Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
8th Sep 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #OutMARCH25th #bloodymen
He rubbed a blood-wet sleeve across his face, the wool rasping his skin, sweat burning in his eyes. It was a church they’d chased the British into—or a churchyard. Men were dodging through the tombstones, vaulting them in hot pursuit.
The British had turned at bay, though, their officer shouting them into a ragged line, and the drill began, the muskets grounded, ramrods drawn…
“Fire!” Jamie bellowed, with all the power left in his cracked voice. “Fire on them! Now!”
Only a few men had loaded weapons, but sometimes it only took one. A shot rang out from behind him, and the British officer who was shouting stopped shouting and staggered. He clutched himself, curling up and falling to his knees, and someone shot him again. He jerked backward, then fell over sideways.
There was a roar from the British line, which dissolved at once into a rush, some men pausing long enough to fix their bayonets, others wielding their guns like clubs. The Americans met them, mindless and shrieking, with guns and fists. One militiaman reached the fallen officer, seized him by the legs and began to drag him away toward the church, perhaps with the notion to take him prisoner, perhaps to get him help…
A British soldier threw himself upon the American, who stumbled backward and fell, loosing his hold on the officer. Jamie was running, shouting, trying to gather the men, but it was no use, they’d lost their wits in the madness of fighting.
Leaderless, so had the British soldiers, some of whom were now engaged in a grotesque tug-o’-war with two Americans, each grasping the limbs of the dead—for surely he must be now, if he hadn’t been killed outright—British officer.
Appalled, Jamie ran in among them, shouting, but his voice failed altogether under strain and breathlessness, and he realized he was making no more than faint cawing noises. He reached the fight, grasped one soldier by the shoulder, meaning to pull him back, but the man rounded on him and punched him in the face.
It was a glancing blow off the side of his jaw, but made him lose his grip, and he was knocked off balance by someone shoving past him to grab some part of the hapless officer’s body.
Drums. A drum. Someone in the distance was beating something urgent, a summons.
“Retreat!” someone shouted in a hoarse voice. “Retreat!”
Something happened; a momentary pause—and suddenly it was all different and the Americans were coming past him, hasty but no longer frantic, a few of them carrying the dead British officer. Yes, definitely dead; the man’s head lolled like a rag-doll’s.
_Thank God they’re not dragging him through the dirt_, was all he had time to think. Lieutenant Bixby was at his shoulder, blood pouring down his face from an open flap of scalp.
“There you are, sir!” he said, relieved. “Thought you was taken, we did.” He took Jamie respectfully by the arm, tugging him along. “Come away, sir, will you? I don’t trust those wicked buggers not to come back.”