The Last Sunset by Bob Atkinson Page B

in his
left arm, as though hit by a stick in a game of shinty. Colin let out a sharp
cry and dropped to the ground.
    “Where are you hit?” Alistair yelled.
    “In the leg! But, I’m all right! I don’t think
it hit the bone! Alistair, I don’t think these beggars are ghosts, at all…”
    The older man smiled ruefully. He retained
enough movement in his left arm to sight his rifle. He could see the cartridges
of powder and ball being rammed into the barrels as the soldiers frantically
reloaded. They were so densely packed he could hardly miss. As the weapon
recoiled into his shoulder one of the soldiers was flung backwards, blood
spraying from his mouth.
    Alistair tried to reload. His left arm was
stiffening rapidly, and the bullets spilled from his hands. As he steeled
himself to receive the soldiers’ second volley Colin levered himself onto one
knee and fired at the two figures in front of the burning cottage. One of the
redcoats took the round full in the chest and was flung backwards into the
inferno.
    Alistair hauled his brother to the ground as the
second volley rang out. The smoothbore musket had no rifling that would spin
the bullet and improve its accuracy, but the brothers were well within general
volleying range. A hail of lead balls flew closely above their heads.
    Colin loaded his rifle, handed it to Alistair,
then levered a round into his brother’s weapon.
    Alistair jammed the rifle into his right
shoulder. “When I say ‘now’ we get up and fire together, all right?”
    Already, however, the initiative had been taken
away from them. The sergeant sent his men forward in line abreast, determined
to come to close quarters with these rebels, and their extraordinary weapons.
Alistair rose to meet them, his brother one-legged by his side.
    “Space out, don’t give them an easy target. You
take one on the right. I’ll do the same on the left.”
    “You run for it, Alistair. I’ll try to hold them
off.”
    “Just take one on the right!” yelled Alistair.
    He waited until his brother had fired at the
oncoming redcoats. Alistair was no stranger to death but was still shocked to
see Colin bring one of the soldiers down, in that familiar dreadful way. As
Colin reloaded, Alistair squeezed the trigger, and another soldier crumpled. To
his right another shot rang out from Colin, and another soldier ran on a few
paces, before collapsing in a heap.
    Alistair made no effort to reload. His left arm
was now useless, and in a desperate bluff he pointed the empty weapon at the
five remaining redcoats. From the side of his eye he could see his brother also
standing his ground. As Alistair wondered if he’d had time to reload, the
gallant little charge suddenly fizzled out. The soldiers halted, then began to
draw back, defiantly at first, musket and bayonet to the front.
    They continued to back away until eventually
they were swallowed up by the mist.
    The brothers surveyed the field. Two of the
soldiers they’d shot were dead. The third was trying to crawl after his
comrades, a red trail tracing his dying moments.
    Colin hobbled painfully over to his brother.
    “Alistair?”
    As he drew closer he realised his brother was
trembling uncontrollably, tears pouring down his chalk-white face. He saw the
pool of blood in which his brother was standing.
    “Och, Alistair, man. Your arm.”
    The blood was dribbling through the fingers of
his left hand like juice from a fruit-press. The older man swayed, trying to
remain on his feet, but he was unconscious even before he hit the ground.
    ~*~
    In the distance Alistair could hear the
incessant rumble of artillery. A smouldering glow illuminated the horizon, as
if the door to some gigantic furnace had been left ajar. Everything was deathly
still in his sector. He could see neither shape nor movement in the
pitch-blackness before his trench. It was as if everything he knew to be out there:
the barbed wire, the shell holes, the decaying remains… all had disappeared
into a