Ferguson’s whistle screamed thin and high through the noise. The man was still on his horse, trying to rally his men, though by now it was like rallying fish in a net—they surged to and fro, bayonets still fixed, stabbing air, some firing, but being driven closer in, jostling as they strove to find a target.

Why not?

He coughed again, smoke rasping in his chest, and spat. It was no more than minutes now, and he kent from Randall’s book what would happen to Ferguson. Spare him knowing what’s coming to him … Let it be a Scot, at least … He hadn’t time to think more, before his sight fixed on the checked shirt and his finger tightened on the trigger. He took a step sideways, barrel following his target, and something snagged round his foot. He kicked at the clinging shrub, impatient, and a thorn pierced his calf.

“Ifrinn!” He jerked, and looked down. The large snake that had bitten him was writhing round his leg in panic, and he flung himself away, kicking out in his own panic.

The first bullet struck him in the chest.

147

A Lot of Blood

IT SEEMED TO GO on forever, but I knew it was only minutes, would be only minutes more. Shouts from above, yelling, shooting … the crash of fired muskets and the higher-pitched crack of rifles … I felt each shot as though it had hit me and shuddered against my tree.

I HEARD IT when the tide turned. An instant’s silence and more shooting and yelling, but it was different now. Less noise, the shots were fewer … The whistle fell silent, and the yelling increased, but it had a different tone. Savage. Exultant.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I left the refuge of my tree and scrambled up the mountainside, slipping and falling and scrambling on all fours.

I came high enough to be able to see what was going on. Chaos, but the shooting had all but stopped. I made my way up higher, onto the meadow. I was drenched in sweat, my legs shaking from the tension of the last hour and my heart pounding like a steam hammer.

Where are you? Where are you?

There was a crush of men at one side of the meadow; the Loyalist prisoners, half of them in green Provincial uniforms, the rest farmers like our own men …

Our own—I tried to look in all directions at once, to see, if not Jamie himself, someone I knew.

I saw Cyrus. The Tall Tree, looking as though he’d been struck by lightning, his face black with powder smoke except where the sweat had made runnels. He was standing up, though, looking about him in a dazed sort of way.

People were moving, everywhere, jostling, milling—one young man ran into me, knocking me off-balance. I caught myself and began to say “I beg your pardon” by reflex.

Then I saw that he had Jamie’s rifle.