover to settle in for a gun battle, the Spanish came harder, the musketeers shouting for clearance, hoping to get a shot.
Thomas leveled his pistol and said, “Now!” He aimed at the point man, but did not fire. Felix and George leaned around the door jamb and started pumping shotgun rounds into the Spanish at a range of eight feet.
The first rank went down as a wave of tattered and bloody corpses, revealing the second rank, one or two of whom had taken minor wounds from the. 33 caliber balls that that slipped between the bodies in front of them. At their center-and now clearly revealed for Thomas-was the target he expected to find: the career NCO, a little salt mixed into the pepper of his campaigner’s beard. That career soldier had realized any spot in the first rank was suicide, but had also known he had to be present to press home the charge. He had to get in among the enemy with both a sword and tactical acumen that had been honed by decades of experience. He, the seasoned Spanish sergeant, was arguably the most potent weapon of the epoch, having been forged along a bloody trail that stretched from Madrid to Maastricht to Macau and back again.
Thomas, with an easy easy but firm grip on the nine-millimeter, let the tip of the bead rise up into the v-notch of the rear sight, saw the sternum line of the sergeant’s cuirass aligned there as well, and squeezed the trigger. And again, for good measure.
The sergeant went down.
Sic transit gloria mundi est, reflected Thomas.
As the next rank closed in, Thomas stepped back and the Irish jumped up, pepperboxes thundering. Still giving ground, Thomas started targeting the musketeers between the heads and shoulders of the Wild Geese.
The Irish-credit to be given where credit was due-seemed to intuit the overall strategy. After littering the doorway with Spaniards, they too backed up to the let the last of them rush into the antechamber.
Felix and George’s reloaded shotguns thundered into that press from either side. The space was suddenly choked with falling bodies, helmets, weapons, and blood. A nuisance, really, Thomas conceded as he found an opening and fired two quick rounds at one of the musketeers hanging back at the church doors — Who fell. Two of his comrades ducked behind the walls of the apse; an equal number snapped off return shots. One musket ball hit the doorjamb, another hit one of the last Spaniards still standing.
“Cover! Back!” ordered Thomas, obeying his own command.
George, Felix, and the Irish tucked back out of sight in the antechamber, although not before one of them took a ball in the upper leg, and another was clipped near along his left calf.
Harry’s voice came from behind. “Thomas, hold them here.”
He turned and nodded at the American who was leaning in through the arboretum doorway. Harry returned the nod, motioned for Ohde to stay in a covering position and led Gerd forward at a crouched sprint, sticking close to the side of the church and making for its entrance. A reciprocal flanking action: just as Thomas would have done himself.
“Now what?” asked the Irish surgeon from where he was staunching the one Irishman’s thigh-wound.
“Now, we play peek-a-boo with the musketeers.” Thomas leaned out, took a shot at nothing. Ducked back. Then he edged the rim of his helmet out beyond the doorjamb.
Two musket blasts responded, one of which sent a ball whining into the rectory itself, eliciting a mighty, if indistinct, oath from one of the Irish who had evidently finished amusing themselves playing at swords in the garden.
Thomas studied the litter of Spanish equipment at his feet, saw an undischarged musket, toed it to one of the Irish pistoleers in the antechamber. “Shoot it,” he said.
“At what?” the Irishman asked, puzzled.
“At the Spaniards in the apse.”
He took a quick squint around the corner. “Can’t see ’em.”
“You don’t have to. Just shoot in their general direction. Keep them busy.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. Well, more like ‘you’ll hear.’ Now be a good fellow and shoot at nothing, please.”
The Irishman shrugged, sensibly did not expose more than the barrel and his right eye, fired, and hit the lintel of the door into the apse.
“See,” asked Thomas, “now how hard was that?”
“Harder to understand than do-sir,” came the answer. “What the bollocks good is it to-?”
The sudden multiple shotgun discharges within the church sounded like a short, intense bombardment by light artillery. Wonderful acoustics in these Italian churches, reflected Thomas, as he stepped out into the line of fire. He considered whether or not it would be prudent to swap magazines again. He became aware of someone staring at him: the Irishman with the discharged Spanish musket.
“So all we were doing-”
“-was keeping the musketeers in the apse focused on us, yes. And making sure there was plenty of noise covering the approach of our counterflankers. The Spanish had no way of knowing that all their own flankers had been cut down so quickly by Harry in the arboretum. So we just had to keep them from glancing back at what they thought was their secure flank-the front door of the church-long enough for Harry to make his counterflanking strike there. Now, relieve the doctor at the annex door; he has two wounded men to tend to.” North headed back toward the rectory.
John managed to stand up a little straighter when the sassenach came back into the rectory. Father Wadding had grown very quiet, staring round at the bodies littering his sanctum sanctorum. Owen approached, asked, “Father, I’m sorry to have to ask, but is this all of them?”
“What do you mean?”
Owen bit his lip before continuing. “Is this the full lot of the guards? Are there any more?”
Father Luke stood suddenly, and John saw that the infamous Wadding ire had ignited. His dark eyes seemed to stab into Owen. “Why do you want to know, Owen Roe? Haven’t you slaked your thirst for blood just yet?”
Owen looked away. He was afraid that if Wadding saw the look in his eyes the priest would know that he’d already given the order to have any surviving enemy soldiers slain. He’d disliked giving that order, but hadn’t seen any choice. They simply couldn’t afford to leave any eyewitnesses behind.
