Edge of Reason, page 1
EDGE OF REASON
Warrior's Path Book 2
MALCOLM ARCHIBALD
CONTENTS
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Appendix
Historical Notes
Next in the Series
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2021 Malcolm Archibald
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter
Published 2021 by Next Chapter
Edited by Lorna Read
Cover art by CoverMint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
For Cathy
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 cocked 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.
1
QUEBEC, AUTUMN 1759
“They killed Tayanita,” MacKim muttered, as the dual emotional and physical pain threatened to overcome him.
“I know,” Chisholm said, his ravaged face set in sympathy. “Come on, Hugh, let’s get you to a surgeon.”
“They killed Tayanita.”
After those words, MacKim’s entire world dissolved in pain. He was unaware of Chisholm and Private Ranald MacDo nald carrying him in a blanket to the ruins of Quebec. He was unaware of the fingers pointing to the raw wound across his head, or his blood that dripped onto the ground. He was only vaguely aware of the deep-eyed surgeon who examined him, and barely aware of the brandy an assistant forced down his throat. However, despite the spirit’s supposedly numbing effect, MacKim groaned as the surgeon stitched the long gash across his chest.
“Lie still, man,” the assistant grumbled, as MacKim writhed under his hands.
MacKim screamed as the surgeon tried to dress the horrendous wound on the top of his head, with the assistant attempting to hold his face still. After that nightmare of agony, there was nothing but pain, until MacKim recognised it as an old, trusted companion. It was there, waiting for him. It would not let him down. The physical pain shielded MacKim’s mind from the mental and emotional agony of Tayanita’s death, so he clung to the former as a counterbalance for the latter.
MacKim did not know how long he lay in the makeshift hospital. It might have been days or weeks. Time did not matter; only the mingled pains and his feeling of desolation. From time to time, he was aware of other men beside his bed, although he did not know that Chisholm and Private Ranald MacDonald were checking on his progress.
At length, as the Canadian autumn descended towards the long midnight of winter, MacKim’s head began to clear. He looked around the long room with its rows of suffering patients.
“Tayanita?” he called weakly.
“You’re awake, then,” an orderly said. “You were lucky. We thought you was going to die.”
“Lucky?” When MacKim tried to sit up, the recently healed wound in his chest protested. He gasped, grunted and fought the pain. His head pounded as if a hundred farriers were making a hundred horseshoes on top of his skull.
“I heard that the savages caught you,” the orderly said cheerfully. “They were scalping you when some of your regiment chased them away.”
“I remember.” MacKim looked down at his chest, where the long, puckered scar was inflamed and red, with prominent stitching where the surgeon had worked. He remembered the tall, tattooed Canadian, the Abenaki and the squat man with the flat English accent.
“Was there anybody else there when the Highlanders rescued me?” MacKim wondered if Tayanita was not dead. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe he had imagined the bullet smashing through her skull.
The orderly screwed up his face. “Blessed if I know.”
“I have to find out,” MacKim said, swinging his legs out of bed.
“You’ll stay where you are,” the orderly said. “Your chest may be healed, but I don’t know what you’ll do about your head. It was as red-raw as fresh liver last time I saw it.”
“My head?” MacKim winced as he touched the bandages that swathed his head. His headache increased.
“The savages took half your scalp,” the orderly said, as MacKim slumped back onto his bed. “You lie there, Sawnie, and recover. It’s bedlam outside, anyway.”
Tayanita. The name ran through MacKim’s head, together with an image of the woman with whom he had intended to head west. Now, he was back in the army, a corporal in Fraser’s 78th Highlanders. If he were lucky, nobody except Chisholm would realise he had intended to desert. Lucky? The Canadians and Abenakis had killed his woman and robbed him of half his scalp. What was lucky about that? MacKim closed his eyes as the tiredness of physical weakness mixed with emotional strain overcame him.
Tomorrow, MacKim promised himself. I’ll try to get up tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. He closed his eyes as the image of Tayanita returned, with the musket ball smashing through her head. He felt the tears biting at his eyes.
“Has anything happened since I’ve been in the hospital?” MacKim asked.
Chisholm mused for a moment before he replied. “No. We’ve been sitting around on our arses doing nothing, just like you.”
“I thought I heard gunfire a few days ago,” MacKim struggled to sit up, but the flashes of pain in his head prevented the attempt.
“You did hear gunfire,” Chisholm said. “A French flotilla sailed down the river, and our artillery had a go at them.”
“Did we sink them?” MacKim asked.
“Not even one,” Chisholm said. “I don’t think we scored a single hit because they were out of range of our guns. That would be on the 23rd of November, I think.” He shook his head. “But never fear, little Corporal MacKim. Not long after, Canada provided a storm that sent three of them onto a sandbank and left them there.”
MacKim smiled, then winced at the pain even that simple gesture caused him. “The Navy would love that,” he said.
“Oh, the Navy loved it all right,” Chisholm said. “One of our frigates virtually denuded herself of men to strip everything from the largest French shipwreck. They were happily plundering when the damned Frenchie blew up. I heard that the French captain threw a match into the powder room, but that might only be a story. Our seamen were all lost, and the Frenchies boarded and captured our frigate, which had only a skeleton crew.”
MacKim sighed. “A victory for the French, then,” he said.
“A hint of revenge to pay us back for capturing the capital of New France,” Chisholm said.
“And a reminder that the French won’t give up easily,” MacKim said. “Is that all that has happened?”
“No,” Chisholm said. “While you’ve been lying at your ease, we’ve unloaded tons of stores and dragged them from the Lower Town to the Upper Town.”
“I’m glad you do something to earn your eight pence a day,” MacKim said. “Anything else?”
“There has been a bit of marching and counter-marching, and a lot of work on the fortifications here.” Chisholm grinned. “No doubt you’ll be doing your bit once you’re up and about.”
MacKim sank back. “Suddenly, I feel weak. I might need another few weeks in bed.”
“We’ll see you soon then, Corporal,” MacDonald said, without understanding the joke.
MacKim did not reply. For all his attempted humour, he felt sick at the thought of losing Tayanita. When he closed his eyes, he could see her face smiling at him through her deep brown eyes. And then he saw the musket bullet smash through her head, and a wave of intense hatred replaced his sorrow.
I will kill those men. I will kill that Canadian with the tattooed face, and that renegade with the flat accent and dead eyes. I won’t allow Tayanita to go unavenged.
The decision gave MacKim strength. After weeks of waiting to recover, he now forced himself to move, leave his bed and fight. He had a purpose in life once more.
“Reporting for duty, sir!” MacKim saw Lieutenant Gregorson study his head as if he could see the scraped scalp through MacKim’s bonnet.
“It’s good to have you back, MacKim,” Gregorson said. “Have you fully recovered?”
“Nearly, sir,” MacKim lied. He did not mention the terrible headaches that plagued him, or the nightmares in which he saw Tayanita slowly falling as pieces of her head sprayed around the ground. Such things, MacKim vowed, he would keep to himself. There were some secrets that a man did not wish to reveal to the world.
“If you are certain.” Gregorson continued to study MacKim’s bonnet.
“Yes, sir.” MacKim did not admit that the hospital had depressed him, with its daily intake of sick and dying soldiers. The army that Wolfe had led to victory was slowly disintegrating with scurvy and other diseases. MacKim was confident he would fare better in the company of active soldiers, rather than in a hospital bed. In the ranks, he would have duties to perform and his comrade’s banter to sustain him. In the hospital, all he had were gloomy thoughts and the moans of the sick.
