His right hand gripped a shortened musket. His left rested on the head of a tomahawk tucked into his waist sash. A maple-wood war club in the shape of a gunstock lay in a sling across his back.

The Indian, whose name was Tewanias, kept his gaze fixed on the doe. He did not flinch as a large yellow-jacket, lured by the smell of bear grease and paint, landed on the back of his left wrist, folded its wings and began to explore his exposed forearm.

The white-tail hovered nervously at the edge of the wood, clearly apprehensive at the thought of venturing into the open, though the fact that she was there at all indicated that she was probably a regular visitor to the clearing and therefore not averse to using the stream to satisfy her thirst, despite its proximity to human habitation.

For a moment it looked as though she might overcome her fear, but at a sudden stream of excited bird chatter erupting from within the forest, the doe froze. With a lightning-fast turn, one swift bound and a flash of pale rump she was gone, swallowed by the dense underbrush.

The Indian’s attention switched immediately towards a point on the opposite side of the stream. Wyatt followed his companion’s gaze to where a natural break in the trees and the beginning of a rough track could just be seen and watched as half a dozen riders cantered into view. They were in civilian dress and each of them carried a musket, resting either across his thigh or strapped across his back.

A sharp hiss came from the man on Wyatt’s left. “Militia!”

“God damn!” another nearby voice spat forcefully. Then, more speculatively, “You think they’re after us, Lieutenant?”

The words were dispensed in a distinctive Scottish brogue.

Without taking his eyes from the riders, Wyatt shook his head, frowned and said softly, “How would they know?”

“Some of their scouts will have got through. They’ll have reported in,” the second speaker, whose name was Donaldson, responded, murmuring, as though to himself, “They must have gotten wind of us by now. They’d have to be blind, otherwise … or bluidy deaf.”

Wyatt pursed his lips. “They’d be coming from Albany in force if that was the case. Our own scouts would have warned us.”

It was a wonder, Wyatt reflected as he watched the horsemen draw closer to the stream, that the expedition had made it this far without being discovered. Though Colonel Johnson had been very careful in his preparations, periodically sending out skirmishers along Champlain’s wooded shoreline in order to fool enemy scouts into thinking the final incursion was merely one in a number of reconnaissance missions and therefore of no specific interest.