Robert Motley only knew the facts, but those, to his prejudiced and bitter understanding, were quite enough reason to burn Fort Chesterfield and glut the river with dead Nor’Westers.
Aggravated beyond all caution by the aggressive raids of the rival brigades, goaded on by the memory of lost packs, backed by fifteen stalwart fighters, Motley would not have turned away if he had been faced with the entire English army.
He stood in the bow behind the loaded howitzer, as black and hunched as a carrion crow, his eyes sunk into his head like smoldering coal pits.
The keel grated on the beach and it lurched as the armed Orkneymen leaped to the bank. The bow was grounded securely and a gunner stood with smoking match ready to batter the log-slab palisades with solid shot.
Motley walked as thou
