The world was suddenly a white, deafening roar.
Later he remembered mainly the flash, how as the smoke seared his eyes he recalled his own negligence, that he had forgotten to scour the barrel. It was a fool's mistake, a child's mistake. He was still wiping his eyes, seared and powder-burned, when he felt the musket being ripped from his hands. As he groped to seize it back, rough hands shoved him sprawling against the soft dirt of the trench. His face plowed into the earth, which still smelled fresh, musky and ripe, full of budding life.
"We've got another one, sor." A brash voice sounded near his ear. "A right coxcomb, this rebel."
"Damn you." Jeremy struck out, only half aware of the cluster of infantrymen surrounding him.
"Just hold yourself, lad." There were shouts as several of the wounded militiamen were disarmed. He tried to struggle, but more hands brusquely wrestled him down. "This one's not taken any shot. He's lively as a colt. Let's have some of that rope."
He felt his arms being pulled behind him and a rough cord lashed around his wrists. There were sounds of a brief conference, then a voice came, kindly, almost at his ear.
"This is a first-class fowling piece you're carrying. I'll wager you've brought down many a plump woodcock with it, haven't you lad?" A pause, then again the gentle voice. "What's your name, son?"
"Damned to you. What's your name?" There was a sickening hollowness in his gut again. The fear, and now hatred—for them, and for himself.
"It's better, for the time, if I ask the questions and you answer them." The voice emanated from a man wearing a silver helmet and sporting a short goatee. "Why didn't you run, like the rest of the rebels?" He laughed lightly as he moved closer. Jeremy felt a palm cup beneath his chin and felt his head being twisted upward. "By my word, I think your musket misfired. Your face is black as a Moor's. I'll warrant you'd have run too, if you could have seen the way. Could it be you're naught but a coward too, lad, like all the rest?"
The speaker turned to a young, blue-eyed man standing nearby. "Well, sir, who'd have reckoned it'd be this easy? You can tell Admiral Calvert this island's as good as his for the taking. This militia of theirs is nothing but a batch of scared planters, who scatter like rabbits the minute they hear a gunshot. And a few young gallants like this one, who scarcely know how to prime a musket. There's no reason to fall back and hold this position. We'd as well just go on after them, chase them back to Bridgetown, and have done with it."