But Tewanias had anticipated the order and even before the reports had died away, he and the boy and the dog were moving.

When he’d led Jonah out from the trees and seen the boat and the figures of Wyatt and his men, the boy’s heart had lifted in the belief that he had at last reached safety and that rescue was to hand. But that feeling had been dashed by the boom of the cannon and the arrival of the enemy soldiers. Now, as he ran from the threat of the smoke and the guns, his mind was in turmoil. He had no idea where he was running to. The only comforting thought was that Tewanias was with him. So long as that held true, he would be safe.

As he followed the Mohawk chief across the curve of foreshore towards the furthest trees, he wondered how long it would be before he saw Wyatt again. When he looked back at the puffs of smoke and heard the rifle shots, a small voice inside his head told him it might not be for some time.

Perhaps never.

After the first volley, Wyatt gave the instruction to fire at will.

Jem Beddowes, having already reloaded, rose to one knee and fired again. “Six down.”

“Soon get through the rest of ’em,” Boone said, ducking back. His grin was cut short as he bit the end from a fresh cartridge and sprinkled the priming powder into the pan.

Another rifle cracked.

“Seven,” Donaldson said.

Billy Drew and Wyatt fired together.

“Shot,” Billy Drew said, as two hundred paces in front of them two more uniforms went down.

Wyatt did not respond. Dropping back, he began to reload, his actions calm and precise.

A cry came from the woods to his right; the Oneida, drawing closer.

Wyatt knew it wouldn’t be long before they were overwhelmed. The Rangers’ rate of fire was such that for every twelve seconds it took to reload, the enemy advanced another fifty yards. Even with five of them firing as fast as they were able, there weren’t that many seconds left. Not that many yards either. And by now they were well within range of the enemy’s muskets.

Another rifle spoke.

“Ten,” Jem Beddowes muttered.

Wyatt glanced over his shoulder. Tewanias and the boy had disappeared. At once it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He twisted and peered towards the advancing militia. “Looks like we might just have time for one more round, lads.”

“Then can we run?” Donaldson asked.

“Then we run,” Wyatt agreed, flinching as a musket ball struck the trunk an inch from his shoulder. More shots began to ring out, thick and fast.

Boone fired then. As he squatted back down there came a muffled grunt and Billy Drew was propelled backwards, his shirt darkened by a large crimson stain. The rifle fell from his hand.

“Billy!” Donaldson spun round.