The sight of red-coated soldiers by the mill sent a cold wave of dread through Sir William Fenton's body. He gestured quickly for the group to retreat deeper into the cover of the forest. Brody, always alert, crouched low, his hand on his knife hilt, while Isaac Granger and Margaret Chalmers both froze, their faces pale with fear.
"Looks like Dawlish was expecting us," Brody muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
William nodded grimly, scanning the terrain. The mill stood on the far side of the river, its weathered timbers and sagging roof a stark contrast to the polished uniforms of the soldiers patrolling the area. The river itself was fast-moving and deep, its current strong enough to sweep away anyone foolish enough to cross without caution.
"We need a plan," William said, keeping his voice low.
"We could go around," Isaac suggested, his eyes darting nervously between the soldiers and the group. "Find another crossing."
"No," William replied firmly. "They'll have patrols up and down the banks. If we lose time, they'll catch us in the open."
Margaret, huddled close to Brody, spoke hesitantly. "What if we created a distraction? Something to draw them away from the mill."
Brody raised an eyebrow. "And who's volunteering for that?"
William ignored the comment, his mind racing. A distraction could work, but it would be dangerous. And they had little room for error.
"Brody," he said after a moment, "do you still have the powder flask?"
Brody grinned, pulling a small metal container from his coat. "Never leave home without it."
"Good. We'll set a fire in the forest, upstream. The smoke should draw some of them away. While they're distracted, we'll cross the river and make for the mill."
"And if it doesn't work?" Isaac asked, his voice trembling.
"Then we improvise," William said sharply.
The Distraction
The group moved swiftly and silently through the forest, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the mill before setting the fire. Brody worked quickly, piling dry branches and leaves into a makeshift pyre near the riverbank. He poured a generous amount of powder onto the pile and struck a spark with his flint.
Within moments, flames leaped to life, crackling and spitting as they consumed the dry kindling. The group retreated a safe distance, watching as the fire grew, its smoke curling into the sky like a signal beacon.
"Let's hope they take the bait," Brody said, his voice tinged with unease.
They didn't have to wait long. Shouts echoed through the forest as the soldiers spotted the smoke. Several of them broke off from the main group, hurrying upstream with muskets at the ready.
"Now's our chance," William said, motioning for the group to follow.
Crossing the River
The river was as treacherous as it looked. Its cold, rushing waters churned violently, the current threatening to sweep away even the strongest swimmer. William led the way, carefully selecting a section of the river where the rocks created a natural crossing.
"Step only where I step," he instructed, his voice firm. "And move quickly."
Margaret went next, her face pale but determined. She stumbled once, the water nearly pulling her under, but William caught her arm and steadied her. Brody followed, his movements sure and deliberate, while Isaac brought up the rear, his expression one of sheer terror.
Halfway across, a shout rang out from the mill.
"They've spotted us!" Brody hissed, drawing his knife.
William cursed under his breath. The remaining soldiers at the mill were raising their muskets, taking aim at the group in the river.
"Get to the other side!" William shouted, pulling Margaret forward.
The first shot cracked through the air, striking the water just inches from Isaac's feet. He yelped in fear, nearly losing his balance, but managed to keep moving. Brody threw a knife toward the shore, the blade embedding itself in the wooden support beam of the mill and forcing one of the soldiers to take cover.
The group reached the far side of the river in a mad scramble, tumbling onto the muddy bank. William pulled Margaret to her feet and turned to face the soldiers, who were advancing quickly.
"Into the mill!" he ordered, drawing his sword.
The Stand at the Mill
The old mill was a relic of another time, its interior dark and cluttered with broken machinery and rotting beams. William and Brody barricaded the door as best they could, using a heavy wooden table and a stack of barrels.
"Won't hold for long," Brody said, breathing heavily.
"We don't need long," William replied, scanning the room for anything they could use as a weapon. His eyes fell on an old scythe leaning against the wall. He grabbed it, testing its weight.
Isaac and Margaret huddled near the back of the mill, their faces pale and drawn. "What do we do now?" Margaret asked, her voice trembling.
"Stay out of sight," William said firmly. "And be ready to run if things go south."
The soldiers reached the mill moments later, their boots pounding against the wooden planks of the exterior.
"Come out and surrender!" one of them shouted. "You're surrounded!"
William glanced at Brody, who shook his head. "Not happening."
The first soldier kicked at the door, causing the makeshift barricade to shudder. William braced himself, his grip tightening on the scythe.
The door burst open on the third kick, and the soldiers poured in, their muskets raised. William met the first one head-on, swinging the scythe in a wide arc that sent the man crashing to the floor. Brody was right behind him, his knife flashing as he took down another.
Isaac, to everyone's surprise, grabbed a broken chair leg and joined the fray, striking a soldier with surprising force. Margaret, meanwhile, stayed hidden, her hands clasped tightly over her mouth to stifle her screams.
The fight was brutal and chaotic, the confined space of the mill turning it into a melee. William fought with a ferocity born of desperation, his movements swift and precise. Brody was a whirlwind of blades, his grin almost feral as he dispatched their enemies.
But the soldiers kept coming, their numbers overwhelming. For every one they took down, another seemed to take his place.
"We can't hold them off forever!" Brody shouted, his back against William's.
William knew he was right. Their only hope was to break through the line and escape into the forest.
"Isaac!" he called. "Margaret! Get ready to move!"
The Escape
With a final, desperate push, William and Brody fought their way to the door, clearing a path for Isaac and Margaret.
"Go!" William shouted, covering their retreat.
Margaret bolted first, her movements quick and agile despite her terror. Isaac followed close behind, his face pale but determined. Brody was the last to leave, pausing only to throw one of his knives at a pursuing soldier before sprinting after the others.
William was the last to leave the mill, his sword flashing as he cut down the nearest soldier. He turned and ran, the sound of musket fire ringing in his ears.
The group plunged into the forest, their footsteps pounding against the earth. The soldiers gave chase, their shouts growing fainter as the group put distance between them.
By the time they finally stopped, their lungs burning and their bodies trembling with exhaustion, the sun was high in the sky.
"We made it," Margaret whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
"For now," William replied, his gaze scanning the forest for any sign of pursuit. "But we're not out of danger yet."
Brody clapped him on the shoulder, his grin as sharp as ever. "That was one hell of a fight."
William managed a faint smile, but his mind was already racing, calculating their next move. The battle at the mill had bought them time, but the fight was far from over.
As the group regrouped and prepared to move on, William couldn't help but wonder: how much longer could they stay one step ahead of Dawlish and his men? And at what cost?