12
“You!” MacKim swore and tried to rise, but two freebooters pointed muskets at him as a third shoved him back down. Three British soldiers lay dead in the trench, two with multiple stab wounds and the third with his head cut clean off his shoulders. Half a dozen freebooters stood watching, with Roberval as suave as ever, despite the blood that smeared his face.
“Me,” Roberval said. “I thought I had seen you dancing around in the dark. Sergeant MacKim, isn’t it?” Roberval spoke passable English, with only a hint of a French accent.
MacKim lifted his musket, only for one of the freebooters to wrestle it from his grip.
“We’ll take you back with us, sergeant,” Roberval said. “I want to know what you were doing out there.”
“Trying to get back to the British positions,” MacKim said.
“Bar
