#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutMarch25th #marchingastowar

As Jamie explained to me on the way out of Philadelphia, the problem lay not in finding the British, but in catching up to them with enough men and materièl to do some good.

“They left with several hundred waggons and a verra large number of Loyalists who didna feel quite safe in Philadelphia. Clinton canna be protecting them and fighting at the same time. He must make all the speed he can—which means he must travel by the most direct road.”

“I suppose he can’t very well be legging it cross-country,” I agreed. “Have you—meaning General Washington—got any idea how big a force he has?”

He lifted one shoulder, and waved off a large horse-fly with his hat.

“Maybe fifteen thousand men. Maybe more. Fergus and Germain watched them assemble to march out, but ye ken it’s not easy to judge numbers.”

“Mm. And…um…how many men do we have?” Saying “_we_” gave me an odd sensation that rippled through my lower body. Something between tail-curling apprehension and an excitement that was startlingly close to sexual.

It wasn’t that I’d never felt the strange euphoria of war before. But it had been a very long time; I’d forgotten.

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