"My brother, and he's . . ."
"Your brother! You don't mean it." Morris' goatee twitched with surprise as he moved next to Jeremy and studied his face. "God is my witness, it's scarcely a name you need blush to give out. England never bred a braver, finer soldier, royalist or no. Is he your commander here tonight? You couldn't have one better."
"I have never heard my brother speak well of you, sir."
"Anthony Walrond? Speak well of a man who'd rid England of his precious king?" Morris laughed. "He'd sooner have God strike him dead. He's never had a good word to say for a Puritan in his life. But he's a worthy gentleman, for it all, and an honorable soldier in the field." He turned to an officer standing nearby. "Essex, regroup the men. I think we'd best just hold this breastwork for now. It could well be Anthony Walrond's in command of this militia. If he is, you can wager he'd not countenance a retreat unless he planned to counterattack. I know his modus operandi. And his pride."
"Aye sir. As you will." The captain turned and shouted, "Men, fall back and regroup! Form lines at the breastwork and reload."
"Now if you like. Master Walrond, I still can order all these men to march off into the dark and let your militia ambush and kill half of them—likely losing a hundred of their own in the trade. Would you really have me do it? Is this damned little island worth that much blood, over and above what's already been spilt here tonight?"
Jeremy gazed down at the line of dead militiamen, bodies torn by musket balls. Beyond them the Roundhead infantry was collecting its own dead, among them the man he himself had killed. Now it all seemed so pointless.
A blaze of musket fire flared from a position just north of the breastwork, and a phalanx of whooping and yelling militiamen opened a charge down the north side of the beach. Jeremy watched Morris' eyes click. The kindly man was suddenly gone. With an oath, he yelled for the prisoners to be hurried to the longboats, and the devil take the wounded.
The infantry at the breastwork was returning the fire of the attacking militia, but they were now badly outnumbered. Jeremy made out what could have been the tall form of Anthony, wielding a musket as he urged the militia forward. Then he was passed by a wall of men on horseback. The cavalry. The lead horse, a bay gelding, was ridden by a tall man holding a pistol in each hand.
The infantry holding the breastwork began retreating down the south steps, on the side opposite the attackers. Jeremy could make out Morris now, ordering his men to make for the longboats.