Chapter 43
The moment Margaret saw a flurry of movement across the clearing, Captain Dashwood’s words came to her with conviction.
Raise hell.
As the highwayman in front of her swung his pistol towards Lucy, Margaret was already moving. Two arms wrapped around his knees. As the pistol fired, she heaved upwards. Her cry of exertion went unheard as the pistol flared by her side. Had the movement been enough to save her sister?
She had no way of knowing. Still grasping his knees, Margaret rose to her full height, driving her shoulder into his stomach so that he was laid out over her like a sack of flour.
She swung him down with the full force and fury of her frame and a roar that should have frightened off every goat and suitor in the district.
The earth was no more forgiving than she was.
When he made no further motion, she turned to her younger sister, now on the ground with her hands to her face, still very much alive. Margaret pulled her up into her arms.
‘Meg? Is that you?’ Lucy coughed.
Margaret’s ears were ringing and Lucy’s must have been much worse. The violent energy of the moment departed and she felt unsteady, hugging her sister tightly, her eyes turning to the chaos behind her.
Jim and the smaller highwayman had fallen into a grapple on the ground, the younger driver greatly disadvantaged by the shot that had passed through his shoulder. Even so, he fought as fiercely as his rival, both ruthless and inelegant in their combat, struggling over a knife.
Dashwood had now rolled to his feet. Blackbeard was a fearsome sight, with no way of knowing in the limited light what was blood and what was preserves.
It clearly stung furiously, for the man was rubbing and thrashing at his face violently.
Dashwood clenched his fist and swung hard at the man’s jaw.
He reeled, but swung back, grappling for the captain.
They both fell to the ground, but it was Dashwood who ended up beneath, the larger man pinning him down, hands gripping his throat.
The stiff collar of the captain’s stock offered some protection, but the man was formidably strong.
Margaret felt the urge to dash over, but her earlier surge seemed to have robbed her of strength.
Before she could decide, she saw Dashwood grab something beside him.
He swung his hand back up, driving the broken glass jar into the neck of his attacker.
When the grip slackened but did not cease, he swung again. This time his attacker fell aside.
Even at this distance she could see the blood on Dashwood’s hand, a glass shard cutting both ways.
Rather than join the grapple he staggered to the coach. She watched as with deliberate action he opened an external compartment, withdrew a rifle, aimed it and fired just as the third highwayman was about to stab for Jim.
His aim was true and the fallen man made neither sound nor motion.
It had been less than sixty seconds since Lucy had thrown the jar.
Lucy whimpered and her sister held her tight. Margaret glanced about the clearing, assessing their allies and their enemies.
Three were wounded. Three were dead.
Dashwood lowered the rifle and caught Margaret’s gaze.
As he did, she knew two things for certain. Captain James Dashwood was a man of action. And there was still more to be done this night.