the shore in disciplined rows. For a moment he had the impression
Jamestown was being attacked by strings of fireflies that had emerged
from the deep Caribbean sea.
"Prepare to fire." He heard a voice giving the order, and was vaguely
astonished to realize it was his own.
The trench sounded with the clicks of powder pans being opened and
hammers being readied.
"Take aim." That was the phrase; he had started practicing it five days
before, when he was assigned the command. But now, what next? Aim
where? The fireflies were inching up the shore in deadly rows. There
looked to be hundreds. They would spew lead shot the moment the
militia's trench was revealed.
He knew that the order to fire the first round must come from Anthony.
Why was he waiting? The Roundhead infantry must be no more than fifty
yards down the shore. He felt his palm grow moist against the ivory of
the stock, and for a moment he thought he smelled an acrid stench of
fear down the trench.
More muskets blazed from the rear of the brick fortress, followed by
screams and shouts of surrender. In the jumble of musket fire and
lanterns he could tell that the Jamestown breastwork had been circled
and seized: its gunners overwhelmed, its cannon still directed
impotently out toward the dark sea. Only two culverin had been fired.
He watched heartsick as the invading infantrymen, breastplates shining
in the lantern light, swarmed over the guns.
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-cock 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."