Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
31st Jul 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #aquickfarewell
The first shot took them by surprise, a muffled boom from the cider orchard and a slow roll of white smoke. They didn’t run, but they stiffened, looking to him for direction. Jamie said to those near him, “Good lads,” then raised his voice. “To my left, now! Mr. Craddock, Reverend Woodsworth…circle them wide, come into the orchard from behind. The rest—scatter to the right and fire as ye can—“ The second crash drowned his words, and Craddock jerked like a puppet with his strings cut and dropped to the ground, blood spraying from the blackened hole in his chest.
“Go with the Reverend!” he shouted at Craddock’s men, standing there drop-jawed, staring at their captain’s body. “Go _now_!” One of the men shook himself, grabbed the sleeve of another, pulled him away, and then they all began to move in a body. Woodsworth, bless him, raised his musket overhead and roared, “To me! Follow me!” and broke into the stork-legged shamble that passed with him for running—but they followed him.
“Shouldn’t we...bury Mr. Craddock?” a timid voice suggested behind him.
“He’s not _dead_, lackbrain!”
Jamie glanced down. He wasn’t—but it wouldn’t be more than a few seconds longer.
“Go with God, man,” he said quietly. Craddock didn’t blink; his eyes were fixed on the sky, not yet dull but sightless.
“Go wi’ your fellows,” he said to the two lingerers, then saw that they were Craddock’s two sons, maybe thirteen and fourteen, white-faced and staring as sheep. “Say farewell to him,” he said abruptly. “He’ll still hear ye. Then…go.” He thought for a moment to send them to La Fayette, but they’d be no safer there. “Run!”