The town was burning like a torch when they left at about 1 a.m. The only buildings not burning were the church and attached monastery, packed to overflowing with women and children, the stables, and the Governor’s House, which Doc had turned into a hospital. They had 14 dead and 38 wounded; 19 walking. The Spanish dead were never counted but had to be over 500. He did not permit himself to think about how many dozens of women and children and old and sick had died in the fires. A team of five Cherokees had stayed behind to hunt down Spaniards. He had three Irish MERCS with him that Seamus had talked over to their side.

As they left town at a jog the moans and groans of the dying could barely be heard over the roar of the flames. It had been a good night so far. He left last and ran up the column to take stock of his inventory; the ingredients for the human stew he was about to dump into the kettle called war.

You got yourself a murderous mixer going on here hillbilly—Randy would not approve.

The three Irishmen were on him. They were some of the only people under his command that could understand his spoken instructions. They had sworn loyalty to him. They were armed with short bows and long knives. Bringing up the rear was Team One: RavenSong and his 30 Cherokees. These guys were his anvil; the bait—and he would be with them when it got gruesome. He just grunted as he jogged by and they all said something that he did not understand. Whatever they said, they all said it the same way and he liked the sound of it.

They believe that you’re good luck. Don’t prove them wrong.

He jogged by Team Two: Seamus, the two Nanticoke and the seven remaining Piscataway and Potomac. The Irishman was hurting bad; his arrow-pierced left arm hanging down by his side. At first he had not trusted the Irishman. But after holding down the quartermaster while Seamus cut his throat he had to admit to a bond with the opportunistic mercenary. Team Two was the weak-link. He had to keep them off line. He just nodded to Seamus as he jogged by.

Team Three was the hammer: Bruco and the 10 most aggressive Cherokees. The three Irish turncoats fell in with Bruco. If the plan worked they would be his gunners. He trusted Bruco unconditionally. The big Gomero was a merciless hardened war-fighter who hated everything Spanish. Bruco was the only non-Aryan that Jay’s racist brother Randy regarded as an actual human being, even a friend. He just exchanged looks with Bruco as the snow melted on his bald head and piled up on the thick layers of Bruco’s curly black mane. Then he took the lead and picked up the pace.

It only took two hours before they saw the three gun-fires that his scouts had informed him would be there. They were jogging across the hardened muddy track as it wound its way down into a small river valley. They were coming up behind the western gun position that commanded the valley and would enfilade the infantry formations beneath the southern ridge. The hillsides were sparsely wooded and the bottomland was clear for about three acres along this stretch of the stream. He knew that his people—the survivors—where barricaded along the northern wood-line along the stream with their wounded, behind stacked dead. The three hillside fires visible through the thick snowfall would be the enemy gun emplacements.

A slow ‘woosh’, ‘bang’ and ‘crack’ thundered from the central position, illuminating horses and men as the iron ball crashed into the wooded position below shattering a tree. The massed Spanish infantry would be at the base of the hillsides facing north and east and ready to advance at dawn. He stopped and waved Team Three past him. Bruco took his men forward silently to seize the western gun position.

That is as good as done.

He waved RavenSong over, pointed to the central fire along the southern ridge, and gave the kill sign. The chief growled and ran forward in a crouch with his men behind them.

Those poor Spanish bastards don’t stand a chance.

He then led Seamus and Team Two to the topographical crest of the ridge behind the eastern most gun position, and descended silently in the snow to the military crest. Back-shooting and backstabbing half-frozen sailors and gunners from pointblank range would not even be worth recalling in later years. At least he did not have to see their faces distort as they realized their fate.

Smell all that body odor, fear, shit and death below. This is going to be a mess.

He put his mouth to Seamus’s ear. “Don’t open up until Bruco begins raking the enemy below. I’m off to the anvil.”

He made it to the central emplacement even as RavenSong and his men were scalping their victims—then all hell broke loose. Bruco’s carriage gun wooshed and men were ripped apart below, a dozen left screaming in the snow. Commands in Spanish were barked. Then Seamus opened up and the ranks of pike-men and musketeers were illuminated below as heads and arms arced into the falling whiteness.

His Cherokees spread out and sunk arrows into the ranks of men that were headed for Bruco and Seamus. More orders were barked below and men could be heard and vaguely seen tramping uphill towards him. Some matches were lit in muskets. This drew arrow fire, and a few misplaced shots were fired from below, illuminating the massed square of some eighty men scaling the hillside towards them.

Shit, they read our game. We won’t hold.

He held his fire while the arrows whistled down thinning the ranks below. Then, a torch was lit and a large man on a horse could be seen below as he ordered a charge and the shadowy ranks pushed toward them, heedless of their falling comrades, sliding back downhill with arrows protruding from their faces. Every Cherokee had sworn that he would only shoot to the face and they were good for it.

The footing on the slope was horrible but they kept coming. Just as the slope began to level out, the pike-men—illuminated dimly by the matches on the muskets behind them—kneeled, and the double rank of musketeers leveled weapons. A dragon roared to the left.

What in hell did he pack into that carriage-gun?

Great plumes of fire belched from right and left and the men before them were turned into torn shreds of meat, armor and clothing. He advanced with RavenSong as the smoke cleared and the undeterred pike-men and musketeers with swords and clubbed muskets advanced through the nightmarish haze. He brought the nine-millimeter into action and exploded 11 heads in seven seconds. One shot just ruined a shoulder. He screamed and the night became even darker than he could imagine as he grabbed a pike and began thrusting into the milling survivors as the Cherokees continued to pump arrows into faces and necks from less than five paces.

He heard Bruco roar to his left and Seamus yell to his right, and, in the valley below, sounded an odd mixture of battle cries from behind the enemy…