Part 40 (2/2)

The militia manning the cannons had been sacrificed. Deliberately. To draw in the rest of the invading force. He felt his anger welling up.

In war the men who actually fought counted for nothing.

Where was the rest of the militia? Were they waiting at the right perimeter, as they were supposed to be?

He knew that the plan all along had been to let the guns be seized. But now that it had happened, he felt a demoralizing pang of loss and defeat. Why should the gunners be exposed to a musket attack? Surely there was some other way. . . .

”Give fire!”

He heard Anthony's command and felt his heart jump. The infantry was practically in pistol range. This was going to be near to murder. The trigger felt cold against his finger as he sighted into the dark, directly toward one of the approaching tips of fire.

The gun flashed and kicked upward. The parapet was suddenly bathed in light as the long line of muskets around him discharged. He gasped for breath as the air in the trench turned to smoke--burning charcoal and saltpeter. The points of light danced in chaos, and then he heard screams.

The man next to him, a grizzled, frightened freeholder, had clambered up the loose dirt of the parapet to gain a better view of the fighting at the breastwork. Jeremy realized that this man, too, had never witnessed a battle before.

Then came a row of flashes from where the red dots had been, like the long string of exploding rockets fired over the Thames on St. George's Day. The freeholder beside him suddenly groaned and pitched backward, his smoking matchlock plowing into the soft dirt of the parapet as he sprawled downward into the trench. Then another man, farther down, screamed and doubled over his gun.

”Half-c.o.c.k your muskets, disengage your match,” Jeremy heard himself shouting. ”Prepare to recharge.”

Anthony had coached him that one of the primary duties of a field officer was to call out orders for priming and loading, since men in battle often forgot crucial steps. With a live matchcord attached to the hammer, it was all too easy to set off a musket while you were ramming in the charge.

”Prime your pan.” He tried to bellow above the din as he began pouring priming powder from a flask on his bandolier into the flintlock's powder pan. ”Close your pan. Prepare to scour.”

As he and the men quickly cleaned the barrels of their

muskets, then began to ram in more powder and shot, he kept glancing toward the approaching infantry. They too had paused to reload. He could see the outlines of the men now, and hear the shouts of officers.

Which men were officers?

At the end of one row of infantrymen stood a tall man in a silver helmet who seemed to be issuing the commands for reloading. He must be one, Jeremy realized. He's faster at reloading than the others. He's almost ready.

That man, tall and comely, would make a pa.s.sing good companion to share a hunt, afield and stalking grouse on a dew-laden morning. If we were both back in England now . . .

Except . . . he's here to kill me.

”You!” He shouted a challenge as he climbed up the parapet, readying his flintlock. There were shouts from the militiamen behind him, warning him to come down, but he did not hear, did not want to hear.

The officer in the silver helmet looked up and spotted the outline of the brash youth standing atop the parapet, brandis.h.i.+ng a musket. He knew.

Jeremy watched as the man drew up his musket and took aim. He waited a moment in fascination, savoring what it was like to face death, then drew up his own flintlock and sighted the man's chest down the barrel.

There was a flash of light and a whistle past his ear, the sound of a hurried horsefly.

Then he squeezed the trigger.

The Roundhead officer opened his mouth noiselessly and seemed to wilt backward. He fumbled for his musket as it clattered against a jagged lump of coral beside him, then sprawled onto the sand, still as death, his helmet circling in drunken arcs down the slope toward the surf.

”Sir, mind you take cover!”

In the flush sweeping over him, he scarcely felt the hands tugging at his boots. He was still gripping his flintlock, knuckles white, as the other militiamen dragged him back into the trench.

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