“Keep firing!” Wyatt yelled.

And then a familiar boom sounded and the Rangers ducked as the shot whirred overhead and landed thirty yards behind them. The ground mushroomed upwards. Debris rained down.

Wyatt spat out an expletive. The gun crew had re-entered the fray, no doubt out of frustration at seeing its men being cut down. The shot, Wyatt realized, had been aimed high deliberately, as a means of calculating the correct elevation; so the next one …

Another boom, another whimper of a projectile in flight and, even as Wyatt screamed a warning, the ball found its mark. In an instant, the world was filled with earth and rocks, pebbles and sand, flying splinters, confusion and blood. In the midst of it all, Wyatt felt himself picked up. For one glorious moment it was as if he had grown wings and taken flight. And then came the shock of falling, of hitting the ground and tumbling for what seemed like an eternity before finally coming to rest he knew not where.

As the darkness closed in around him, however, there was no pain. There was only a feeling of peace and immense pride in the courage of the men who had fought by his side during the final stand. Thanks to their actions, Tewanias and the boy had been able to make their getaway.

And a promise made to a dying man had been a promise kept.

9

December 1812

Hawkwood woke to the sound of voices and shadows moving in the darkness of the cabin. A lantern flickered.

Caution made him turn his head slowly. His mind had been swimming with violent dreams. When he felt the cold, hard press of a gun muzzle against his left cheek, he froze.

“On your feet, Mr Smith. Easy does it.”

Stagg’s voice.

As the end of the barrel moved away, Hawkwood felt for the musket and then withdrew his hand. Given the confined space of the cot, by the time he’d extricated the bloody thing, he’d either have taken his eye out or else received a pistol ball through his brain. And that was without knowing why he was being summoned. Better to wait and see and then make a judgement. Drawing his coat about him, he gathered himself, sat up and swung his boots to the floor.

Lawrence was seated at the table, a subdued expression on his unshaven face. He had a gun to his head, too; held by Stagg. He raised his hands and showed his palms in a gesture of apology.

“Couldn’t warn you, sorry. Six of them, one of me.”

“And I had the gun,” Hawkwood said.

Lawrence smiled ruefully. “And you had the gun.”

Hawkwood’s eyes swept the cabin. Stagg wasn’t alone. Three of his crew were with him. Two held pistols; the third one carried a small hand-axe. Presumably, the other two were up on deck; helmsman and lookout.

Hawkwood stared hard at the axe.