Page 93 of Stealing Sophie
“You will not,” Connor said.
“We can plug the powder into crevices between the stones,” Thomas said.
“It will not stay,” Connor said. “It needs a container, or it will just trickle out. A cup or a small box of some kind. We would have to make holes in the mortar to hold it.”
“I am thinking those pewter tankards at Glendoon would do,” Neill said.
“My mother’s small German tankards?” Connor huffed. “They might.”
“We will need chisels and fuses,” Andrew said.
“String will do, waxed well to stay dry,” Connor said.
Movement caught his eye, and he looked over to see redcoat soldiers climbing another hill. One carried a surveying tool, another a tripod. Setting up the instrument, one peered through it, while the other jotted notes.
Neill groaned. “They are taking the lay of the land with their geometry and all.”
“But why do they need the black powder?” Thomas asked. “The glen floor is flat.”
“Look well past the bridge,” Connor said. “A hill juts up where the west stream curves. They will have to blow through the hill to continue their road that way.”
“More soldiers, over there.” Andrew gestured in another direction, where men climbed an adjacent hill. They wore full gear, Connor noted, red-jacketed uniforms, carrying muskets and bayonets. One stopped, called to the others. Another pointed. Men turned, muskets shouldered.
A cold chill shot through him. “We are seen—quick!” Connor hissed. “Down the other side and away!” He pulled Thomas’s plaid to urge him down the back of the slope, while Andrew and Neill tumbled after them. Sliding down, getting to his feet to run with the others, Connor followed over the rumpled ground, lagging purposefully behind his comrades. Then he turned to enter a shadowed gap between twin hills, leaning into a rocky incline to watch. He could see a portion of the road and the work from there.
Two soldiers worked at reloading the wagon holding the black powder and hitched the ox into its harness to take it away for the night. The laborers prepared to leave, laying down their tools. Connor waited, hidden in the shadows.
Hearing footsteps, he turned to see Thomas running toward him. The lad launched toward the roadway before Connor could stop him. Pounding down the remaining hillside, Thomas slid behind a boulder.
Andrew came flying just behind him, and Connor leaped out to grab him. “Let me see to this,” he said and went after Thomas through the gap and down an incline.
Pausing, Connor swore under his breath, glancing around. The soldiers above were walking along the top of another hill, looking no doubt for the Highlanders who had fled. So they had not been spied yet, Connor thought.
“Thomas, come back here!” The words faded in the wind, against the noise of carts, of stones being stacked, of men calling out to one another. “Thomas!”
The boy ignored him, intent on a reckless mission, making his way toward the road, hiding his progress behind rocks and gorse bushes. Connor followed, wishing he had a rope to loop over the lad and yank him back to sense and safety.
Thomas reached the level of the road in the growing darkness. The men were packing up tools and equipment; from working with Wade’s company himself, Connor knew nothing was ever left that might be stolen or destroyed. Too many Highlanders disapproved of the English roads cutting a network through Scotland. Often, guards stayed through the night to discourage sabotage.
But guards had not kept Connor and his comrades from wreaking havoc where they could. More than once, they had snatched black powder, using it to destroy sections of roadway. In a glen to the east, they had blown apart a hillside, tons of earth collapsing onto the newly built road, closing that pass.
“Thomas!” Connor called again, crouching behind a rock just above the boy. He glanced back to see Andrew coming down the hill silently and quickly. Connor motioned for him to stop, wait.
Then, heart pounding, Connor drew his firelock, its single shot primed and ready. He aimed, prepared to protect Thomas if need be, for the lad was nearing the ox-drawn supply wagon. Jumping on the rear axle, Thomas snatched a keg from the cart, dropped back. Then he ran up the hillside, carrying the compact, heavy keg as if the dogs of hell were on his heels.
Soon enough, they were. Soldiers spotted him, shouted. A few began to run, but none could come near enough to catch Thomas as he pounded up the hill with the keg.
Then one of them aimed his musket at the lad.
Connor could see immediately that if a shot caught the boy, he could die. If it missed him and caught the keg, the powder would blow his young cousin to bits.
He stood tall, cocked his firelock, took aim. A shot cracked the air and the soldier fell. But the blast had not come from his pistol. He glanced back to see Andrew standing above, holding a smoking firelock. And Thomas was still running up the hill. He and Andrew turned, heading for the height of the slope. Connor followed, twisting to look behind him, firelock still at the ready.
More soldiers were running now, shouting. Another redcoat aimeda musket, and that shot rang out. No one fell. Drawing nearer to Thomas and Andrew, Connor looked back and saw another gun lifted high. He dove at an angle to protect the lad’s back.
The musket ball screamed free, and Connor felt a bee sting in his side. The impact dropped him to one knee, but he scrabbled to his feet, running toward the narrow gap between the twin hills where his cousins had disappeared.
Neill was there, too, extending a hand to pull Connor into the shadows.
