“We lost Pikestaff.” Chisholm sucked on the stem of his pipe. “The whole army is in mourning for him.”
“We’ve lost hundreds of good men,” MacKim said. “They’ll all be missed. I’m not wearing black for a general I never met. We lost eighteen killed and one hundred and forty-eight wounded from Fraser’s yesterday alone, and only God knows how many of the wounded will pull through.”
“You’ve turned into a cynical man, MacKim,” Chisholm said.
“Aye,” MacKim agreed.
“Now we’ve defeated their army, we must march into Quebec.” Cumming was sharpening his bayonet, testing the edge and sharpening again. He looked up with a wide smile. “We’re going to take Quebec.” His laugh was slightly disconcerting, his eyes unfocussed.
“Maybe.” Chisholm indicated the Plains of Abraham, where the British were bu
