As he was catching up with the main body he could hear screams and moans and fire wooshing behind him. Arrows whistled through the snowfall as children screamed and women shrieked. The church bell up ahead to the right was tolling. Warriors were fanning out from the back of the main body to pump arrows into some swordsmen from pointblank range.

You have to catch up. Two seconds and—

He was slammed from the side by something that felt like a tree limb. It was a clubbed musket that had nearly knocked the wind out of him. Without looking he lurched to one foot with an uppercut motion and saw a face arc through the falling snow. Another man was emerging from this, another barracks—but a smaller one—with a clubbed musket. T.T. ran the spear point of the pole-axe through his face and then, in pure, unfathomable rage, ripped the door off its hinges with his left hand. Holding the door before him like a shield he kicked out the corner posts of the low lightly constructed building and stepped back as this near end collapsed on the screaming men inside. As the roof shed its snow fire arrows flashed into the dry thatch.

Up the street, they need you.

He turned to run up the street, dragging the pinewood door. To his left a man approached with a short hooked spear, coming up from the harbor wall apparently. T.T. cast the door like a disc and watched the corner impact the man’s stomach and snap his back from the front. He screamed and ran up the street.

The main body was stalled in front of the church. A band of perhaps 60 half-naked Spaniards with 12-foot spears were barring their way. The Cherokees were pumping them full of arrows, but had lost their momentum and were being sniped at by some Irish archers from the behind the church.

T.T. grabbed three warriors and shoved them at the Irish archers with a growl and then ran up the stone church stairs and seized the left-hand panel of the heavy oak double doors. He jammed the haft of the pole-axe between his belt and slacks and heard his slacks rip. With a growling snarling heave he used both hands to rip the door off its hinges. He then ran over to where the Irish archers were; a position now held by two Cherokees who squatted over the two dead Irish and their wounded comrade as they fired into the sides of the gathering body of pike-men, who were now leveling their pikes and pushing forward. Sailors, wielding simple sticks and knives, advanced through the snowy chaos on the flanks.

He grabbed the door in both hands and charged into the side of the three-deep rank of pike-men. He bowled them over like pins, smashing them down with the flat of the door and cleaving them in half with its iron banded end. The thing had to weigh more than him, about 500 pounds, and he was quickly becoming fatigued as he stomped and smashed and cleaved and squished the screaming little bearded monkeys. Within seconds Cherokees were slitting throats and moving on and he was running up the street with them with his big stupid door between his hands. The squirrel was crouched on the rounded top of the banded door, screeching like a banshee. The men on either side of him were shooting arrows into everything that moved, which included some women and children.

You don’t have time for that. Press on. Push it T.T., push it!