Light from the full moon sliced the landscape into sharp white highlights and dark blue shadows. Robert Wardlaw-Maxwell stood knee-deep in frostbitten weeds, hands clamped around his musket, his every muscle tensed and ready to respond to the first hint of movement. Even though he had fired the gun many times, it still felt foreign in his hands. Besides, he did not know if any of the balls had ever reached their marks, so he could tell himself he had never actually killed anyone.
“They’re no’ comin’ this way,” Hugh MacBain whispered from beside him.
Robert nodded. He hoped Hugh was right, and the prolonged silence meant that the government men had run in another direction. The last time he fought someone at close range was months ago at Gladmuir, and that wasn’t even a proper battle: just him flailing with a pitchfork, more in self-defense than in any serious attempt to kill one of the English soldiers.
A muffled crack of gunfire was followed by shouts and the crunch of breaking branches. Robert flinched, and took a quick, involuntary step backwards.
Another round of gunfire, this time more distant. It sounded as though the English had indeed fled south, into the open moors. Robert allowed himself to relax.
Racing footsteps on the road, followed by shouting.
Before he could fully register the figures sprinting towards them, he heard another gunshot, this time close enough to feel the sound in his bones. Hugh collapsed forward.
Robert first thought was to help his friend. Then he saw the dark patch spreading quickly across Hugh’s back, and realized it was too late. Robert raised his gun to his shoulder and took aim. The English soldier had just begun to run again, a musket still smoking in his hand, as he dodged between his comrades.
With focused calm, Robert heard the report of his shot as the recoil of the explosion shook his body. Gritty smoke caught in his throat.
He had missed, he realized with a surge of anger.
A second later, a different man fell and began to scream, clutching the inside of his thigh. He struggled on the road for a moment, a patch of shiny darkness spreading rapidly beneath him, and then relaxed and lay still. The soldier’s lifeless face, caught in a patch of moonlight, was young. Robert stared, horrified at his mistake. The boy he had just killed looked the age of his oldest son, and for a moment, Robert was caught in a wave of fear, followed by a need to see that this was not Davie lying in that puddle of blood. He stepped forward.
“Look out!”
The yell snapped Robert out of his trance just in time to see a bayonet blade inches from his neck. Instinctively, he ducked, lifting his left arm to shield himself.
The blade sliced through his sleeve and buried itself in the outside of his shoulder. Before his mind acknowledged the pain, he twisted himself away, ripping his arm free of the metal.
Blood sprayed into the air.
Someone grabbed Robert by the shirt collar, and pulled him off the road. Even with the pain in his shoulder, he could feel the sticky warmth of blood running down his arm.
“Get down.” Another hand pushed him into dead grass. Robert gripped his shoulder as hard as he could, but blood still welled between his fingers.
