The horseman’s indecision was his downfall. Alarmed by this fresh threat, he tried to pull his horse around. This time, the snow got the better of him. As if sensing panic from the man on its back, the horse shied and then reared, throwing its rider to the ground. Relieved of the weight, hooves scrabbling, the animal managed to regain its balance but, instead of bolting, it remained rooted to the spot, haunches quivering. Within seconds, one of the warriors had taken hold of its halter, while his companions moved swiftly toward the horseman who lay sprawled, face down, in the snow.

“Sorry, Douglas,” Hawkwood said. “I didn’t want the sound of the shot carrying.”

Lawrence shook his head. “No apology necessary.”

Hawkwood handed Lawrence the reins of the horse he was holding and moved to its rider, who’d landed face up. His eyes were open but from their glassy stare it was clear he was dead. His head, Hawkwood saw, as he tugged the hatchet free, lay at an unnatural angle, indicating he’d died from a broken neck and not the wound to the shoulder. Death had come quickly so there was little blood. The rider’s shako lay a few feet away. There were no insignia on his coat, but a red collar and blue uniform jacket showed beneath it.

Lawrence looked down at the corpse. “Well, they’re Yankees all right. Outriders for the column?”

“That’d be my guess.”

Spying the dead man’s pistol, Hawkwood picked it up, brushed off the snow and handed it to Lawrence, who checked the powder before sliding it into its holster.

“Question is, how far out in front are they?” Lawrence muttered.

“Don’t know.” Hawkwood peered along the road. At that distance the fog was too thick to penetrate. “But I know a man who does.”

They made their way to where the second rider had been hauled to his feet. He, too, had lost his cap. His hair was wet and dishevelled. He looked, Hawkwood thought, both dazed and terrified by the sight of the bloodstained tomahawk.

“Name and rank?” Hawkwood snapped.

“H-Henry Nevens, Lieutenant.” Adding quickly, “Sixth Regiment of Infantry.”

“You’re scouts for the column, yes?”

The lieutenant’s gaze remained fixed on the hatchet.

“Didn’t catch that,” Hawkwood said, inclining his head as though deaf.

The lieutenant swallowed. “Y-yes.”

“How far behind is it?”

Hope flared in the man’s eyes at the thought of his compatriots appearing out of the mist to save him, but it was a vision dashed as Hawkwood laid the flat of the tomahawk blade against the lieutenant’s pale cheek. “Don’t lie. I’ll know if you lie and I’ll let my friends ask the questions. You understand me?”

A sound, halfway between a gasp and a croak, emerged from the lieutenant’s throat. “Not far … a mile … I’m not sure.”

“How many men?”

“Four companies.”

“Who leads them?”