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 passing 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, brandishing 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.
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 whoresons 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 shoreline. 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 fashion."