Hawkwood was less than a dozen paces from safety when he heard the commotion behind. Even with the river creating noise all around them, the splash and grunt were loud enough to alert him that Lawrence had stumbled. He turned quickly, almost losing his own balance in the process, to find Lawrence on his knees, half in and half out of the water, his face a pale oval, his coat bundle about to slide off his shoulder and the second musket nowhere to be seen.

Without thinking, using his own musket as a prop, Hawkwood made a grab for Lawrence’s arm, and failed completely. It was a reach too far. As the current took hold, Lawrence’s feet lost their purchase again and he began to slide.

No time for hesitation. Crouching as best he could to counteract the tug of the water, Hawkwood grasped his own musket by the barrel and swung the butt towards his struggling companion.

It worked, though more by luck than judgement. As the musket sheered towards him, Lawrence managed to seize the neck of the stock with his left hand.

Fearful that Lawrence would not be able to maintain his grip, Hawkwood crabbed his way down the length of the gun and grabbed Lawrence’s wrist. Only then did he realize that Lawrence was still holding his musket in his other hand. It was the one thing anchoring him to the river bed. With the water surging around them, they clung together until Lawrence, using his gun as a fulcrum, managed to push himself to his feet. Then, slowly, arms linked, they fumbled their way across the remaining few yards of river and up on to the bank.

Lawrence, breathing hard from the effort, stammered his thanks.

“Only returning the favour, Major,” Hawkwood said as they dropped their bundles and weapons on to the ground.

Tension lined Lawrence’s face but he smiled weakly. “What was that about a boat?”

He put a hand to his left side. Then, realizing that Hawkwood had seen the action, he tried to hide it by straightening.

And failed.

“God damn it,” Hawkwood said. “You are hurt!”

“It’s nothing,” Lawrence said quickly, though the way his lips compressed told otherwise.

“You’re a damned poor liar, Douglas,” Hawkwood said. “Show me.”

Lawrence sighed, but made no effort – or did not have the strength – to resist as Hawkwood stepped forward. Up close, Hawkwood saw the rent in Lawrence’s jacket and, when he lifted the garment away, a corresponding one in the sodden shirt beneath. Apprehensively, he peeled the material back. It wasn’t that easy to see, but his heart sank at the sight of the dark discolouration surrounding the puckered entry wound in Lawrence’s abdomen, just above his left hip.

“Christ, you’ve been shot!”

“I know,” Lawrence said, teeth chattering.