Hawkwood and Lawrence took a step back and watched as Pike launched into a series of cacophonous eruptions which, one after another, expectorated large gobbets of yellow-green phlegm into the handkerchief he was pressing desperately to his mouth. The spasms continued for several seconds until, finally, eyes watering and clutching his belly, Pike managed to haul himself to a nearby chair where he collapsed in a heap, chest heaving as he fought for breath.

The officer at the table was already moving to Pike’s side, concern flooding his face. Pointing to Hawkwood and Lawrence, he rapped out an order to Quade. “Major, get them out of here! You!” he snapped to one of the escorts. “Fetch Surgeon Gilliland – now!”

As the escort made a rapid exit, the officer turned to the white man behind him. “Wine, Amos! Quickly!”

Hastily, the civilian poured wine into a glass from a decanter on the table. He handed it to the officer, who, holding the glass to Pike’s lips, watched anxiously as the colonel gulped the liquid down. “Easy, Zeb, easy. The doctor’s on his way.”

Looking up, he cursed. “God damn it, Quade! I told you to get those bastards out of here! Secure them in one of the huts. We’ll deal with them later.”

Quade stared down at Pike and then jerked his head at the remainder of the escort. “Out.”

“Wait!”

The croak had come from Pike. His fellow colonel opened his mouth to object but Pike brushed him away. Pain creased his face. Quade had turned, but it was Hawkwood that Pike addressed, through gritted teeth.

“Consider this a delay, Hooper. It sure as hell ain’t a reprieve. I will see you shot. I’ll give the order to the damned firing party myself.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Colonel,” Hawkwood said as a shove from behind thrust him towards the door.

They had only just made it outside when a fresh bout of coughing began.

“All this way,” Lawrence said, “when they could have left us in the damned gaol. At least there were beds.” He shook his head and smiled grimly. “We do end up in the most forlorn bloody places, don’t we?”

They were in one of the recently erected huts. Spacious, it wasn’t. Neither was it furnished. Four log walls, and a shingle roof. Shavings littered the floor and the walls were only half-caulked. There was no window either. From that omission Hawkwood suspected the hut was probably intended as enlisted men’s accommodation rather than an officer’s. At the moment, though, with no fireplace, as far as protection against the weather was concerned, it wasn’t much more than a wind-break secured with a clasp and padlock.

Lawrence cocked an eyebrow. “You reckon Simonds knows we’ve been brought here?”