Nighttime was always the worst, MacKim believed. During the day, he was busy looking after his men, marching, fighting, or creating a redoubt, but at night, most operations finished, and he had time to think.
That night was even worse than usual, for while MacKim tried to keep alert in case of a raid from the Cuban militia, his mind wandered. He remembered the death of his brother on Drummossie Moor, sixteen years ago, a murder that had begun his career in the Army. Then he thought of his passage of revenge as he hunted down the attackers and all the other men he had fought and killed in North America, and here in the hot Caribbean islands. He thought of Tayanita, the Indian woman he had loved and who had died in a sudden ambush, and he touched his head where the enemy had taken his scalp
