The gap between Inflexible and the gunboat continued to widen. When it was no longer possible to discern individual faces, Scott handed back the glass. “If Boone and his crew of miscreants do manage to extract Stryker and Wyatt’s men, will they be able to cope without Inflexible as their guardian?”

“I see no reason why not. It’s on the water that they’ll be at their safest. Those boats have a fair turn of speed when needed. The Yankees’ll never catch them. The buggers have damn all left that floats.”

Three months after the Americans declared independence, a British flotilla led by Inflexible had decimated the American fleet at Valcour Island. The British Navy in the guise of the Provincial Marine had ruled the waters of Champlain ever since. That superiority had granted the invasion force unrestricted access into enemy territory.

“So, what happens now?” Scott said.

Collecting himself, Johnson turned. “I suggest we make our way below and see if Lieutenant Schank’s cook can’t provide us with breakfast and a pot of his strongest coffee.”

Wyatt could make out the lake through the trees. Sunlight was creating bright shimmering patterns on the water. Nevertheless, he halted. Something wasn’t right. Even if the boats were shielded from his view by the lie of the land, this close to the embarkation point he should have been able to detect a sense of activity.

But there was nothing.

Priming their weapons, the Rangers advanced cautiously.

Fifty paces further on, about to emerge from the trees on to the foreshore, they paused at the sound of a soft tchuk tchuk to their right. When the blackbird’s call was repeated, Wyatt breathed a sigh of relief. As his fellow Rangers lowered their weapons, a swarthy, bearded figure stepped nonchalantly into view before them.

“Jethro,” Wyatt said calmly.

Boone acknowledged the greeting with a nod. “Lieutenant.”

“You had us worried. Nate with you?”

“Aye, he’s around.”

Wyatt indicated the gunboat which was now visible and riding the gentle swell some ten yards offshore. “Not sure she’ll carry seven hundred.”

“Leavin’ was brought forward. Rest of ’em’ve gone.”

“Evidently.” Wyatt looked off towards the neck of the bay but there were no other vessels in sight. A pale smudge low down on the horizon to the north could have been a disappearing square of topsail, he supposed, but it was too far away to make out specific details. It could just as easily have been a patch of scrubby headland caught by the sun.

Boone spat tobacco on to the ground. “Colonel had no choice – militia was closing in. Order went out to pick up the pace. Column got here at sun-up. Civilians went first. They’re long gone.”

“From where?”

Boone frowned.

“The militia – which direction were they coming from?”

“Ticonderoga.” The scout pointed at a fold in the hills at the southern end of the bay. “Clinton’s leading them.”