Fiction of the Fan variety

Been reading through some fanfictions, (Kazuma and Titans Legacy: Lost Chapters specifically are a fun read, I urge you to check them out) so I thought I'd try my hand at some story telling.

The basics; this is a fanfiction of Bernard Cornwall if anything. And if you love war stories, then you will grudgingly acknowledge that this falls under the same genre. Then go back to reading something better.

I chose a war well known to a lot of us here - The Haitian War of Independence. (That'll teach you to fall asleep in History class!) An invasion by the British and Spanish into French held Haiti, occurring during the start of the Napoleonic Wars. If you are American you're probably about to change web pages. But wait! The United States were involved too! <.< Their merchants sold a couple stuff and such... I think... Exciting!

-----

Shade was a valuable commodity in the country of Saint Domingue. A sweltering heat beat down, making every mile on the march sap energy for ten. From a distance the convoy of supply wagons drew notice as clouds of dust. Drought had turned a once lush landscape into parched earth. Men of the 16th Foot, His Majesty's armed forces, trudged adjacent to these wagons providing a protective encirclement.

“How should I know what's causing the delay? I don't see any further than you, Peters. I'm an officer, not a prophet.” Lieutenant Macara had a certain disdain for unnecessary questions. Small talk was unavoidable, but that didn't excuse people from speaking intelligently, "Just think for a moment. What caused a delay the last hundred times? The oxen! It's always those damn oxen. Stupid beasts. Stupid Pafford placing the stupid beasts in front of us. There's no mystery here so enough of your queries, Peters. Push off.”

Macara didn't need to check regulations to know that the men should not hear his open critique of Captain Pafford's command. But he would not hold his tongue for the sake of being a good soldier. By placing their oxen at the head of the convoy, Pafford had forced everyone behind to a crawling pace. An ox was slow and stubborn, often ignoring its bearer's instructions entirely. Draught horses were much faster, and would leave the oxen-yoked wagons in their dust. Which was precisely what Captain Pafford feared. If the supply train did not keep together then his infantry company would be separated.

Of course Macara dismissed his superior's fears. They were well behind allied lines, making the relatively safe journey from Saint-Marc to Gonaives, and onwards from there to the British forward positions. Pafford's decision to play for caution was just wasting time unnecessarily.

It was late Spring in 1794, and the French held colony of Saint Domingue was on the verge of collapse. Spanish colonists invaded first, marching from the Eastern side of Hispaniola. They sponsored growing bands of runaway slaves who were already inciting rebellion across the country. These rebels began forming armies of their own and fought against the French for a chance to end slavery. Then last September the British also attacked, laying siege to the majority of French ports in the south. An alliance between Spaniards, Britons, and natives had been formed. French rule was now restricted to the north-western provinces. Even the dullest of English troops recognised impending victory.

“If we don't all die of the Black Vomit first.” Macara opined.

“Don't worry yesen 'bout that, Sir. We'll be back home in no time. It's just a bunch o' freedmen who picked up some nasty Frog 'abits. They don't know a thing 'bout proper soldiering done back in Europe.” Private Leith said with an authority in complete contrast to his eighteen years of age or unfamiliarity with the enemy.

Sergeant Langsley was quick on the youngster's case, “Shut yer trap, Leith! I'll call for ya if the officer ever wants yer counsel! You...” The Sergeant paused in his reprimand, hesitating, before he turned to call behind, “Private Crosbie! Swear at Leith.”

“Leith, you're a bloody eejit!”

Langsley chimed in again, “Just an eejit? That was bleedin' appalling ya poxed son of a soddin' donkey fart! Step back in line!”

“...Mind your language round the officer, Langsley.” Macara chaffed his sergeant.

“Oh, sorry Sir. Dinn't see ya there.” Langsley added sheepishly, apparently forgetting why he'd been yelling at Private Leith.

Macara allowed the lapse in restraint to go unpunished. Sergeant Langsley was a veteran soldier, and at one time sound as an English pound. Unfortunately he had taken a nasty smack to the head at Le Cap last year. Physicians approved him for active duty, but Langsley had never been the same. There was a distinct change in personality and mind which left the sergeant a bit peculiar at times.

“Sir!” Macara turned to see another private, who's name escaped him, saluting, “The Captain is wanting you at the head of the column, Sir.”

“Eh? What the hell is it now?” The Lieutenant struggled to his feet amongst the dead grass and weeds, swatting at a fresh swarm of gnats which threatened to engulf him.

“Dunno, Sir.”

“Well did it sound urgent? Trivial? Does he think I can move oxen?”

“Dunno, Sir.”

An exasperated sigh sounded as Macara strode passed the messenger, “I'll go ask him then come back to tell you, shall I?”

Lieutenant Macara had been stationed at the rear of the convoy, meaning he now had to walk passed the whole line of carts. They were carrying food for the masses, and cartridges for their weapons. Some wagons had been filled with round-shot, meant for artillery no bigger than 3-pounders – the smallest cannons in the entire British arsenal. Even the sailing frigates had pieces more powerful than those.

Their animals were no better. Forgetting the grief of oxen, Macara found the local horses to be in poor standard. They were undersized and undernourished, constantly abused by the bearers who beat their flanks with sticks. Lacking in saddle pads, there were obvious wounds on the horses' shoulders where carry packs had rubbed skin raw. Flies attacked these open sores, and the mangy beasts could only flick their ears in defence.

But this was no time to pity horses. Macara encountered Captain Pafford in short order, stood talking to Lieutenant Mahoney and a mounted quartermaster. The Captain was almost thirty years of age with whiskers to frame his face, and had chosen to wear his red coat despite having given the order for his men to shed them, in fear of heatstroke. “Macara! Hurry man, hurry!”

Mahoney, senior Lieutenant, wasn't wearing his coat and yet seemed to be suffering the sun more. Macara was convinced that the man was showing symptoms of one of the many tropical diseases decimating the rank and file. Yet Mahoney denied it.

“I'd have rushed, Sir, but nobody mentioned it was anything important.” Macara replied acidly.

“Of course it's important. We have to turn the men around right now. Right away.”

Pafford had a tendency to doom-monger, so his concerned tone was not something unusual. Macara would rather judge the situation himself before they all ran away from a lone horseman who may or may not be of the Apocalypse. “Turn around, Sir? Good idea, but, hang on. Camp is just a couple hours north from here. If we're going to go home, can't we drop off the supplies first?”

“We can't go through Gonaives, Lieutenant. It's flying a French flag!”

-----

If anybody can tell me what accents I was using, I'm willing to believe your answer was correct.

“A French flag.” Macara was taken aback by the implication, hoping for the sake of his worn shoe leather that there had been some mistake, “French towns fly French flags, Sir.”

“Of course they do.” Pafford replied peevishly, gazing crossly down from his saddled mount.

“Has anybody told the Spanish that?”

“It's no longer in allied hands, Lieutenant! Do keep up.”

The Quartermaster Sergeant confirmed, “There's no doubting, Sir. I saw it with me own eyes.”

“Yes. I don't imagine you'd have said it otherwise.” Macara replied, “So to understand. The French laid siege to Gonaives, captured it, and succeeded in preventing a single witness from reaching British ears. Sounds too much of a stretch.”

His apprehensions were ignored, “Who was in charge of defence?”

“Savages, Mahoney. The Spanish don't like dirtying their dainty little hands. They've dressed a load of Maroons up; those slave runaways. Made what they reckon is an army out of them. Though we can now see the folly of that!” The Captain spoke a prejudice that was in-part due to fear. Slave revolts were not uncommon, and the one in Saint Domingue had gone further than any before it. Europeans in the West Indies lived apprehensively. A revolt from the coloured population would not end well for them, as they were far outnumbered. Though in truth there were few malcontents to instigate such chaos.

Macara had no more trust in their fugitive allies than his companions, though he could not fathom that a French attack had gone unnoticed. Instead he continued to tactlessly press the point, “We'd have seen a line of stragglers, fleeing citizens, or even deserters; if the French actually attacked.”

“Not for us to ascertain. Safety of our escort comes first.” Pafford declared, leaning to one side so that he could procure an item; his pocket watch, “Home we go. Turn us about. If only we can reach L'Estere before dark. Put a river crossing behind us. It'll be a smooth return after that, I should think.”

“Sir, are you happy to tell the commander that this decision was based entirely on a flag sighting?”

“Macara-”

“A flag! My gosh, we know next to nothing!”

“Macara! If we alert the enemy to our presence we'll never get this lot to safety. You must learn responsibility.”

“Like the responsibility of reliable information...” Came the sulky remark. Macara knew as he said it that a boundary had been crossed. As a mere Lieutenant he had no authority to question the decisions of Captains so ardently. A situation Pafford should have taken offensive to even without the two men being virtual strangers.

The 16th Foot, ranks decimated by disease, often needed new soldiers. Macara was one of the many transfers, filling a temporary opening while the 16th could muster proper reinforcements from overseas. The young officer's own regiment had already returned to England last year. Lieutenant Cyril Macara was bestowed the privilege of fighting a battle that should not be his. A fact he accepted with his trademark bitter asperity.

At twenty-four years of age, Macara was a bit old for Lieutenant. Already his brow held crease-lines associated with professional veneer. Yet however much authority his expression projected, he could not hide the pristine skin of his hands, betraying a lackadaisical lifestyle. Before joining the Royal Army's Officer Corps, he was practically pampered. A well-to-do background and aversion to hard labour saw scores of servants attend to the lad's every need. And would have continued to do so, had his father not found him a career. Needless to say, he'd been less than grateful.

His lack of athleticism went noticed. Macara believed that officers should be spared the toils of rank and file as much as possible, so that they were fit to command. The soldiers under his supervision were governed by a 'do as I say and not as I do' policy. Most resented the Lieutenant for his hypocrisy; the remainder for his disagreeable attitude. So having efficiently alienated his inferiors, it was virtual suicide to set about upsetting his superiors.

This, at least, he finally realised. For if nothing else, Macara was a shrewd man.

“What was that...?”

“I asked who now has the responsibility of these oxen?” The Lieutenant sang in a livelier tone, apparently oblivious to his objections, “Are they to be front of the column again, or back? Sir.”

His sudden professionalism had disarmed the Captain's fury, “What have I just said? We have no time for dilly-dallying. To your posts gentlemen! The sooner the better.”

A hollow salute was snapped off as Macara and dead-man-walking Mahoney took their leave. Ahead of them lay the same desolate dust and trudging march everyone had written off. To these junior officers fell the unenviable task of announcing retreat. Bearers would protest animal fatigue, civilians would demand an explanation, while soldiers would react as if betrayed, slinking off to grumble and moan amongst themselves. All because of an enemy flag flying where it had no business.

-----

Parched ground began to soften as the road became shadowed by foothills directly to their east. Beyond those, patches of pine forest clung to mountain slopes, peaks obscured by a mass of meandering cloud. The former landscape was broken by gullies and ravines, affording precious shade for plants to grow, yet still producing leaf-bare, stick figures. A persistent dust coated everyone's pant legs. Though it was nothing compared to what the column had kicked up in their faces when turned about.

With his platoon now leading the procession, Macara wasn't interested in withholding pace. A gap behind the foremost wagons and their vanguard was increasing. Advancing more cautiously was a waste of precious time. If he, and by association his men, arrived first then they could rest longer. A straight-forward concept that the native bearers seemed to have difficulty grasping.

One such nag driver chirruped from atop his cart, gesticulating impatiently with a whip to extenuate the separation distance between him and the rest of the unit. The surly Lieutenant would have slapped this civilian down, but a language barrier prevented any such drubbing. Instead he had to rely on a sergeant who could speak the local lingo. Hopefully cool this man's britches – or lack thereof.

To Macara, it sounded like French, but he knew the inhabitants here spoke another tongue. Yet that was all he knew of the proceeding conversation. At first the native spoke sharply across the sergeant's soothing tone, then came a period of mutual utterance before the bearer took back his harness. On command both draught horses resumed momentum, clip-clopping ahead.

“They are understandably uppity after the wasted trip.” Sergeant Wace remarked. The secret to his successful negotiation left unsaid. Macara didn't ask. Results were far more important than method.

“Heh. Even a simpleton like that knows a débâcle when it happens. If Pafford wants to make a fool of himself, all power to him.” Cyril began walking alongside. While the rest and his men, including himself, had red coatees, Wace wore a different uniform entirely. It was a dull brown with crimson lapels and collar. The multilingual sergeant was only eighteen years old, a common enlisting age. Though unique circumstances had elevated Wace to his privileged Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO) rank.

“I estimate we 'ave about two leagues until our destination.”

“Two le-” Macara scoffed aloud at this ridiculous figure, “I don't know how large a gait you plan to take, but that is nowhere near two leagues! We'd be back in Saint-Marc tonight if that were the case.”

The Sergeant looked affront by his mistake, “I confess, I 'ave a little trouble with ze measurements. Let us not make so big a deal, Monsieur.”

“Sure, they're not important. Unless you were a soldier or an engineer. Heck help the poor sod who is both.”

“Euh... They come up from time-to-time. But again – ees no biggie!”

Delwin Wace had a complex set of allegiances. As his name may suggest, he was born to a patriotically Welsh family, though he had lived the greater part of his life in France. He trained as an engineer whilst young, before ultimately joining the armed forces. Given his gift with languages, the French army had sent him abroad to deal with their colonies, specifically to act as NCO to a group of native artificers, who were disbanded last year. After the Revolutionists had taken power back in France, the boy found himself under the exiled Royalist camp against this new regime. And thus allied to the English.

The engineer had accompanied this patrol of 16th infantry purely as a passenger. Part of their cargo would have provided materials for fortifications in the north; Wace was to supervise that project. Macara always did baulk at the level of responsibility mere NCOs of the Engineers were given. Especially when this one could not tell metric from imperial units.

“Zere were many 'undreds of units in France. Not so easily defined as in England. If a length ees off according to someone, it will always be right for someone else.”

“Then it's right for no one.” You mad-capped frog bastard, “It's seven leagues to the river crossing.”

Wace nodded at the correction as he checked his timepiece, “Then we must 'urry. It is nearing eighty past six.”

“Eh?” Macara missed a step, quickly catching up with the engineer, “I fret to ask. I really do.”

“I use decimal time, my Lieutenant.”

“Decimal time?! You're a Royalist! Even I know you shouldn't be using that!”

“It seemed logical to me. Ten 'ours, one-'undred minutes, one-'undred seconds.”

“And one-hundred percent chance nobody knows what the deuce you mean.”

The Welshman-come-Frenchman looked prepared to persuade his officer, but he never got that chance. Sharp cracks erupted from ahead, breaking the afternoon with infrequent detonations. It was the noise of discharged musketry – the vanguard was under attack.

Macara did not perambulate in his response. Having instructed Sergeant Wace to get the lagging cart hidden from prying eyes, he dashed towards the noise. Straight away two things were evident; that their attackers had chosen this ambush site well, and that these men were unopposed. A rigorous fire was hailing from the east, wisps of smoke trailed above sheltered gullies. From Macara's own men there came but the odd reply. It would appear their defensive capabilities had been greatly overstated.

Minutes earlier boredom had consumed the day, dulling senses, and heightening irritability. The men hadn't been on alert and were now being suppressed by only a handful of muskets. Macara counted the shots, there were six enemy, hidden in ditches or under scrub. He decided to play it safe, running the long way round so that he approached his own soldiers from their rear. Minimise his exposure to danger.

By now there were two dozen British musket-men crouched behind the supply wagons. No sign of any civilians, who had sensibly made themselves scarce as this carnage played out. The British were starting to gather their wits and were firing in unison – volley fire. A waste of good ammunition. Their bullets ploughed ineffectually against the uneven terrain. Kept some heads down, but the attackers were in no peril.

As Macara trotted the last twenty yards, he was seen by Sergeant Langsley, who did not let this small skirmish prevent him from maintaining decorum. And then taking it to far, “Officer present! Stand ya gutless snipes! Stop making love to that wheel arch and stand to!” He gripped Private Leith by his crossbelt and yanked the young lad out of cover, “What's got into yer bastards?”

“A quart of lead if you don't stop this nonsense, Sergeant!” The spectacle was starting to attract musket balls. Macara picked up his pace while the air around him began to hum, “Get down! Sh**! What the hell you doing?” As if shaken out of a trance, Langsley dropped Leith and caught his officer, simultaneously dropping below cart-height again. The Lieutenant was panting with pure terror, “Langsley. In future battle situations, your men will grace the arrival of an officer by hugging the ground very tightly, almost maternally. Meanwhile you yourself will bury your head by about four feet. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Course, Sir. Deserve it, Sir. Don't know what I was thinking.” Ever the professional, Langsley would not betray his utter contempt at being dressed down in front of the rabble. A pet peeve Macara wasn't going to mollycoddle. Let the gent think he was an insensitive prick. Kept everyone on their toes.

“You were thinking? Well that explains it. Warn me when you do that.” Cyril unclipped his ungainly sword-belt and rested the scabbard aside. It had given his leg a few bruises on the journey over. Hopefully the sum total of wounds inflicted today, “Stop firing! Can't concentrate. Who's not here?”

Corporal Appleton replied, “Jove and Peters were scouting farther forward.” No doubt intending to stay there. If memory served, Jove was a conscientious objector, suckered into joining the army by a particularly slick recruiting sergeant. Lad would do anything but fight, “And I saw More escorting a lass to safety.”

“Oh did he really...” You'd be safer leaving two rabbits alone to feast on mandrake than you were putting a soldier near a girl. It was the lack of subtlety that was insulting, “And you did exactly what about it?”

“Told the father. He took a horse whip with him.” That saved on one court martial. More was about to get a dozen lashes for his troubles.

“Good. Corporal, take half the men to enfilade and prepare to give covering fire. As for the rest of you rotters, fix bayonets. We're going to chase them off. A task I shouldn't have to direct.” Macara peeked out to scout his enemy. With his own men now conserving ammunition, the air had cleared of gun smoke, giving a clearer view of the ground ahead, “If we can make it to that lip, they can't hold us.”

Ever the loud-mouth, Private Leith gave his own professional opinion, “What? Out in the open? We'll be shot dead!”

“Have you ever actually been shot, Leith?”

“Fortunately not, Sir.”

“Then how do you know you won't enjoy it if you've never tried? Up everyone!”

“You'll be leading, Sir?” Langsley inquired suggestively.

“Gosh no. I'll just attract their fire. You're safer if I stay here.”

-----

Alone amongst his peers, Private Edward Mullins wore his red coatee, and wore it proud. So what if the sweltering heat made life difficult. He was a British solider, dammit! It was an honour to wear this garb. A privilege even. Where everyone else sort permission to take it off, he had asked just the opposite. And he saw it in his Captain's eyes – Pafford was impressed. The 16th Foot valued a man who could remain presentable; tough it through the worst of a campaign. Or at least the worse he had experienced thus far.

A new trial vexed the men. One of anticipation and dread. They quaked with inactivity, acutely aware what was expected of them. For the first time in many careers they would engage in a live fire situation. Expose themselves to the scything lead, projectiles that could kill, if not, maim. A single musket ball was all it took to transform a man, in the prime of his life, into a prospectless cripple. Edward should know, he was one.

Far from any fighting, back in the barrows of Stevenage, the Mullins' were notorious smugglers of weaponry. It'd been their family trade. You skimmed a dozen muskets off the local garrison, and sold them under the table. Fetched a tidy profit. If any troopers came snooping, you hid the flint triggers and said they were smoothbore muskets, the kind used recreationally in hunting.

It transpired, one fateful day, that Edward was to sit on a handful of these flints. Whilst removing them he encountered one casing that was wound a little too tight. The boy could not prise the object free and dug at it with a second flint piece. The resulting ignition sent a unloaded projectile into his right thigh.

“Bloody Macara.” A moan emanated from his neighbour Leith, “We'll be shot and it ain't gonna be our fawt. I don't want to end up like you, Eddy. I weren't made to be a cripple. I been a good Christian.”

“Stow it, Leith. Ya cheeky git.” While his limp was pronounced, it didn't impede Edward's ability to contribute. Much, “I could take any one of those Frogs up there. In fact. Pick someone. We'll race for him.”

“Race? Race! Ha. I thought Sarge were the senile 'un.” Despite his clumsy efforts at conversation, Leith was visibly shivering as if stricken by fever. Most of the men had fallen into taciturn silence or were stewing in glum reluctance. But Mullins was animated, eager to achieve what was expected of them. He would skewer the miserable Frenchies with Birmingham steel, and twist his blade inside their rib-cage until the survivors wailed for surrender. There would be ten enemy – no – twenty! And the prisoners would be led back at bayonet-point to the admiration of his Captain. The noble Captain Pafford, who would doubtless recognise Edward's acumen and promote him Sergeant of arms.

Mullins had it all planned out. Now for the re-enactment.

Suddenly, as clear as day, a cacophony of shots rang out; the signal. Straight away Edward was up, vaulting the loaded supplies in his scramble to be front. The weakness in his leg caused a stumble, but he was able to retain balance, surging onwards. Sergeant Langsley passed on his right, still shouting a note of command, Private Workman was at his left, screaming. The fear and lethargy was gone. It was now just a footrace. One Mullins lost.

Last out of a dozen men, Edward jumped blind into the closest gully. The soldier had taken up a chant of 'King George', for need of something to shout. Yet no enemy heard the cry. The ditch was empty, all of them were. Their attackers had fled, not willing to even try and check this fierce assault. Edward had somehow not anticipated this turn of events. So ready was he to make his first real kill.

“Look!” Private Workman hollered, possibly pointing from his unseen position, “Up there! Why they ain't no Frogs at all! It's them black-blooded Maroons!” A straggler could just be sighted disappearing over high-ground. His skin was dark, too dark to be the belligerent French.

They followed the runaway, and were just in time to watch a brace of natives mount some horses. A collection of men fired at the far-flung targets, only for Langsley to call halt. They could not hurt them at this distance. Their enemy was able to escape.

So not only had there been no battle, but now it turned out a load of Maroons were the culprits here. Civilians who had no business fighting, or else Spanish lapdogs who were suppose to be their allies. It made little sense. Out of frustration, Mullins fired into the retreating rabble. Langsley confiscated his weapon straight after.

-----

It wasn't until later that Macara discovered that there had been a casualty. Whilst his taskforce were clearing the ambush site, a party of three armed horsemen had slipped onto the track unnoticed, and attacked the cart he'd been initially escorting. In short, they had fallen victim to a textbook distraction manoeuvre.

“Oh dear. Mr Personality here tried to resist them, didn't he?” At the Lieutenant's feet lay the butchered remains of this cart's bearer. His corpse held a look of abject horror, blood trailing out an open mouth. Macara distantly wished someone would lay a cloak over the ghastly sight.

“He was a brave man, Mon Lieutenant.” As Sergeant Wace explained; he'd been directing this bearer to safety when the enemy had struck. The assailants had pilfered supplies, murdered grouchy, stolen their horses, and splintered the cart's axle; leaving an inert wreckage behind. It lay tipped over across the dirt road. Many would mistakenly assume these men were bandits. But Macara knew a blockade when he saw one. Whoever they were, their intention was to delay his company.

A concern for the Captain's ears, “And how did you survive?”

“They overlooked me, Monsieur.” Wace humbly replied.

“They overlooked the soldier, but not the civilian?”

“Oui.”

Macara frowned, “I wish I had your luck, Sergeant. I really do.” As far as he could tell the Engineer was accountable to no one present. Complications arose when crossing different divisions of His Majesty's Armed forces. The navy were superior only at sea, with the exception of marines who could be in charge or on loan during a joint amphibious assault. Artillery officers were pretty docile until you got them inside a fort, then each sort to lead the entire garrison. Footsoldiers and cavalry were in perpetual rivalry; and King George alone knew where the Engineers fit into this whole mess.

Macara had come to assume authority was granted to the side most blasé, “Do something about this road-block, and then get yourself to the front of the column. We have a prisoner for you to interrogate.”

“Ah, so you 'ave caught yourself a Frenchman.”

“If he is a Frenchman then it's a very convincing disguise.” The captive was obviously local to this hemisphere, “And be quick about it. He's bleeding out from some battle wound.” A Private Mullins had shot the unfortunate man off his horse at, what Macara had been told, unbelievable range.

“Forgive me, Mon Lieutenant. But should I not attend to the captive first? Mayhaps your killers can clear up this cart if it is so imperative?”

“Are you subverting my authority?”

“Perish the thought.” Wace replied offendedly, “My only intention was to safeguard your investment in this captive. For your Captain will be on the war-path, no? He will try to blame you for this faux-pas, is it not so?”

It was so. And quite justified as well. It'd been Macara's lack of caution that'd made them vulnerable to ambush. Pafford would lap this mistake up. He would see it as validation for every paranoid precaution ever taken and yet to come, and seek to remind his underling of it constantly, as he was apt to do with Lieutenant Mahoney. Cyril would not be made to sound incompetent.

“Just shut up and go. Send Corporal Appleton with some men here.” The Sergeant muttered thanks in some foreign tongue and then turned to leave, “And tell them to bring a spade!” Macara kicked at the horse driver's limp leg.

"And where have you been?"

Toby fell into pace alongside his master. He stood out from the rabble with his coarse yellow shirt and duck trousers, the former held around his neck by a metal clasp. There was a tapering in its neckline which allowed the shirt to breathe and revealed a hairless tan torso. Toby was of Portuguese African descent, "I was attending your horse, M'Lord."

"I don't own a horse."

"Then I just trussed up some wild nag. You can see why it took me a while."

Macara snorted. He was but a kid to Toby, yet the Lieutenant was his lawful owner. Despite these social differences they had found in each other like-minds. Toby would even go as far as to say Macara was his friend. And Macara himself would happily acknowledge that Toby was someone he could tolerate.

"I heard there was an ambush?"

"Yes it wasn't too subtle, actually. What with the gunshots and screams of people dying." The Lieutenant's shoulders were hunched, his gaze to the ground, as if anticipating confrontation. His slave read this body language and surmised that his master was about to speak with his superior. This was how Cyril looked when he was scheming.

They had met inside the great colonial port town of Kingston. Back then Macara had been looking for the cheapest slaves on the market to sate his domestic requirements. Toby had been segregated from the herd, manacled to a rack and avoided like a leper. No slave waiting in their pens would permit a potential customer to be ignorant of the reason. Toby was a jinx. A tribal tattoo, stitched into the skin of his shoulder, promised two things; that his Master would automatically be condemned to purgatory should he be in possession of the cur when he died, and that any man enslaved alongside Toby would soon meet a grisly end from forces unknown. No one dared be stuck with The Jinx of Kingston.

That was until Macara came along. The Jinx recalled that blistering afternoon well. Rather than perturbed, the Lieutenant was interested. He understood how desperate Toby's current owners were to be rid of him. The haggling was swift and fierce, and when the slavers took a final stand Macara simply drew his service pistol and put a bullet into the rack. He stood there reloading as the salesmen erupted around him. "I've decided to accept your offer. I will pay for the man but only after he is dead. Or you can reconsider my own offer. Makes no difference to me. Is an eternity in damnation really worth my purse, Sir?" The purveyor folded and agreed to sell Macara Toby and two other slaves for a tuppence. The curse of the Jinx now passing onto the Lieutenant - if he believed in that sort of thing.

The two other slaves were now dead, "Here comes the Captain, M'Lord." Both victims of tragic accidents.

Pafford's horse made divits in the soft earth before coming to a stop, "Cyril! Say, Cyril. An ambush did I hear? How many of them?" The Captain was inwardly counting by hundreds.

"Six." Macara thrust his slave behind him, as was proper, before approaching, "We took no casualties but made a capture, Sir. I have personally interrogated the wretch."

"And?"

"They're just a bunch of religious fanatics, Sir. Natives who heard a bunch of Holy Scripture and went mad with it. Probably out here living in a cave to become closer to God. The man said he was led by two Saints for crying out loud! He was a loon and the rest are nothing to worry about."

Pafford placed a hand on his chest and exhaled gracefully, "That puts me at ease."

Toby coughed, "Ahem."

"Your servant has something to add?"

"No, Sir. He's just contracted something." Macara smacked the back of Toby's head, "It's called Impudence. All the natives have a case."

"Very well. Get back to the column head. With a little more vigil this time, Lieutenant, eh? Can't very well have a band of hermits ambushing the British Army." With a disdainful look the Captain pulled his mount around and rode back the path he had taken. Macara bit his thumb at the man's back.

The Jinx was still rubbing his sores, "But you have taken a casualty. I passed the gravesite myself."

"Nobody will miss a wagon driver." Macara rolled his eyes, "If I'd told Pafford then it would only have made him more insufferable. Try to keep up, Toby."

"Keep up? I'm one step ahead of you!"

"What are you prattling about, you lackwit?"

"The man wasn't working for two Saints! He was working for Toussaint! A black general in the Spaniard Army!"

Macara's eyes widened, ""What?"

"All the blacks who desert around here pretty much end up serving him! He's got several thousand men under his command, M'Lord! Don't you remember? He was that parasite that took over Gonaives before the inhabitants could go with their original idea of handing it over to our Colonel Brisbane."

Something in Macara dawned, "Oh hell... You mean the one that's been leading sorties against our troops who stray into his jungle? Despite the fact we're suppose to be on the same side?" He got an affirmation from Toby, "An opportunistic snake if there ever was one. Maybe he sold out to the French."

"If he did then it wasn't for money." The Jinx replied with confidence, "Do you remember that decree they made earlier this year? That all slaves are now free? That the French Government support emancipation? It must be like nectar to any man of mixed race who has known slavery."

"But not to you?"

"I thought I was an 'indentured servant'."

"Just testing you, carry on."

"Toussaint is well known to disobey his Spanish sponsors and indoctrinate the slaves of settlements he captures into his army, rather than hand them over. He is a keen supporter of equality. And, as you said, an opportunist."

"Which is why Gonaives turned French overnight. And why those men tried to delay us. They sent a runner to go tell him that we're here." The blood drained from Macara's face, "And I told Pafford not to worry."

"That's why Toussant's nickname is 'the opening'."

Macara heard a note of admiration in his slave's tone and cuffed Toby again, "Well here's my nickname for him - 'the jammy bastard'. Tell me if it sticks." If the column didn't get a move on now, they were about to attract some very unwelcome opportunists.

The predictable arrow-like quality of the road condensed into a winding track as they neared l'Estere. Dust gave way into soil and hummocked fields of lush grass. Trees fawned either side of them like a welcoming procession. Yet as they began their descent into the river valley, a horseman rode out from the village. For a change Macara had his men practice caution. They stopped his third of the convey and waited, muskets at hand.

The messenger happened to be a mulatto merchantman who was well intentioned towards the English, but perhaps only because they promised his pocket more coin. He dismounted as lightly as a feather, "You came back? But why? This is not good."

Macara frowned, "Arnaud... Did you ride all that way just so you could be the first to tell me you resent our presence?"

"No! Far from it, Sir! I fear for your safety. Not half an hour ago a band of reprobates stormed the village. They've entrenched themselves on the opposite bank of the river. I think they mean to deny you the bridge."

"Oh hell... How many?"

Macara instructed his men to keep moving; faster if necessary. He was still under the impression that he could keep this development hidden from the Captain, and he instructed his sergeant so. But when they entered the village, and looked out across the waterway, he could see that the native platoon had no intention of keeping things quiet. There were eight of them, and armed with firearms of their own. He could try to storm the position, but some of his men would perish in the attempt. And even worse, the din would carry across the dry air and easily reach Pafford's ears. His superior would know.

"Well that's just bleeding marvellous, isn't it? We couldn't possibly lose this war. And yet our unit picked the one day that someone on our team was mad enough to change sides. You mark my words Langsley - come Saturday, Toussaint will have made his apologies and be towing the Spanish line again."

"Don't care who wes got to shoot, Sir. They bleed as well as us."

"Yes. But can they do it quietly?"

Toby sidled up to him, asking slyly, "Is it time to tell the Captain yet, Sir?"

Macara's eyes rolled, "The time to tell the Captain is forty years from now when he's invited me over for a glass of scotch 'for old times sake' and he's one bad shock away from leaving this Earth for good." The Lieutenant turned to watch the frantic efforts of his men helping bring up the carts, "Ideas gentleman?"

Surprisingly it was Arnaud who spoke first, "I know an old goat-herder. If I ask him to bring his flock down to the lower pastures a bit early, might delay your Captain long enough. Give you more time to think, Your Honour."

A delay tactic, why hadn't he thought of that, "Excellent. Get on it."

"Mind you, he is one stingy old crank."

"Oh is he?" Macara directed a glare at the merchant. He could really only admire such opportunistic avariciousness like this, "Well tell him that we'll leave a cart of gunpowder when we push on. I know how those shepherds love their gunpowder."

Arnaud shrugged, "There are wolves to shoot." He returned to his horse and mounted with a deft leap, departing rapidly into the hills once more. He was likely going to sell that gunpowder back to the natives who were now hunting them, once they had left. But by then Macara would be safe behind British walls. He didn't care.

"Maybe you can pay the ambush party off too?" Toby suggested.

"Whatever we can offer them they think Toussaint is about to take. If they can just hold us here. No. We have to clear them."

"Cap'll hear the gunfire, Sir."

"Yes sergeant."

"Gunfire makes a loud bang, Sir. Hear it a long way away. Cap'll know what it means. Want to know why ya dinn't tell him."

"Yeees sergeant..." Not finding a lot of inspiration in what he already knew, Cyril broke free of the bodies and began to pace the village. He had precious minutes to act. Not only had he to keep the skirmish from being heard, but he had to take the bridge without a single casualty. Questions would be asked if his men wound up with bullets. Or turned up dead. Pafford was a stickler for such discrepancies.

He noticed that the men had finished with their carting and where looking at him for direction. None of them liked him. Many even disliked him. They certainly wouldn't die for him. But they could smell when a game was afoot. For all his vices Macara did one thing well. He circumvented authority. And that was one thing the common rank and file could respect, "Sergeant Wace!"

"Oui?" Replied the engineer.

"Can you set a fuse?"

"Am I not an engineer?"

"Most engineers can count."

"Yes. I can set a fuse."

"Good. Listen carefully men. If you do exactly what I say you can clear that blockade without taking lead. Pafford would have you charge. He would have you chance to die. I won't take that chance. The only way any of you are taking a bullet today is if I shoot you myself." Some men cheered this. Others were tempered by the thought of it being bloody likely, "Get me two barrels of gunpowder, one of those sacks, an empty cart, and some volunteers. Leith! Mullins! Thank you for volunteering."

"But I didn't-"

"Your mouth said no but your eyes said yes. Private Jove! What is it?"

"Can I be excused, Sir?"

"No! Wait... Yes. Jove, go find me a likely looking couple."

"Pardon Sir?"

"You heard me. A happy couple. In this village. Find some and bring them to Toby here." He turned to his indentured servant, "I need you to lie."

"Never in my life. Perish the thought."

"Like that. Wonderful. You need to convince these people to help us."

Toby was of course an accomplished tall-tale teller. But he could not fathom Macara's game, "Okay... But you still haven't done anything for the gunshot noise."

At last the Lieutenant smiled, "Corporal! You came from a monastery, yes?"

Appleton looked surprised, "Yes, Sir. Dark days those. Luckily there was a brothel next door which got me salvation."

"You are just the man for the job."

Macara trained his spyglass on the enemy position. The collection of maroons below did not look likely soldiers. Some were bare-chested, many bare-foot, but they had outpaced his men on this rough terrain. Furthermore little could be said against their courage. They well knew how many men they faced and looked determined to hold their ground. Choosing the bridge had also been wise. Even when they were outnumbered they could only be faced by three men abreast since the crossing narrowed the route of attack. It was as fierce an opposition as any.

"The boys are champing at the bit they are, Sir." Langsley gave a parade ground salute and stared impassively at the bank, "Dun't know about this, Sir. It ain't soldierin' of the proper kind.”

“You're right there.”

“Can't be sure it'll work, Sir. If we ain't practised such a thing, Sir.”

Macara collapsed the spyglass, “We can't be sure the sun will come up tomorrow. But that's no excuse to sit around and die.”

“But is there not another way? Captain could be told, Sir.” The addled sergeant was definitely nursing misgivings about this whole escapade. He knew he was in trouble if it failed as much as Macara. And to add to that he was twenty years the Lieutenant's senior, “Not too late to second guess yourself, Sir. We can all be wrong.”

Cyril eyed the potential traitor acidly, “If we went around assuming we were wrong all the time, then we'd never get anything done. Go do your job, Sergeant!” The soldier shot a stoic expression above Macara's head and marched off. Once he was sure his subordinate would do his part, the Lieutenant let out a sigh. His own men would be the death of him one day.

-----

“Sarge is heading over. Sure don't look happy now.”

“What you expect? The only thing that bump on his noggin left him with was his ego. And that Macara ain't no gentleman. Not a fine fellow at all.” Private Docker was busy chewing on leather. He didn't do anything fast, “Still. Could be worse. Could be paying us mind 'stead of each other.”

“That don't mean you can slack off!” Private More snapped from beside the burden of a burlap sack, “Get over 'ere and lift this!”

“Whasamatter, Henry? Back problems?” Workman smiled cannily.

“Mind your own sodding business...”

From nowhere Leith's voice piped up, “I told ya. I said don't go chasing that girl. But did you listen?” On cue, everyone put their fingers to their lips and hissed a shush. For a change the littlest member of their outfit shut up.

Langsley finally arrived, “Right! Tip that sack. Make sure the blighters across that bridge see it go down.” Upon his command the previously idle men hopped to their task. They poured out a fine grained powder type substance into the bottom of the cart. Langsley watched them do this and as a result almost bumped into another body, “Oo are you?”

“Your engineer.”

“Ah.” The sergeant removed his hat briefly to scratch his head, “Been lookin' for ya. About ready?”

“Yes. It ees 'about ready'.” Trailing the side of the cart was a slow fuse made out of tallow and soaked in turpentine. It was angled towards the bank so that their opposition could clearly see what they were up to, “Your men scrubbed the barrels, yes?”

“Scrubbed the what?”

“Your gunpowder barrels. My fuse-”

“Is ready! So light it.”

The engineer blinked once then crossed himself. He lit the fuse and backed off. Far away. Crosbie and Peters had strapped a large branch of leaves onto the driver's perch. They now set those leaves on fire with their tinder boxes. The dry wood burnt fast sending cinders down onto the haunches of the attached horse. It whined in terror and tried to pull away from the heat. This only succeeded in taking the cart and its contents with it. Blinders had been attached to the horse and this ensured it went straight. Straight down the slope and across the bridge.

A bomb stampeded towards the startled opposition.

Having observed what was transpiring, and knowing the devastation of gunpowder, the once solid defence broke down. Toussaint's men scattered in search of their own mounts. Each trying to gain as much distance as they could before the fuse reached its zenith. But the expected explosion never came. That was due to one thing. There was no gunpowder in the cart. The barrels had been emptied and the substance added after had been nothing more than spice.

“NOW!”

“BLOODY HELL!”

The tops of both barrels burst open. Privates Leith and Mullins, being the smallest men available, presented arms. Macara had loaned the terrified Leith his pistol while Mullins was forced to reach down and grasp a previously primed musket. There was a crackle of gunfire and a poof of smoke. Mullins jumped clear of the runaway carriage and landed at an awkward roll. He turned to see the enemy high-tailing it and then switched back to the cart.

“Jump Leith!”

“OH GOSH! HEEELP!”

“Don't worry! I'll save you!” And Mullins doggedly limped after the rapidly disappearing train. Behind him the remaining soldiers of his outfit were swiftly marching across the undefended bridge. And all the while in the background there had been one noise drowning out all others. Before any chance of gunfire could start the church bell had begun to ring.

-----

Pafford was galloping up the road like a man possessed. He was brought short by the sight of his Lieutenant on the final curve, “Report man! The bells! Is it the French? Are they attacking?”

“I came to tell you its a false alarm, Sir.” Macara was the picture of smarmy self-confidence, “What you heard was a wedding. I told the couple you would offer your congratulations, even.”

“A wedding?! A mite cacophonous for a wedding, I dare say! I swear I heard a gun fire.” The good Captain was not so easily waylaid.

“Well yes. When I arrived a half hour ago, that fellow we met, Arnaud, was off out for some hunting. Wolves or some such. They're a menace to the goats around here.” Cyril shrugged carelessly and finally succeeded in disarming his superior.

“Goodness. I-I must have look pretty flighty.”

“Oh pish, Sir. You're just a man of action.”

“Ah. And here is Arnaud now.” As they had been talking a rhythm of hoofbeats had drawn closer. Now from out the scrub Arnaud burst forth with a look of fear in his eye, “Mr Arnaud, you are here again. Good hunting, I trust?”

“No time for that now, Sirs!” His tone began to drain the colour from Macara's face, “I was just up in the foothills. There are horsemen pouring out the mountains! It's Toussaint! He's here already! And he brought several hundred men!”

“By Jove! What the devil could they want?!”

Both men drew their eyes to Cyril, “What else? They came to ruin my day...”

"Blimey, Ed. You weren't s'pose to shoot anyone." Workman had taken charge of their captive. Against all expectations Mullins had landed his musket shot taken from atop a moving cart. The native had torn his own trousers where the bullet went in and was busy teasing the wound.

"Weren't s'pose to shoot no one? We're in a war! Every hole in them is one less in us. I only wish the swine would stop running." Mullins crowed proudly, given leave to clean his weapon.

Docker sighed, "Listen to him. Thinks he's jack the lad now."

"Could you a made those shots?"

"I've seen you shoot kid. You got naught but lucky. Both times."

Mullins tsked, "Bad 'abit that. Overlooking talent. Far be it for me to say, Dock, but such a thing might be why they keep passing you over for corporal."

"Go soak your head!"

"They found Leith yet?"

"Leith better hope they don't. Barmey Sarge wants to put him on charge. Absent without leave."

Workman sniggered, "Collaborating with the 'orse?"

"Where is everybody?!" In their chatter they had all but missed the Lieutenant striding towards them. He looked to be in an apocalyptic mood.

The trio sprung to attention, "Sir! Sarge led a sortie in search of Private Leith, Sir."

"Why? What's happened to Leith?! Better question - who cares what's happened to Leith! We're under attack!"

"Attack?"

"Attack!"

"Attack."

"Attack!?"

"The next person to say 'attack' is on a charge!" Macara's eyes drew to the prisoner, "Where on earth did that come from?"

"Shot 'im." Mullins declared proudly.

"Oh bloody hell!" Came the atypical response, "How do I explain this advanced scout to the Captain? Let him go."

"Go? But-" Mullins was slow of understanding.

"Can't. He took a wound to the leg. Won't be able to walk." The native suddenly howled with pain making everyone jump. Then he produced the reclaimed bullet from the palm of his hand and spat blood into the soil.

"Ugh. Workman, you're strong. Lift him up like a baby. Take him across the river and throw him into a house. Out of sight, out of mind. Private Docker, you run like the wind and get Langsley back here now. Leith or no bloody Leith. Me and the corporal have our hands full guiding the baggage train over the bridge."

"Err, Sir? What should I do?"

"Stand there and don't shoot anything else."

"I could go with, Swithin, Sir."

Macara scoffed, "But I need him to move fast. You only have one good leg."

"No, it's awight. I'm left-footed."

"There's no such thing!"

"Beggin' your pardon, but there is too, Sir. Me old 'eadmaster used to tell me I were left-footed."

Cyril was quick to decipher the lunacy, "He probably said that you have two left feet!"

"Well there you are."

"No it-!" The Lieutenant facepalmed. What was he doing arguing with this buffoon? He continued through clenched teeth, "Nevermind Mullins. Go with Docker."

Once his men had vanished to the four winds Macara about faced and immediately ran into someone else, "Trouble, monsieur?"

"Wace! Why aren't you with the others?"

The engineer shrugged, "It seemed more prudent to wait."

"Yes. You have a knack for keeping out of harm's way." The Lieutenant walked around the sergeant until a thought brought him short, "What did you do with the gunpowder we drained from the barrels?"

"Ah. They are in saddle-bags, mon Lieutenant. 'Owever, those are not the water proof. We should transfer them back soon."

"Keep them where they are. I need you to do something big. Something huge."

The engineer acquiescenced without question, "Whatever is asked."

Everything that happened next seemed to go by fast. The encroaching army advanced on the village with frustrating alacrity. Boots passed hither and thither across the bridge. Which became more difficult as wagons began to fill the length of it. One of the carts broke an axle, and as the owner got into an argument over its contents a group of soldiers merely tipped the obstruction on its side. It tumbled down the mud bank into the surging river current.

Langsley was back. With Leith who demurely returned Macara's pistol. Pafford had posted a watcher on the bell-tower and was nevertheless peering hauntedly into the direction of danger. He found that flight was the best of all courses. Especially when Lieutenant Mahoney told him a British fort lay not that many miles South from their position, "We could be on it before sunrise."

"But the convoy could never outstrip these maroons." The Sun was paling in the sky and a shadow fell over their position. The Captain was equally worried by the prospect of failing in his duty. He knew he must make effort to save the tradesmen. And he saw the bridge as the place to do it. They could theoretically hold the bridge against the greater foe. At such a position they could not be outflanked and their enemy would be forced to rush them at only three man abreast, "We must set to burn it so they cannot follow."

Mahoney was appalled by the idea, "Sir! If there are fords, then they know of them. In a Summer the river is crossable in any number of places down or upstream." This was true. The enemy could bypass the bridge and outflank them this way. They had the numbers. They needed the benefit of local knowledge. Yet when they looked for Arnaud, they found the merchant had made himself scarce.

Arnaud was not a fool. He would aid the English only surreptitiously. Village folk had gathered to watch the hue and cry about their homes. If he was seen in conference with the doomed convoy, then Toussaint's men were likely to punish him. Macara vowed not to leave him the gunpowder barrels as promised.

So scouts had to be sent out in search of nearby crossing points. They had interrogated the wedding couple but no more trusted their answers than understood their accent. With the swift change in allegiance no one knew who's side the civilians were on. The decision was made to burn the bridge immediately. They didn't want to spread their soldiers across more than two crossing points. If they took the bridge out of the equation early then the British could concentrate on other avenues of danger.

Axemen stood in waist-deep water, chipping away at supporting spokes. Macara watched kindling be piled at the centre of the bridge. He shook his head at how little there was. He asked Langsley to elaborate, "It's thatch. Natives weren't eager to part with it. But nowt else will burn round 'ere."

"What do they use for cooking fires then?"

"Bullock dung." The Lieutenant considered ordering the men to fetch armfuls of that but then decided against it.

The wagons were across and disappearing as the road swerved into a copse of trees. The greatest host of soldiers were now piled on the far bank waiting for the tinder boxes to strike. There was a collective sensation of apprehension. An unseen enemy lurked. When suddenly the watchman from the bell-tower careened down the pathways. He looked initially alarmed at the scene, as if the fire was intended to trap him personally, but then yelled his warning. The natives were in the village.

Mahoney cursed. Pafford went white, and as the last man crossed the rising spit of flame a cry went out. It was a long ululating wail in a foreign tongue that was taken up by many men. From the farthest houses the enemy appeared in ones and twos, surging towards the riverbank. The Captain looked at the desultory flames and decided the fire would not catch quickly enough. He snapped at his sergeants to get the men into position. They had to hold yet.

Macara grimaced. They may have had eyes on the main host but likely Toussaint had sent out scouts of his own. They had seen the threat to the bridge and had hurried their advance. He watched as his fellow Lieutenant drew his sword and began shouting encouragement to the men. It was an example he couldn't follow. All Cyril's thoughts were on how he could escape if things went wrong. If the line buckled. He turned to Toby who's expression seemed to suggest he knew his master's mind.

"Every slaughter needs a survivor."

Toby nodded carefully, "I'll ask the quartermaster if I can hobble his horse for him."

"Ask if you can look after his skin of arrack too."

The British soldiers formed a line ten men across and four deep. The first two ranks fixed bayonet. It was a blade that was slotted on the end of their muskets. It made the guns harder to reload after every shot, but it was necessary for the melee battle to come. There were determined faces locked onto the enemy, but the only man who seemed to relish the battle was Mullins who had shoved his way to the front.

More men had been positioned farther out at angles to the bridge. Their purpose was to give enfielding fire. Those on the right had the benefit of a verge to stand on, while the men on the left had to angle their guns up. The maroons were in clear view now. They were toilers all. They had no uniform save for the bobbled cotton of their shirts, but they were each properly armed. They knew musketcraft as well as any European.

They were expected the charge. To continue their mad rush as they had been and die piecemeal by bullet or blade. But it soon became evident their dash was to cover ground. The disorganised mass came quickly back under control. Groups scattered into the houses while others streamed down by the river. They formed several chains which came into motion whenever a bucket was found. In unison they passed along the containers, filled them with water, and chivvied them back. A well formed column of equally determined men faced the redcoats on the far bank. The buckets were given to their rear ranks.

Pafford growled, "Protect the fires! Give them time to catch!"

As well as the buckets black men were swashing large palm fronds into the river and passing them back. They could douse or smother, and rather than hold the far bank it looked like the British would have to advance into the centre of the bridge to face them.

An order in Creole sounded, and the fire control party advanced. Pafford nodded, and Sergeant Langlsey gave a similar note of order. The front rank dropped to one knee and took aim. The distance of their aim was 200 feet. A far shot for a smoothbore weapon, but closing fast, "First rank! Fire!" A gout of smoke exploded from the front. Pellets spat across the bridge and shuddered the tight-packed ranks of the opposition. Bright sparks of blood sent men reeling to the side holding their arms or else collapsing face first.

Their comrades stepped over them and kept coming.

"First rank reload! Second rank! Fire!" Above the heads of their fellows the soldiers behind fired and watched the carnage unfold. That the enemy were only showing a narrow face of three men helped, but the musket balls passed through into the men behind and there was a stirring in the maroons. Men screamed and dropped their weapons. Once such man tumbled into the water, whether by intention or not. The rest kept moving, faster so as to not endure the withering fire any longer than necessary. They were almost upon the fires and were already passing buckets forward.

"Advance at the double! Pafford called, and the British line went forward. They could no longer stand ten a line and they hastened to the conflagration. They yelled as they charged, a wordless call of challenge.

The black soldiers fired back. Mullins saw Workman arch his back with a sudden gasp and collapse. He was forgotten in the surge. Ed may have been slow but few could pass him so he was among the first to reach the enemy as buckets found their way onto hissing embers. A hook-nosed man made a lunge at him from across the flames. The musket blade tore into Ed's uniform and scraped his skin. He snarled and tore his own bayonet into the man's stomach. There was a liquid sound as he twist the blade and a look of horror registered on his foe's face. Mullins wrenched his weapon free and the maroon pitched down into the kindling.

An empty bucket was tossed into his head. He missed his next stab and the man to his left crashed into him with a shirt-sleeve the colour of beetroot. Little by little the English were driven back until the small fire was amongst the maroons. Mullins was suddenly aware of being trapped in this killing field. The men behind him were trying to press forwards and forced him into the reach of blades he would rather back away from. He caught once such bayonet on his stock on took an elbow to the face.

Behind the fighting line there were men swatting at the fire with the palm fronds. A particularly clever young boy had taken a pitchfork with him and was now tossing flaming thatch over the railings of the bridge. Those that had shoes were stamping hard on the smouldering patches that remained.

And then suddenly one of the stamping men toppled over. The British enfielding fire was coming to the fore. The natives hadn't thought to do this themselves and now bullets tumbled into their massed ranks so that they lost their nerve. Palm fronds fell as the maroons gradually abandoned their role and fled back the way they had come. The pressure against Mullins became less and he regained his initial confidence, flicking his sabre into someone's cheek.

The last of the attackers melted away and Mullins roared his bloodlust, eager to pursue. He was brought short by the arm of a sergeant who shouted sense into his face. There were many more maroons on the far bank now. But they did not need to try again. The kindling had been thwarted. The fire had died. Even as they coaxed it now the men could tell the thatch was too damp. Then they too retreated as Toussaint's men began to remember they had muskets.

The redcoats may have repelled the attack but they hadn't destroyed the bridge. Its timbers were blackened and crisp, crumbling to the touch in some places. But it had survived.

"They can't even break things right..."

Lieutenant Mahoney sneered, "Could be you'll have to get your hands bloody for a change, Macara."

"Me join in? Yeah. Cus that'll do us a world of good." Hundreds of black soldiers were now amassing in the village of l'Estere. And all that stood against them were three score of His Majesty's Dippiest.