Though that was as nothing compared to the way his heart leapt into his mouth when, upon hearing a sudden shout, he saw, through a break in the fog, several dark shapes explode from the trees and fall upon the vanguard troops, howling and hacking like beings possessed.

A low grunt came from Quade’s left. He turned quickly, in time to see Captain Carradine, 6th Infantry, who’d been riding alongside him, slump sideways and then topple from his saddle. Quade gaped at the feathered shaft sticking out of the captain’s chest.

Meanwhile, across the bridge, savagery ensued. The sergeant was the first to go down, his throat slashed and pumping blood. A second trooper managed to draw back the hammer on his musket only to die from a crushing blow to the skull before he could pull the trigger. Two of his companions suffered a similar fate. A corporal, more alert than the rest, managed to bring his gun to bear, only to take a knife cut across the belly, which gutted him like a fish. Dropping his musket, he fell to the snow, hands clasped around his spilling entrails. Another trooper fell with an arrow in his neck.

Gathering his wits, Quade hauled on the reins and yelled at the men marching behind him.

“Form up! Form up!”

A burly sergeant, who’d already sensed the danger, rapped out a command and a phalanx of troopers broke from the main body and ran forward. Further down the line, other NCOs were bellowing at the men to turn and protect the flanks.

Quade stared anxiously across the bridge. Disbelief gripped him. He could make out vague shapes but with the drifting fog it was hard to distinguish friend from foe or how many attackers there were. Behind him, the support troops fingered their weapons nervously as war cries and screams rent the air. A musket spat, but it was impossible to see who’d fired the shot, or if the ball had found its mark.

Quade drew his sword. “With me!”

He kicked his horse forward. He was three-quarters of the way across the bridge with the troops on his heels when he saw the shadowy figures darting away from his advance. The attackers, he realized, were breaking off from the fight. Having seen the imminent arrival of a superior force, they were fleeing, back into the forest.

Heathen bastards! Too cowardly to stand and fight!

It was only as he reached the end of the bridge that a more disturbing thought suddenly pierced his subconscious. And as two dishevelled figures appeared out of the murk – a corporal, his arms around a wounded trooper, then others following close behind, some hurrying, some staggering – it hit him.

“No!” he screamed.

The musket volley sent shock waves through the air. The fog was lit by powder flashes. Two men went down. A third trooper spun away with an arrow in his shoulder.