It Always Rains Before My Battles




“It always rains before my battles,” War quoted looking over in the direction of the French camp across what had looked like the perfect battlefield only a day ago and now more closely resembled a lake in her opinion. “Damned British understatement.”

The thunder drowned out the sound of her words and then another flash of lightning blinded her. Perhaps Napoleon had a dry tent he’d share with her? He’d always liked her better than Wellington did.

“Not that he’s immune to the feminine charms of any other woman,” she grumbled and waded on in her hopeless search for some shelter from the elements.

There wasn’t much hope of obtaining a dry room from anyone of a lesser rank or there wouldn’t be so many officers huddling out here in the rain along with the common soldiers. Her angry glare at a colonel who was sleeping peacefully curled up in his boat cloak in the mud beside the road had no effect on either him or the less hardened ensign beside him who was trying and failing to copy the feat.

War shivered and pulled her own wet cloak around her in a vain attempt to shield herself against the pouring rain. A sudden gust of wind almost blew her over and caused her to stumble into another shape in a red uniform.

“Oh my Lady!” the man exclaimed with a slight Scottish accent. “You are soaked! Here, take my cloak! Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Alas, he didn’t have quarters either, so she thanked him for the cloak even though it was little help over already dripping wet clothes and walked on. Something about the man …

She turned around to see him already walking away. “Hey, didn’t I see you at Culloden?” But he was already gone.




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