Edge Of Reason

PRELUDE THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM, CANADA, SEPTEMBER 1759 “Come on, Hugh,” Tayanita urged over her shoulder. “Before the redcoats come.” MacKim followed, padding between the tall trees with his musket at the trail and his bonnet c****d forward over his forehead. Behind him was the structured security and discipline of the British Army; ahead stretched the unknown hazards of the Canadian wilderness. MacKim knew he was exchanging the constant companionship of Fraser’s Highlanders for the smile of a local woman, and he was happy with his choice. He smiled as he watched Tayanita’s lithe body weaving in front of him, with her braided black hair bouncing between her shoulder blades. Tayanita was unlike anybody he had met before, a stubborn, loving, adaptable woman with whom he fully intended to spend the remainder of his life. At that moment, Corporal Hugh MacKim of Fraser’s 78th Highlanders was as happy as he had been for the past fifteen years. His troubles lay behind him, and life beckoned with a golden finger. “I’m coming, Tayanita!” MacKim did not see who fired the musket. He only heard the report and saw the result as the lead musket ball smashed into Tayanita’s forehead. He could do nothing as Tayanita’s skull disintegrated, with shreds of bone spraying outwards, together with a film of blood and grey brains. “Tayanita!” MacKim reached out, just as a second musket fired, and then a third, with the sound echoing hollowly through the trees of Sillery Wood. Tayanita crumpled as the musketry continued. The balls whirred around MacKim, one burrowing into the ground, and another thudding into the tree beside him. MacKim swore in Gaelic, English and French. Years of experience in this war in North America had made him knowledgeable about wounds. He knew that Tayanita was dead. Nobody could survive the degree of injury the musket-ball had wrought, yet MacKim still attempted to reach her, to pull her away from the so-far invisible enemy. The voices sounded then; Canadian-accented French mingled with Abenaki. They were all around MacKim, closing in, shouting to encourage each other as they searched for more British or Colonial soldiers. The Canadians would not be successful, for MacKim was alone, struggling to desert from the recently-captured city of Quebec in this contested country of Canada. Rolling to the shelter of a fallen tree, MacKim readied his musket, searching for a target. He would mourn Tayanita later; his first inclination was for revenge, and his instinct was to retaliate. MacKim knew he was a dead man fighting; he would not escape from the war-party of mixed Canadians and Abenaki in this forest country. At that minute, he did not care; he only wanted to kill at least one of the enemy who had murdered his woman. Silence descended. MacKim lay still, scanning the trees for any sign of the enemy. He needed only a glimpse of a Canadian or an Indian, and he would fire; the Rangers and Light Infantry had trained him well. “Please, God, allow me one shot,” he pleaded. “One shot before they kill me. One shot to avenge Tayanita.” The foliage remained undisturbed. Not a leaf shifted, not a branch moved. MacKim waited, with his finger on the trigger and his eyes never still, scanning the forest for anything untoward. A whiff of powder-smoke drifted to him, acrid and familiar. The attack came from his left. Two Abenaki warriors burst out of the trees, painted faces screaming, upraised hands holding gleaming tomahawks. MacKim aimed at the leading warrior, waited until he had a clean shot and pressed the trigger. There was a spurt of smoke and flame; the Brown Bess musket kicked back into MacKim’s shoulder and he grunted. He knew he had hit his mark and, with no time to fix his bayonet, he held the musket like a club, awaiting the onset of the second Abenaki. “Caintal Davri!” MacKim roared the regimental warcry. The 78th Highlanders were new to the British Army list but had already proved their worth in the savage fighting to gain Quebec. MacKim added, “Tayanita!” as he challenged the charging Abenaki. He had a glimpse of a third man approaching him, a tall, lean Canadian with tattoos disfiguring his face, and then the Abenaki warrior was on him. Not caring if he lived or died, MacKim swung his musket at the painted warrior, who sidestepped and tried an upward swipe with his tomahawk. MacKim jerked backwards, rammed his musket-butt into the Abenaki’s face, felt the satisfying crunch of contact, and gasped as the warrior’s tomahawk scored across his ribs. Instinct forced MacKim to lunge forward, pressing his musket into the Abenaki’s face, breaking the gristle of the man’s nose so blood spurted, and then the Abenaki threw him to the ground and leapt on top. They grappled, each man wounded and bleeding, gasping with effort. Each sought an advantage, with the Abenaki the taller and heavier, but MacKim desperate to avenge Tayanita, uncaring of any injuries the warrior inflicted. As the Abenaki straddled MacKim and lifted a long knife, MacKim thrust a thumb into the man’s eye and pressed hard. He felt momentary resistance, then heard a distinct pop as the warrior’s eyeball burst. The Abenaki flinched and reared back, so MacKim threw him off and reached for the hatchet at his belt, only for the tall Canadian to push him back to the ground. MacKim looked up and tried to swing his hatchet, but the Canadian clamped a massive hand on his wrist, then trapped him with his knees. When he glared down, MacKim saw tattoos on both sides of his face, blue-dyed spirals that extended from his cheekbones to the corners of his mouth. The Canadian smiled, showing perfect teeth. As the Abenaki rolled in agony beside MacKim, another man appeared. Squat, bald, and broad-shouldered, he hawked and spat on the ground. “Scotchman,” he said, in a flat English accent. He stared at MacKim with no expression in his dead eyes. MacKim tried to throw off the Canadian and roared as he felt a terrible, tearing pain on the top of his head. He yelled again, aware that the Canadian was scalping him. Shouting in mingled agony and rage, MacKim lunged forward and sank his teeth into the tattooed man’s neck. They remained in that position for a second, with MacKim worrying the Canadian’s flesh and the Canadian hauling at MacKim’s scalp. Pain gave MacKim extra strength, and he wrestled a hand free and grabbed hold of the Canadian’s wrist, grappling with sinewy muscle, feeling the power of the man. The squat man spoke again, and although MacKim could not understand the accent, he knew it was a warning. MacKim made a final effort that heaved the Canadian from him, with the man holding a portion of MacKim’s scalp in his hand. Blood flowed freely down MacKim’s face and from the gash across his chest. He spat out a mouthful of the Canadian’s skin and blood, tried to ignore the incredible pain in his head and forced himself to stand. The Abenaki was staggering away with one hand to his beleaguered face as the squat man backed off, watching MacKim and still talking as the Canadian followed, moving with long, loping strides. The musket shots echoed through the trees, with honest Scottish accents as an accompaniment. “Hugh!” That was Chisholm’s voice as he ran forward with a section of the 78th at his back. “Over here!” Hugh MacKim lifted a weak hand as pain and loss of blood drained his strength. “Oh, good Lord help us,” Chisholm said. “I’ve got you, Hugh.” MacKim felt Chisholm’s strong arm around him as he collapsed.