“Show me.” Kennedy sounded infinitely weary. “Take over the camp, Corporal Parnell. Sergeant MacKim, you’re with me!”
A belt of scrubland stretched inland from the forest, with a few isolated trees marking the course of the stream. The Cuban militia had set up camp on both banks of the river. Some had tents, while others merely sat in groups around small fires, talking together, and practising stick fighting, smoking, or roasting newly killed animals over small fires.
“How many, do you think, sergeant?” Kennedy lay on his stomach beneath a brightly flowered bush.
MacKim contemplated the enemy. “As Parnell said, sir, I’d say there were hundreds.”
“So would I.” Kennedy gave a taut smile. “We appear to be trapped between the devil’s militia and the deep sea of Captain Roberval’s privateer
