Being the commander of his own militia was not without its charm. Jamie had always been a leader of men, it was natural to him, like second nature, and his men respected him. That was key, he had the respect of his men, instead of leading them, he worked with them, led by example right beside them as they fought the red coats for freedom.
It was hot, August was unusually hot, Young Ian called it Indian Summer. it was so hot that most of the men were in their shirt sleeves, the wool of their coats causing more than one man to pass out from the heat.. thank god they were close to a stream so they could fill the canteens again.
Jamie wiped an arm over his brow to mop up the sweat, no point, it beaded again almost immediately and ran into his eyes.. kneeling by the stream he splashed water into his overheated face and let his horse drink his fill. It wasn't until he heard the click of the hammer he realized he wasn't alone.
The red coat was short and stocky, wisps of thin reddish blonde hair, a face red and blotchy like a pig, he had eyes like one too, small and beedy, a thin mouth that seemed to be stuck into a permanent sour face, like he was forever sucking on a lemon.
Jamie stood carefully before the redcoat, very aware of the gun aimed at him.
"what's your name?" the redcoat asked, his voice fit his looks, piggish.
"Coronal Fraser.. yours?"
"General Trump.."
the man sneered and jerked his gun, Jamie got the impression that Trump meant to take him prisoner and so, hands held up he walked ahead of the General.
They had taken a total of ten steps before Jamie turned and struck like a rattlesnake , grabbing Trumps gun and smacking him upside the head with the butt. Trump went down like a sack of grain and Jamie stood over him, but there was a part of him unwilling to kill a. unconscious, unarmed man, so he dropped the gun and ran off.
What was the worst that could happen by letting General Trump live?