A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [640]
Major Donald MacDonald floundered, rising halfway in the water. His wig was gone and his head showed bare and wounded, blood running from his scalp down over his face. His teeth were bared, clenched in agony or ferocity, there was no telling which. Another shot struck him and he fell with a splash—but rose again, slow, slow, and then pitched forward into water too deep to stand, but rose yet again, splashing frantically, spraying blood from his shattered mouth in the effort to breathe.
Let it be you, then, lad, said the dispassionate voice. He raised his rifle and shot MacDonald cleanly through the throat. He fell backward and sank at once.
IT WAS OVER in minutes, the fog thick with powder smoke, the black creek choked with the dying and dead.
“King George and broadswords, eh?” said Caswell, bleakly surveying the damage. “Broadswords against cannon. Poor buggers.”
On the other side, all was confusion. Those who had not fallen at the bridge were in flight. Already, men on this side of the creek were carrying the timbers down to repair the bridge. Those who were running wouldn’t get far.
He should go, too, summon his men to help in pursuit. But he stood as though turned to stone, the cold wind singing in his ears.
JACK RANDALL stood still. His sword was in his hand, but he made no effort to raise it. Only stood there, that odd smile on his lips, dark eyes burning in Jamie’s own.
If he had been able to break that gaze . . . but he couldn’t, and so caught the blur of movement behind Randall. Murtagh, running, bounding tussocks like a sheep. And the glint of his godfather’s blade—had he seen that, or only imagined it? No matter; he’d known without doubt from the cock of Murtagh’s arm, and seen before it happened the murderous strike come upward toward the Captain’s red-clad back.
But Randall spun, warned maybe by some change in his eyes, the sob of Murtagh’s breath—or only by a soldier’s instinct. Too late to avoid the thrust, but soon enough that the dirk missed its fatal aim into the kidney. Randall had grunted with the blow—Christ, he could hear it—and jerked aside staggering, but turning as he fell, grasping Murtagh’s wrist, dragging him down in a shower of spray from the wet gorse they fell through.
They had rolled away into a hollow, locked together, struggling, and he had flung himself through the clinging plants in pursuit, some weapon—what, what had he held?—in his fist.
But the feel of it faded against his skin; he felt the weight of the thing in his hand, but there was no shape of hilt or trigger to remind him, and it was gone again.
Leaving him with that one image: Murtagh. Murtagh, teeth clenched and bared as he struck. Murtagh, running, coming to save him.
HE BECAME SLOWLY aware again of where he was. There was a hand on his arm—Roger Mac, white-faced, but steady.
“I am going to see to them,” Roger Mac said, with a brief nod toward the creek. “You’re all right, yourself?”
“Aye, of course,” he said, though with the feeling he so often had in waking from a dream—as though he were not in fact quite real.
Roger Mac nodded and turned to walk away. Then suddenly turned back, and laying his hand once more on Jamie’s arm, said very quietly, “Ego te absolvo.” Then turned again and went resolutely to tend the dying and bless the dead.
114
AMANDA
FROM L’Oignon–Intelligencer, May 15, 1776
INDEPENDENCE!!
In the Wake of the famous Victory at Moore’s Creek Bridge, the Fourth Provincial Congress of North Carolina has voted to adopt the Halifax Resolves. These Resolutions authorize Delegates to the Continental Congress to concur with the other Delegates of the other Colonies in declaring Independency and forming foreign Alliances, reserving to this Colony the sole and exclusive Right of forming a Constitution and Laws for this Colony, and by Passage of the Halifax Resolves, North Carolina thus becomes the first Colony officially to indorse Independency.
THE FIRST SHIP of a Fleet commanded by Sir Peter Parker has arrived at the