The front line of attackers folded as the spread of musket balls ripped into them, the air misting with blood. Then the Grasshopper fired a fourth time and the gunboat was struck again. Strakes of decking flicked through the air, spearing into both the dead and the living with the force of crossbow bolts. Wyatt and his men ducked. As the smoke from the swivel-gun cleared, Wyatt saw that the muzzle was pointing impotently towards the water. The body of the crewman who’d fired it was draped, bleeding and lifeless, across the upended barrel. The vessel’s mast and spar were now lying in a confused mess across the thwarts.

Wyatt looked for the militia cannon. The gun crew was holding off, possibly for fear of hitting its own men. Boone, crouched down next to him, squinted round the end of the trunks. “Bastards.”

Wyatt glanced again towards the ruined gunboat. The men who’d gone overboard were clawing their way on to the stony beach. He turned back. The boy was crouched down next to Tewanias and had his arms clamped around the dog’s neck. Having lost one animal to flight, he wasn’t going to lose another.

It was Wyatt’s turn to peer round the barricade. A few more yards and the militia would be within range of the Rangers’ long guns. It struck him that he could no longer see the Indians. He looked towards the wood. Indians did not employ European tactics when they went into battle. They didn’t advance in serried ranks; they used whatever natural cover was available. It was what made them such valuable allies and fighters. The Oneida, Wyatt knew, would be advancing through the trees; before long the Rangers would be outflanked.

In his mind’s eye he pictured the aftermath of the attack on Stryker’s men. De Witt had taken his own life rather than face the brutality of the knife. Wyatt knew that if the Oneida arrived first, there would be no restraining them. Tewanias, he saw, was also looking towards the forest, sensing what was to come.

“Make a run for it?” Jem Beddowes suggested.

Back into the woods? Wyatt thought. Where the Oneida could be waiting in force?

If it was just the Rangers and Boone, it would have been a strategy worth considering, but they had a twelve-year-old boy to consider. Oneida warriors weren’t known for their discrimination and tender feelings. Keeping low, he crawled to the Mohawk’s side and eyed the wound. “How bad?”

The look Tewanias gave him verged on the contemptuous. “I am not dead yet.”

Wyatt smiled and then his expression hardened. He gripped the Mohawk’s arm. “I want you to take the boy.”

The Mohawk chief said nothing, but Wyatt could see the significance of his request taking shape behind the dark eyes.