Page 61

T he Line had held.

Despite being far outnumbered, the Americans had won the day.

On the far side of the battlefield, the bulk of the British army was in full retreat. There was still sporadic gunfire on both sides, but the fighting was over.

Now there was laughter and back-slapping all along the top of the earthworks. Casks of ale were being rolled out and the weary fighters sat with their backs propped against bales of hay, bleeding and dirty, but toasting one another and savouring their victory.

General Andrew Jackson rode the length of the Line on a great black stallion.

He waved and paused every few feet to acknowledge and respond to the cheers as he passed.

His wolfpack of officers followed close behind, Rodney Lamb amongst them, his craggy face split in a wide grin as he too shared the astounding victory with his militiamen.

Duardo had found Rose again and stood close by, keeping the area clear, growling ominously if anyone came too close to where she was crouched by Fonteyne’s side.

Rose neither cheered nor celebrated as she dipped a cloth in a basin of cool water and blotted Sebastien’s forehead.

He was unconscious and, according to Archie Penman, likely to remain that way for some time.

The bullet that had caught him in the shoulder had also sent him tumbling off the wall, where he struck the side of his head on the wheel of a gun carriage.

It was impossible to know how much damage the blow had caused, and while Penman had cauterized the wound on his shoulder and stitched the gash that nearly took off Fonteyne’s ear, there was no recourse but to wait and see when … or if … he regained his senses.

“He has a hard head, Rose,” Archie said after insisting on putting a few stitches in the cut on Rose’s temple.

“It’s been bashed one or two times when I’ve thought …

well, I didn’t make any wagers that he would come out of it, but he did.

As soon as things calm down here we can move him somewhere quiet.

Back to your ship, perhaps.” He hesitated a moment then asked for the fourth time, “You’re certain Billy is okay? ”

“It was a clean break,” she assured him, also for the fourth time. “When I came away from the ship she was sleeping easily, probably easier than I’ve seen her sleep ever before.”

He nodded and left her sitting by Sebastien’s side, tasked to watch for any sign of shaking or fits. She had bathed the blood off his chest and arms, had dabbed a wet cloth over his lips and watched the dark lashes flicker and shiver but not open.

“Captain.”

Rose looked up at Duardo, who touched a finger to his ear. She was still somewhat deafened from all the gunfire and it took a moment for her to understand his gesture.

Rose stood and looked around. The frantic activity of only moments ago had gone completely still. Men and women stood like statues on top of the rampart, barely breathing, almost afraid to shatter the moment by moving.

Curious, Rose followed Duardo cautiously to the top of the earthworks.

What she saw would be relived in nightmares, for the battlefield was covered in red, littered with the bodies of the dead and wounded soldiers.

Jackson had ridden down onto the field and some of those red bodies had began to rise up, their weapons abandoned, their arms raised high in surrender.

One badly-wounded officer was helped to his feet and steadied himself long enough to withdraw his sword and offer it to Jackson.

The general dismounted, his face reflecting the horror around him, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, accepted the officer’s sword but returned it almost immediately, sliding it back into the young man’s scabbard.

“I will not take the sword from a man who fought so bravely. Nor will any of my officers or men do so.”

As if on cue, some of the American fighters jumped down off the wall and began helping the wounded to their feet and supporting them if they could walk, or lifting them onto canvas stretchers if they could not.

Andrew Jackson nodded at their compassion in victory, then he too walked into the muddy field to help with the wounded.