May 1855
"How many of these damned pickets have we done, sir? O"Neill lay in the shelter of a boulder, peering into the dark. Above them, stars shone dimly from a dark grey sky, while a sliver of moon cast wan light on the tortured ground beneath.
"I have lost count, O"Neill," Jack swept his small telescope in an arc in front of their position. "At least twenty since we captured the Quarries."
"And how many Cossacks have we killed?"
"None," Jack said shortly. "We have only disposed of that party during Sir Colin"s raid on the Heights and the men at the Quarries." Jack gave the answer that O"Neill already knew. He checked his watch: two o"clock in the morning. The Cossacks were expected any moment now.
"It"s a complete waste of time, sir if you ask me. We spent two nights a week out he
