The night had not yet conceded defeat. It held a dark and starless vigil over the formation of figures gathered, rapt, on the earth below. Governor John Ratcliffe led his men, blinded by rage, and in their leader's case, greed. They marched onward, stained crimson with the braziers of fire lit throughout the encampment, to wage battle against the land's natives and to either free their captured fellow man or to avenge his death.
Only one man - the governor's manservant- remained behind just as he had been instructed. Wiggins stood, a small fellow even without the comparison of the droves of settlers storming past him, unnoticed. He had never been one for fighting or bloodshed and he certainly wouldn't begin now.
As much as he wished to attend the coming fight at his master's side, he stayed firmly in place, for, after all, orders were orders. His faintness at the mere mention of blood would have been less than helpful, in any case.
He was shoved aside here and there as the last of the