“They’re going to try and burn the sodding door,” Lewis whispered with a disbelieving grin.

“I’ll sort that,” Molloy replied. “You give them a proper reception once they light the barrels.”

The sergeant then hastened along the western rampart until he found his lone sentry. He ordered the man to bring up water from the kitchen, as much as he could carry. He then raced across the courtyard and gave the same order to the other sentry before returning to the north wall.

Crouching low, he stared through one of the firing ports. He could see the shapes of men shuffling around the barrels, which as best he could tell were a couple of feet from the door. They scraped loudly across the gravel. To his left, Molloy saw the two privates returning with a pair of water buckets each. They hunkered low behind the parapet, near Corporal Lewis. The young NCO held his musket ready as he saw the sparks coming from the enemy’s flint and steel. A small fire soon started. It quickly grew, taking hold of some dry straw and kindling.

“Now,” the corporal said calmly as he shouldered his weapon.

As eight muskets unleashed a close range salvo, they could only clearly see the man who’d sparked the flames. The dense smoke clouded the vision of the Redcoats, who hastily began to reload. From his position, Sergeant Molloy could see the effects. The Jacobite visible in the burning light was struck at least three times, through the guts and neck. Doubling over, he pitched forward, nearly upsetting the other barrel. Molloy saw the shape of another man clutching at his shoulder before stumbling away.

The sounds of musketry from at least two score of enemy fighters flashed and echoed in the dark, peppering the ramparts.

“Easy, lads,” Molloy said. “They can’t hit a fucking thing so long as you use the firing ports, and only when ready to fire.”

At Corporal Lewis’ command, all but one of the Redcoats loosed another volley. This man complained about not being able to see a thing and thus stood to peer over the rampart.

“God damn it, Private Thomas!” Sergeant Molloy snapped. “Get your fucking head down—”

He was interrupted by an even more intense return of musket fire from their enemies. Most shots smacked harmlessly into the wall or sailed over the ramparts. One, however, struck the errant private in the head. He stood rigid for a moment before his convulsing body tumbled into the courtyard below.

“Tommy!” one of his mates cried out, starting to stand.

“Get back to your post!” Molloy snapped, rushing over to the young man at a low crouch and cuffing him across the head. “There’s nothing you can do for him. He’s dead because of his stupid negligence. Now keep your fucking head down and reload your damn firelock!”

As the barrels started to blaze, the two privates bearing water buckets upended these over the rampart, all the while keeping low behind the defences. Within seconds, the fire was completely extinguished and the Redcoats let out a cheer.

Molloy crept over to Corporal Lewis, who’d just finished reloading his musket.

“You have this situation under control,” the sergeant said. He nodded to the water bearers. “I’ll take these two and head for the south wall.”

In the distance, the Jacobite musketry continued, albeit in diminished numbers, with no coordination.

“They won’t be getting in this way,” Lewis confirmed before issuing the command for his men to fire once more.

He knew their chances of hitting their enemy in the dark were slim. Still, this gave his soldiers, especially the newest ones who’d only been with the army a few months, a chance to practice their musketry drills while under fire.

Sergeant Molloy ordered the water bearers to follow him, along with two more privates, before descending the steps and crossing over to the south rampart at a brisk walk. This left Corporal Lewis with five men to hold the rear entrance. Their enemy may have numbered in the hundreds, yet their one attempt at breaching the rear entrance had proven as pathetic as it was foolish.

The crack of musket shots came from the three men dispersed along the south rampart. Upon ascending the steps, Molloy could just make out an enemy combatant lying face down along the steep path leading into the fort.

“They’re trying to bring up a ladder, Sergeant,” one of the men explained. This was an older private in his late twenties, who Molloy trusted to keep his mates from shooting at mere shadows.

“Only one ladder,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head in amusement.

“What’s more, the path is too steep,” the private said. “They can’t even carry the damn thing up to the wall! And with the rain soaking the grassy slopes on the flanks, it’s too damned slippery. They won’t be coming up that way.”

“Splendid,” Molloy said.

His four accompanying soldiers took up positions at various firing ports. He then ordered them to reload but wait for his command to fire. He then checked his watch. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning. While the sun would not rise for nearlyan hour, the faint glow of predawn now made it easy to spot their enemy. He counted at least a hundred gathered in a column about a hundred yards away. It was they who bore the lone ladder. Pops of musket fire from frustrated Jacobites came from both these men and several clusters along the western base of the hill.

Molloy ordered a volley fired at the ladder group, as they were closest. While waiting for the smoke to clear, and his men to reload their muskets, he hastened over to the eastern wall, where he saw not a single enemy fighter. Returning to his men, they fired another pair of volleys. Several Jacobites had fallen, only to be abandoned by their companions, who fled back down the path to return to their camp.

It was then that the sergeant stood. He ordered his men to remain hidden, lest they give away their true strength to the enemy.

“Three cheers for His Majesty, King George!” Molloy shouted, removing his hat.

James Mace is an author, historian, and life-long storyteller. He began writing as a hobby in the early 2000s, penning physical fitness articles for a bodybuilding website and a magazine called Hardcore Muscle.

James wrote the initial draft of his first novel, Soldier of Rome: The Legionary, as a cathartic means of escapism while serving in Iraq from 2004 to 2005. He has since released thirty-seven books, including fifteen Ancient History best-sellers, and five South African History best-sellers. His works currently span his two favourite eras: Ancient Rome and the British Empire.

Outside of writing historical novels, James is a Research Historian and Script Writer for the channel, Redcoat History. He maintains a blog called The Buffed Historian, sharing random fitness articles and other tales from across history. His hobbies include weightlifting, road cycling, foothills hikes, travelling across the globe, live theatre, video games, and sitting down for a game of Dungeons & Dragons with friends.

 

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