Prologue

C annon fire thundered all around him, the smoke so heavy he couldn't see a foot in front of himself, but Phillip Eversley refused to give up. He bellowed to his men, knowing only those nearest him could hear.

"Advance! Move forward!"

He took another agonizing step and tripped over a British flag the flagbearer had dropped when he went down. Eversley picked up the splintered pole and waved the flag defiantly.

"Onward! Onward!"

His men cheered, and he continued to take one pain-filled step after another, refusing to give any ground. They were so close to overtaking the French. They couldn't give up now.

Phillip fought with saber and bayonet. They were all he had. He'd run out of powder and lead a long time ago. He wasn't sure when. Sometime after he'd taken a saber cut to his leg.

He'd lost a lot of blood and was getting lightheaded, but he could still move, he could still fight.

He slashed his saber through the air and struck flesh. He tried not to think about how old or how young the French soldier that he'd just killed was. He was the enemy, although Phillip doubted he was even old enough to know what they were fighting for. Just as most of the men under his command were too young to know they fought for anything more than queen and country.

Just then, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air, and Phillip turned in time to see two French soldiers barreling forward with their bayonets poised to skewer him.

"Major!" a voice called out in warning.

From the corner of his eye, Phillip became aware of a young British soldier leaping to his side. It was Jeremy Whitecliff. He and his twin brother had both signed up on the same day and joined Phillip's unit, proudly proclaiming that they were going to kill as many of the French swine as they could.

The twins were rash farm boys and fought with a tenacity and fierceness that bordered on recklessness. Phillip had prayed that they would both survive this war, because he wasn't sure how one would carry on without the other. They were that close, that connected in mind and spirit.

Phillip lifted his saber and slashed at the first French soldier that attacked him. The soldier fell to the ground, and Phillip stabbed a second. But more were coming at him from both sides.

Phillip knew there was no way he could fend off this many Frenchmen. He turned to face his enemy, braced his feet in a battle-ready pose, and prepared to die.

Another bloodcurdling cry pierced the smoke that shrouded the bloody melee, and Jeremy Whitecliff charged ahead. He had a sword in each hand and swung his weapons as if he could mow down every enemy on the face of the earth.

Phillip rushed forward to assist, but Jeremy was cutting them down with a force of his own.

Phillip killed one enemy, then a second, before he was stopped by a painful slash to his ribs. He went down at the same time several more French soldiers rushed in, followed by as many, if not more, British soldiers.

He tried to stay alert, but lost consciousness and his world went dark. When he finally woke, the battle was over and the French attackers lay dead all about him, along with only one British soldier—Jeremy Whitecliff.

Jeremy's brother Jamie knelt and cradled his twin's lifeless body in his arms. Jamie was as ferocious a fighter as his brother had been, but as he held his brother, the former immovable hulk of a man seemed to shrink. Tears streamed down his face as he rocked, sobbing uncontrollably.

Slowly, Jamie lifted his head, and his gaze locked with Phillip's.

"He died protecting you, Major. I hope your life was worth what he gave up, you bloody bastard."