tumpline pack to Killy and got ready to run.
And then it came—the Muhheconneok war cry. It rose out of the forest, primal and raw, terrifying the French, turning their attention away from the pier and giving Morgan the chance he needed.
Blood thrumming, he drew in a breath, dashed out from behind the hogshead, and ran a jagged path toward Dougie, barely feeling the ball that burnt a path across his forearm or the one that creased his hip.
“A fine time to get shot this is!”
But Dougie was ready for him, crouching on one knee, his injured leg stretched out beside him. “You’re daft, MacKinnon!”
Morgan dropped down, took Dougie onto his back, and forced himself to his feet. “Och, you’re heavy as an ox! And you stink!”
His gaze fixed on the riverbank a hundred feet away, Morgan ran, Dougie’s added weight pounding through the straining muscles of his thighs to the soles of his moccasins, his heart slamming in his chest.
“You run like a lass!” Dougie shouted in his ear. “Can you no’ go faster?”
But Morgan didn’t have the breath to do more than curse. “Mac-dìolain!” Whoreson!
Sixty feet. Fifty. Forty.
A roar of cannon erupted behind him, the French firing their twelve-pounders at the forest just as they had last summer, trying to turn the shelter of the trees into a charnel pit. Jeers coming from the trees told him balls had fallen short of the mark—this time.
Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten.
Morgan sucked breath into his aching lungs, drove himself forward, hurling both of them over the edge. They tumbled, arse over elbow, down the embankment to the sand below. No sooner had they landed than McHugh and Forbes took Dougie between them and hurried him along the river toward the forest beyond.
Young Brendan clasped Morgan’s forearm, helped him back to his feet, then hurried after McHugh and Forbes, already reloading.
Killy held out Morgan’s rifle and his pack, a smile on his scarred Irish face. “You bloody daft Scot.”
Another blast of cannon.
Morgan slipped the tumpline over his head, tucked his sword into place, grabbed his rifle, and then began to reload, shouting over the din. “Help McHugh and Forbes! I’ll cover our backs in case those bastards on the ship try to follow!”
“Aye.” Killy turned and was gone.
Morgan got into position, peeked over the edge of the riverbank, picked a target on the darkened deck of the ship, and fired. Reloading quickly, he kept up a rapid fire, glancing over to watch his men’s progress until they disappeared amongst the trees. Then, feeling a rush of relief, he cast one last glance at the fort walls—and felt something strike him in the right shoulder.
Instantly, his right arm went numb, falling useless to his side. Something warm and wet trickled down his chest.
Blood.
He’d been shot.
It was then the pain struck, forcing the breath from his lungs, driving him to his knees.
He heard a shout of victory and looked up to see a French soldier high in the ship’s rigging, musket raised over his head.
So this is how it ends.
The thought ran through Morgan’s mind, detached from any fear.
But no’ just yet.
Unable to load and fire his heavy rifle with one hand, he dropped it to the sand, withdrew his pistol, aimed, and fired, ending the soldier’s celebration. But several other soldiers had climbed into the rigging to see what their comrade’s cheering was about, and before Morgan could take cover, several fired.
A ball ripped through his right thigh, the shock of it like fire and ice.
And Morgan knew it was over.
He fell onto his side, forced himself onto his belly, and tried to crawl for cover, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“Morgan!”
He recognized Connor’s voice and saw his brother emerge from the forest at a run, Killy, Forbes, and McHugh behind him.
“No, Connor! Stop!” From somewhere nearby Morgan heard the tromp of hundreds of boots and knew the gates of the fort had been thrown open. Were the French
And then it came—the Muhheconneok war cry. It rose out of the forest, primal and raw, terrifying the French, turning their attention away from the pier and giving Morgan the chance he needed.
Blood thrumming, he drew in a breath, dashed out from behind the hogshead, and ran a jagged path toward Dougie, barely feeling the ball that burnt a path across his forearm or the one that creased his hip.
“A fine time to get shot this is!”
But Dougie was ready for him, crouching on one knee, his injured leg stretched out beside him. “You’re daft, MacKinnon!”
Morgan dropped down, took Dougie onto his back, and forced himself to his feet. “Och, you’re heavy as an ox! And you stink!”
His gaze fixed on the riverbank a hundred feet away, Morgan ran, Dougie’s added weight pounding through the straining muscles of his thighs to the soles of his moccasins, his heart slamming in his chest.
“You run like a lass!” Dougie shouted in his ear. “Can you no’ go faster?”
But Morgan didn’t have the breath to do more than curse. “Mac-dìolain!” Whoreson!
Sixty feet. Fifty. Forty.
A roar of cannon erupted behind him, the French firing their twelve-pounders at the forest just as they had last summer, trying to turn the shelter of the trees into a charnel pit. Jeers coming from the trees told him balls had fallen short of the mark—this time.
Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten.
Morgan sucked breath into his aching lungs, drove himself forward, hurling both of them over the edge. They tumbled, arse over elbow, down the embankment to the sand below. No sooner had they landed than McHugh and Forbes took Dougie between them and hurried him along the river toward the forest beyond.
Young Brendan clasped Morgan’s forearm, helped him back to his feet, then hurried after McHugh and Forbes, already reloading.
Killy held out Morgan’s rifle and his pack, a smile on his scarred Irish face. “You bloody daft Scot.”
Another blast of cannon.
Morgan slipped the tumpline over his head, tucked his sword into place, grabbed his rifle, and then began to reload, shouting over the din. “Help McHugh and Forbes! I’ll cover our backs in case those bastards on the ship try to follow!”
“Aye.” Killy turned and was gone.
Morgan got into position, peeked over the edge of the riverbank, picked a target on the darkened deck of the ship, and fired. Reloading quickly, he kept up a rapid fire, glancing over to watch his men’s progress until they disappeared amongst the trees. Then, feeling a rush of relief, he cast one last glance at the fort walls—and felt something strike him in the right shoulder.
Instantly, his right arm went numb, falling useless to his side. Something warm and wet trickled down his chest.
Blood.
He’d been shot.
It was then the pain struck, forcing the breath from his lungs, driving him to his knees.
He heard a shout of victory and looked up to see a French soldier high in the ship’s rigging, musket raised over his head.
So this is how it ends.
The thought ran through Morgan’s mind, detached from any fear.
But no’ just yet.
Unable to load and fire his heavy rifle with one hand, he dropped it to the sand, withdrew his pistol, aimed, and fired, ending the soldier’s celebration. But several other soldiers had climbed into the rigging to see what their comrade’s cheering was about, and before Morgan could take cover, several fired.
A ball ripped through his right thigh, the shock of it like fire and ice.
And Morgan knew it was over.
He fell onto his side, forced himself onto his belly, and tried to crawl for cover, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“Morgan!”
He recognized Connor’s voice and saw his brother emerge from the forest at a run, Killy, Forbes, and McHugh behind him.
“No, Connor! Stop!” From somewhere nearby Morgan heard the tromp of hundreds of boots and knew the gates of the fort had been thrown open. Were the French
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