Note: Amazon Pre-order is now available! The Book will be out July 31st!

Look under the title Courage Rises: A Pride and Prejudice Continuation. I've had to take most of the story down due to Amazon rules, but the first three chapters are here so you can see if you like it!

(Please note that this is Book 1 of 2 so that I could take my time to expand some of the storylines. A bit of the first chapter of the second book is in the published version of this one).

A huge thank you to all my reviewers! You gave me wonderful ideas for both the final revision of this story and its companion novel, which I hope to have completed and on Amazon by the beginning of 2017. I will post the draft here before that, though!

Melanie

Chapter One

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam rubbed at tired eyes and tried to focus. Now that they had successfully crossed the Zadorra, the adjutant was outlining Wellington's plan to chase down the increasingly desperate French forces. As far as he could tell, it was not complex—overtake and overwhelm the enemy with numbers. Taking the high ground and finding the bridge unguarded had given them an advantage, but it had been nearly a fortnight of nasty business, and the men were growing bitter.

As he turned his head towards the door, he spied a familiar boy from the 95th in a green and black uniform caked in mud, a well-used but spotless Baker rife in his hand, a single captain's epaulette on his shoulder. He was leaning against the wall next to a rather larger companion, listening but, the Colonel thought, given the boy's crossed arms and hearty frown, not approving.

At first, Richard focused only on the Baker rifle and thought, disjointedly, that he would very much like to own one. Without moving anything other than his eyes, he lifted his gaze. The captain had his hat jammed down over his forehead so it was difficult to see his face. He had spoken briefly with the boy several times over the past few weeks, occasionally giving him orders to carry back to his own colonel. Blue eyes, he thought, trying to remember the face. The boy had intensely blue eyes and a fierce scowl.

Then as now, the captain had appeared young, and it had bothered the Colonel, though he could not say precisely why. He knew many young fighting men no older than the captain, even a few officers. He narrowed his eyes, trying to clear the fog from his vision. A few strands of sunny yellow hair curled out from under the captain's hat. He had known a few other men who looked boyish even in their thirties, but they were generally not soldiers. The captain was of medium height, but though strong, he was also slight of build. The boy's coloring, particularly the shade of golden hair, put him suddenly in mind of his young cousin Georgiana. Perhaps that was why he would feel better if the captain was older. He quickly shook that thought away. He could not think of home now. If he hoped to return in one piece he would need to focus on what they were facing today. There was a grim job to be done and no easy way to do it. Despite all the talk, it would come down to what it always did, throwing men at the guns and hoping there were enough to overpower the defending army. That meant bullets, cannon, bodies. He ducked his head again and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to relieve the tight, knotted muscles.

The 95th was given its charge, to disrupt the ranks by targeting the officers before the real fighting began and then to assist Wellington and his men. By the twist of the boy's mouth and the brusque nod of his head, the Colonel could see that he was prepared. He jumped distractedly to another thought, that the 95th did not sell commissions as often as the rest of the army. He wondered whether the boy had won his promotion through competition or merit. The riflemen were far more likely to rise in such ways, and the captain had probably earned his rank. He grunted softly in approval and Wellington himself finally stood to release them with a wave of his hand.

Richard stood up, watching the the general stride out of the room with his entourage, and stretched his aching limbs. He blinked a few times, trying to shake himself into wakefulness, and found the young man he had been watching suddenly at his side, shoving a mug of steaming hot coffee into one hand and a thick slab of folded bread into the other.

"You look done in, Colonel," he said in a young voice hoarse with smoke. "We plan to be off soon. You had best eat."

"Thank you, boy," Richard replied, looking blankly at his hands for a moment before taking a gulp of the coffee. The hot liquid warmed his throat and helped clear his head.

Suddenly, it seemed important to ask, "What is your name?"

The boy looked up into the Colonel's face. Richard was tall, a good four inches taller than the captain, but it did not seem to bother the younger man.

"Captain Oliver Hawkes, sir. Out of Kent."

Richard transferred the mug to his left hand and stuck out his right. "I am Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam." Captain Hawkes narrowed his eyes, frowning, and Richard almost laughed. Apparently Hawkes had already known who he was. He nodded, feeling a little better. "Kent. You might know of my Aunt de Bourgh."

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh?" the young man chuckled softly. "Yes, I suppose I have heard of her. More like heard her, if you do not mind my saying, sir. I was more acquainted with Miss Anne. Good girl, that. Made sure we was all fed and rested before setting off for Hythe. Quite kind. Your cousin?"

"Indeed," the Colonel replied, too exhausted to feel more than a small spark of curiosity. He had not thought Anne well enough to take an interest in much outside Rosings. He raised the mug. "Thank you again, Captain."

The boy nodded curtly and moved to go. He picked up his rifle, turning as he reached the door. "Godspeed, Colonel," he said gruffly. He clapped his waiting companion on the shoulder, and they both slipped through the door and were gone.

"Godspeed, Captain," said Richard softly, swallowing the bread in two bites. He tasted a bit of beef and wondered where the captain had managed to get it. He downed the rest of the coffee, sat the mug down, and walked out into the rapidly cooling summer night, calling for his horse. As he swung up in to the saddle, he gazed at the harvest moon sitting low in the afternoon sky. Someday, he thought, it would be nice to visit Spain and Portugal without the need to be armed.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had briefed his men. Now he swung up onto his horse, where, from his perch above the massing troops, he could just make out the green coats of the men working across the river and farther down towards town, already busy disrupting the lines by taking shots from distance at the officers following Gazan. The artillery was beginning to fire. He said a brief prayer, more out of habit than belief, and with a shout, began to move his men into position across the bridge and behind the 95th.

The order came to charge, and within a few moments, there was nothing to consider but the roar of artillery, the heat of fire, and the salty, metallic smell of blood. To the left of him, the ground heaved, showering him with dirt. He could hardly hear anything over the sound of the impact, the explosion. He fought to control his mount as they staggered to the right, though he managed to keep his seat. Another blast kicked up to the right and slightly behind him, and his horse reared in fright. Richard hung on with all his strength, but just as the animal came down to rest on all four legs, there was a final blast, this one directly ahead. He did not see the bodies flying or feel the earth raining down upon him, because he was falling, his horse screaming as it lost its footing. He instinctively rolled away to keep from being caught under the beast as it fell. He could have wept for his steed, lying there in the mud of the battlefield. Odd, he thought, detached, shots and canon firing all around him, that there was something more heart rending about losing the horse's life than his own. He crawled back to see whether he would need to spend a bullet to put the creature out of its misery, but this was not a country field and a simply broken leg. Instead, the entire chest of the animal had been torn to shreds by shrapnel. He cursed, checked his sword, grabbed his gun, and pushed forward.

He was well behind his men, now, and he hurried to catch up. He looked to ahead and realized that the 95th was streaming into the chase ahead of his men rather than keeping to the higher ground. He felt a fleeting annoyance. They were being detained, left out in full range of the cannons, while the battle plan was disregarded. The men of the 95th had clearly not wished to be used as support. He shoved up ahead, reaching his regiment quickly, when he heard some yell something about a mine and then felt a slight but very strong body slamming into him, knocking him sideways behind the protection of a copse he had not observed before. As he staggered to the side, behind the protection of a few small trees, the air was suddenly sucked from his lungs and a massive wind tossed him back through the air, pushing him to the earth at last as though an unseen hand had shoved him down from a great height.

Richard lay still, tangled in the brush, eyes closed tight and arms thrown wide while he struggled to fill his lungs. He felt a throbbing pain in his leg, but could not sit up to evaluate the damage. After a long moment, his lungs filled and he gasped as though he had been drowning. He opened his eyes in time to see a young captain in a green and black uniform dragging himself slowly across the field on his belly, the back of his green coat torn in long jagged, bloody lines. Where is he going? Richard thought hazily, watching him reach for something but not yet able to place where he was or what he himself was doing there.

He blinked a few times and tried to rise, but the ringing in his ears just became louder, more insistent. He rolled onto his side and lifted himself slightly on one arm, his head only slowly beginning to clear. As hard as he had been tossed, it took too long to recognize that there was a man standing above him and longer still to realize that the man was wearing a French uniform. Somehow, over everything, he heard the unmistakable cocking of a pistol. Perhaps he imagined that he had heard it. Richard struggled to look the man in the eye. If this was to be his death, he would stare it down. The shot came immediately.

Richard heard the shot, but did not feel it and was almost angry. How the deuce did he miss from so short a distance? Then he saw the soldier falling, slumping to the earth, the pistol dropping harmlessly from his hand. Richard tried again to rise, but his body would not allow it. He laid his head back down on his arm and spied a shock of blond hair. It was Captain Oliver Hawkes. The boy had lost his hat. His yellow curls were bright against a face smeared with gunpowder residue, mud, and blood, and he was sitting on the ground in the Plunkett position, his legs stretched out before him, a curl of smoke twisting up from his rifle. The captain slowly, carefully rolled over on his stomach and tried to push himself up, rifle in his hand, but his balance was unsteady, and as he watched the boy finally collapse in a bloody heap, Richard closed his eyes. Just a little rest, he thought, as a sunny slope in the north of England and the face of his young cousin began to dance in his vision. I am weary.