John Davenport paced his small cell like an angry animal. The guard, seemingly unable to hide the smug smile that lit his face each time he checked in on him, now laughed quietly at the captain’s incessant mumbling and muttering. “Going barmy, he is,” Davenport had heard him tell one of the other soldiers earlier. “Talks to himself all the time. Paces like a cat. I don’t think he ever sleeps.”

Davenport stood smartly to attention as the prison door opened and McBride entered along with Barron. Both officers wore grim expressions as they approached Davenport’s cell.

“What the devil do you two want?” Davenport cast them a baleful look. “Come to gloat, have you, eh?”

“No, John,” Barron replied. “We’ve come to let you know that the date of your execution has been moved up a notch. Tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact.”

 “Bastards!” Davenport hissed through the cell bars. “Bastards, both of you—and liars! You lied through your teeth about what happened. You couldn’t wait to bring me down.”

“And the men, John.” Barron folded his arms as he stared at the raging man. “Did they lie too? Did the entire division, what was left of them, lie to the judges about what they saw? Did they imagine that their commanding officer deserted them, again, in the heat of battle? Crawling away, like the spineless coward you are! Did they indeed imagine all that? Did they also imagine that the Scotsman dragged you back by the scruff of your neck and laid you at our feet? If so, then we all had the same hallucinations. How do you account for that, eh, John?”

“Shut your mouth!” Davenport screamed, his face hot with rage. “I shan’t forget this final insult. You, both of you, will rue the day you crossed me!”

“A little late for all that now, is it not?” McBride remarked with ill-concealed contempt. “A bit late to be threatening us, I fear, John.”

“We’ve also come to ask you if you wish to send a message to your family,” Barron said. “Any last words of apology, or something like that?”

“Get out!” Davenport turned from them, his mind seething with the desire to tear both men apart.

“Very well, John.” Barron sighed. “Your father will be sent a report of what happened, with all of our regrets and sympathy. I think they will find it all very hard to believe.”

“Get out!” Davenport screamed again, refusing to turn to face them.

Barron nodded at McBride and the two men turned to leave. As the door closed behind them, Davenport let out a howl of frenzy and despair and Barron and McBride stopped short. “He won’t go easily tomorrow, I’m afraid,” Barron said with obvious distaste.

“No,” McBride agreed, as they walked out of the prison. “I doubt if there will be a show of bravery at the end. What d’you suppose happened to him? He’s always been an arrogant man, but I never thought of him as a coward, until these two displays of rank terror. He has been in combat before. You, yourself, pointed this out in your defense of him the first time. So why now?”

“That is a very good question, William. And one to which I do not have the answer. Who can say what changes a man from being, at the very least, an adequate commander, to a whimpering coward? It’s just all too bizarre, and something I have not encountered prior to this. Yes, I’ve seen men quake with fear in the face of imminent danger. I’ve even seen one or two run from it when there was no other option open to them. But I have never seen a commanding officer attempt to leave his men to their fate and run like a scared rabbit. Never!”

* * * *

The throb of drums assailed Jamie’s ears as he and Tanaka made their way back to Black Eagle’s village in the early hours of the morning.

“What do they signify?” he asked.

Tanaka’s face lit up with eagerness. “Something I think you will never have seen before.” He broke into a run. “Come, Jamie, let us join in the game!”

“Game? What game?” Jamie strove to keep up with Tanaka, whose fleet-footedness never ceased to amaze him.

Tanaka laughed over his shoulder. “You will see.”

As they burst through the village gates, Jamie was astounded to see throngs of men and women forming a huge circle, in the middle of which dozens of men stood facing one another. They carried wooden sticks in both hands.

“Kapucha!” Tanaka yelled with excitement. Black Eagle, on hearing his voice, turned and with a broad smile pulled him into the center of the circle. Jamie watched, wide-eyed, as what he now realized were two teams of players sprang forward to catch a ball that had been thrown into their midst. At once, mayhem ensued as the players became locked in what almost looked like mortal combat to gain control of the ball. Jamie gasped as Tanaka caught the ball between the sticks he held and tossed it high into the air toward a hoop that was fastened to a wooden post. The crowd roared its approval as the ball sailed through the hoop.

Jamie joined in the cheers as Tanaka scooped up the ball and threw it back into play, then yelled with anger when a member of the opposing team deliberately bashed Tanaka on the head with his stick, sending him sprawling face-first onto the ground. A restraining hand on his arm stopped him from running into the circle, but to what end he wasn’t sure…help Tanaka back on his feet? Punch his assailant? Small Woman stood at his side. She smiled and patted his arm, and he took that to indicate that Tanaka was not in any danger, and sure enough, his lover jumped to his feet and raced after the ball again.

“I’ll warrant you’ve never seen anything like this before, Jamie MacDonald…” Kate Williams gave him a cheeky smile as she joined him and Small Woman.

“You’re right, I have not,” Jamie told her, chuckling.

“It’s called kapucha, stick-ball, really. It’s a favorite among the men here. They come from nearby villages to compete. It can get fairly rowdy, as you can see.”

“I canna’ seem to follow the rules,” Jamie muttered, his gaze trained on Tanaka’s sleek, muscled body as he bounded after the ball, hotly pursued by a dozen or so other players.

Kate laughed. “There are few rules we’d understand. It’s more or less every man for himself. I’ve seen broken bones and bloody heads many a time, but there are few if any hard feelings afterward. She pointed at a sturdy young man who was blocking Tanaka’s path, or trying to. “That’s my husband, George.”

“George?” Jamie stared at her. “How came he by that name?”

“I gave him it. I couldn’t pronounce his real name, then I found out it means Walks-within-the-Wind. I told him it was too much of a mouthful, so I would call him George.”

“He doesna’ mind?”

“He likes it well enough, and I keep him happy in other ways.”

Jamie glanced at the comely woman by his side and thought ‘George’ would no doubt like anything she chose to call him. Tanaka, meanwhile, had outsmarted George by feinting to the left and passing him on the right before he was off again, leaping high enough to send the ball through the hoop and score another point for victory. A roar went up from the crowd and Tanaka was caught up in a bear hug by Black Eagle, who swung him off his feet while they laughed like young boys at play.

“Oh, dear,” Kate whispered, “I’ll have to work extra hard tonight to make my George a happy man.”

Jamie grinned and she walked off to placate her dejected husband. Small Woman jumped up and down with glee when Black Eagle dragged Tanaka from the milling crowd. Jamie had never seen his lover look as wild and as beautiful as at that moment, when he stood before him, his body glistening with the sweat of exertion and his mane of thick black hair falling in disarray around his face and shoulders.

“Jamie,” he cried, “you must join us in the next game!”

Jamie shook his head. “I think I’d be more of a hindrance than an asset in there. I’m content to watch you and Black Eagle win the honors.”

“Then tomorrow I will teach you how to play!” Tanaka’s high spirits were contagious and Jamie beamed at him, watching him run back into the fray for the second round of kapucha.

* * * *

Davenport sat on the narrow bed his cell provided, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. His earlier rage had passed and left him empty and desolate. The realization that his father and brother would be informed of his court martial and subsequent execution had brought him to the edge of despair and self-pity.

“Oh, Father,” he whispered, his lips trembling. “Forgive me. Harry, forgive me…” But, he knew that when the news was given to his father and brother, there would be no forgiveness. His name would never be mentioned again within his father’s presence. The old man would never recover from the shame his son had brought upon the family.

The clinking of keys drew his attention to the guard who was bringing him his supper. As he watched the young soldier fumble with the key, his rifle, bayonet affixed, and the tray of food, a desperate plan slipped into his mind. He waited until the cell door was open and the unsuspecting guard had thrust the tray toward him. His eyes fell upon the mug of hot tea. He curled a finger into the handle, making the guard hold the tray a moment longer, then he threw the contents of the mug into the man’s face. The guard screamed with pain as the hot tea scalded him. He staggered back and Davenport grabbed for his rifle, swinging it against the young man’s skull with brutal force. Swiftly, he stepped over the inert body, opened the prison door and peered outside.

There was no one about. He grunted with satisfaction. Still time for some personal business to attend to, before he made his escape. Unseen, he scurried across the parade ground and headed for the officers’ quarters. With all his might, he kicked at the door of Barron’s quarters and strode in. Barron jumped to his feet in alarm and Davenport leveled the rifle he carried at the man’s chest.

“John!” Barron exclaimed, stepping back from the threat of the bayonet that now was merely inches from him. “What are you doing? This will only make it worse.”

“How much worse could it be, you fool?” Davenport sneered at him. “They can’t shoot me twice, Bertie. You think I would let you get away with what you did to me? You and McBride―my fellow officers!”

“You brought this upon yourself, John.” Barron glanced toward the broken door, as if hoping someone would come to investigate the noise.

“Really, Bertie?” Davenport’s smile was wicked. “Then, I’m afraid you brought this upon yourself.” His face twisted with hatred as he plunged the bayonet its full length into Barron’s body.

Barron reeled back from the pain as the weapon pierced his chest. Davenport wrenched it out and, as Barron groaned aloud, he stabbed him again. Barron went to his knees, blood pouring from his wounds.

“John,” he gasped, raising an arm in a futile attempt to ward off another blow. “For pity’s sake…”

“Goodbye, Bertie!” Davenport plunged the bayonet once more into Barron’s chest.

“Holy God!”

Davenport whirled round at the horrified cry and saw a sentry standing in the doorway. Too late, the sentry raised his rifle to defend himself from the madman who now charged at him. Without hesitation, Davenport skewered him through the stomach with the bayonet still stained with Barron’s gore.

No time for McBride.

He had to make good his escape. The stables!

Madness giving him speed, he rushed toward where he knew his horse would be waiting. He could hear voices raised in alarm as he ran into the stable. Quickly, he saddled his horse and mounted, riding at full gallop through the darkening compound. He knew the gate at the south end would still be open. It would be guarded, but he had to take that chance. He slung the rifle under his arm as he spurred his horse toward the gate. Sure enough, a sentry stepped out in front to bar his way. Davenport shot him then threw himself forward over his horse as he heard a rifle shot behind him. The bullet flew harmlessly over his head.

He was free! And at least he had avenged himself in part. Barron would gloat no more. Perhaps one day he and McBride would meet again and he’d deal with that bastard then. Now, of course, he had committed himself to a new destiny. There would never be a chance for him to redeem himself in the eyes of the British army. That part of his life was over. He had to find a new path—a new life.

His mouth set in a grim line, he spurred his steed on into the night. As he rode, he brushed away the bitter tears of anger, grief and humiliation that spilled from his eyes. There was still another to reckon with. He would have to seek him out and destroy him. All his misfortune he could lay at the feet of that bloody Scotsman, MacDonald. He would find him, and he would make him pay for destroying his life. He would not rest until he was fully avenged.