But

hopes. But then, seeing soldiers carrying Cockburn away, he had to restrain himself from cursing his platoon.
Cockburn wasn't being carried the way Ross had been, like a sack of meal. The admiral was still on his feet—with a man under each shoulder to steady him, true. But Cockburn was still bearing most of his own weight. The admiral had lost his fancy hat, and his steps seemed a bit uncertain. But it was quite obvious that he hadn't been badly wounded. He was probably just dazed, and winded from falling off the horse.
No time for a second volley, either. Not only was Cockburn himself being hustled away quickly, but the entire British line was falling back. It wasn't quite a rout. But a retreat so hasty that within a few seconds Cockburn's figure was completely lost in the fleeing mass.
Ah, well. Charles Ball and his gunners were still firing, of course. Ball was no more the man to show mercy on defeated enemies than Driscol himself. A most fine fellow. So there was always the chance