the British officer commanded. Matthias squatted behind his reclining horse, his musket on the ground by his feet. From his position in the middle of the road, he’d watched the redcoats cross the bridge. There were only five of them—two soldiers on the wagon, two more on foot, and the impatient lieutenant on horseback. Rubbing his horse’s neck, Matthias gave the officer an apologetic look. “I’m afraid he’s gone lame, sir.” “He’s blocking the road.” The lieutenant wiped the sweat from his brow with a lacy handkerchief, his woolen uniform obviously uncomfortable in the noonday heat. “Shoot the beast. My men will help you haul it to the side.” “Aye, sir.” Matt picked up his musket and stood. “Quickly, man. We haven’t all day.” The officer stuffed his handkerchief up his sleeve. “Aim for the head.” “As you wish.”
