Part 41 (1/2)

He lay panting, at once dazed and exhilarated, astonished at the sensations of his own mind and body. The most curious thing of all was his marvelous new awareness of being alive; he was adrift in a new realm of the spirit, untroubled by the cacophony of musket discharges from all sides.

”We're turnin' the wh.o.r.esons back.” There were more shouts now, even some cheers. Finally the din of battle cut through his reverie.

”Prepare to reload.” He was shouting again, almost more to himself than to the others, trying to be heard above the crack of musket fire that sounded down the length of the sh.o.r.eline. Everywhere there were flashes, yells, screams. The air in the trench was rancid and opaque with black smoke.

As he began reloading his musket he suddenly felt a new closeness, almost a mystical union, with the ragged planters around him. They were a fraternity of men, standing together, defending their land. Why had Anthony never told him that war could be like this? Could teach you brotherhood as well as hate?

He was priming his powder pan again, trying to control the shake of his hands as he tilted the powder flask, when he looked up to see that more red tips were emerging from the darkness of the sea. Another wave of Roundhead infantry had landed in longboats.

There was no longer any purpose in calling out a loading sequence. Some men were priming now, some ramming in powder and shot, some threading their matchcord into the hammer, some firing again. All the discipline he had been taught so carefully by Anthony was irrelevant.

Most frightening of all, while the first wave of infantry had dropped back to reload, a fresh line of musketmen was advancing toward the parapet, guns primed and ready.

”Fire and fall back. In orderly fas.h.i.+on.”

It was the voice of Anthony. The call to abandon the trench

meant that all the Roundhead infantry had landed. Now they were to be drawn inland with a feigned retreat.

The plan worked out was to resist strongly until all the infantry were ash.o.r.e, to damage them as much as possible using the protection of the parapet, and then to fall back into the trees, luring them away from their longboats. When their lines were thinned, Hugh Winston would lead a cavalry charge that would drive a wedge along the sh.o.r.e, between the infantry and the sea, cutting off their escape. Next the longboats would be driven off, and the invading infantry slowly surrounded. They would be hara.s.sed by irregular fire and, with luck, soon lose heart.

Cut off from their escape route, the demoralized invaders would have no choice but to surrender. Then, so the strategy went, Commander Morris and the admiral of the fleet would seek to negotiate.

Jeremy fired blindly into the dark, then reached down for his pike. As he touched it, his eyes met those of the dying freeholder lying beside him. Blood now streamed from a gash in the man's tattered jerkin, while a red rivulet flowed in pulses from the corner of his mouth. The sight flooded him with anger.

”No!” He heard himself yelling as he groped down his bandolier for another charge-holder. ”No retreat.” He turned to the startled men around him. ”Reload. I say no retreat!”

”But that's the orders, Yor Wors.h.i.+p.” A bearded militiaman had already begun to scramble up the back side of the trench.

”Devil take the orders. Look.” He seized the militiaman's jerkin and yanked him back, then pointed to the dying freeholder at their feet.

”Aye, that's Roland Jenkins, may G.o.d rest his soul. I'm like to be the one tellin' his wife.” The freeholder gave a quick glance. ”But there's nothin' to be done, Yor Wors.h.i.+p. Orders are to retreat.”

”And I say d.a.m.n the orders.” He was yelling to all the men now. ”There are men here, wounded and dying. I'm staying with them. What kind of soldiers are we, to leave these men to die? It's wrong. There're higher orders to be obeyed. I say no.”

”An' we'll all end up like this poor sod, Yor Wors.h.i.+p. There's no helpin' a man who's gone to meet his G.o.d.” The man threw his musket onto the fresh dirt at the bottom of the trench and turned to begin clambering to safety. ”For my own part, I can do just as well not greetin' the Almighty for a few years more.”

Jeremy seized his pike and marched down the trench. ”I'll gut any man who tries to run. I'm in command here and I say we stand and fight. Now reload.”

The men stared at him in disbelief.

”Do it, I say.” He brandished the pike once more for emphasis, then flung it down and seized a charge-holder on his bandolier. Without so much as a glance at the other men, he began pouring the grainy black powder into the barrel of his musket.

The world was suddenly a white, deafening roar.

Later he remembered mainly the flash, how as the smoke seared his eyes he recalled his own negligence, that he had forgotten to scour the barrel. It was a fool's mistake, a child's mistake. He was still wiping his eyes, seared and powder-burned, when he felt the musket being ripped from his hands. As he groped to seize it back, rough hands shoved him sprawling against the soft dirt of the trench. His face plowed into the earth, which still smelled fresh, musky and ripe, full of budding life.

”We've got another one, sor.” A brash voice sounded near his ear. ”A right c.o.xcomb, this rebel.”

”d.a.m.n you.” Jeremy struck out, only half aware of the cl.u.s.ter of infantrymen surrounding him.