As he watched a warrior whose name he did not know spin away, it struck him that, in the furore, fewer shots had come from the column. With smoke hampering their aim, the troops on the road had been shooting mostly at shadows and while a couple of shots had found their mark – possibly more by accident than design – the majority had struck foliage. As a result they had clearly become worried about shooting their own men by mistake, a fear that was not reciprocated by the troops in the forest, who, from the noise that marked their positions, were spread out in a longer line than their first volley had suggested, and closing fast.

“There, Major! The bastards are running! See?”

Quade, sword in hand, followed his lieutenant’s pointing finger. His head was throbbing from the sound of the guns, for the soldiers were firing at will now and the air was heavy with the smell of burnt sulphur and saltpetre, so much so that his eyes had begun to water. His leg was beginning to ache like a bitch as well. But then a gap in the smoke allowed him to catch a glimpse of a shadowy form slipping between the trees ahead of him and his pulse quickened.

Relief surged within him, for there had been a moment, wading across the icy creek, when he’d wondered if his gamble to draw the ambushers into his trap would work. Now, with the enemy in disarray – and secure in the knowledge that they were indeed few in number – he was able to breathe once more. To judge from the exchange of fire between the ambushers and the troops in the column, the strategy had cost him a number of men, but their sacrifice had been for the greater good. With the ambush foiled, the advance could continue unhindered. Lacolle was only a short step away and victory remained within their grasp, though the element of surprise might well have been lost if the sound of the gunfire had reached the ears of the British. Quade tried not to think about that as he addressed the lieutenant at his side.

“Tell the sergeant to keep the men in open order. Extend the line. We must drive them towards the road. We will hem them in there.”

“Sir!”

A shot rang out close by. Quade turned to see a trooper bearing corporal’s stripes standing a few yards away, pointing his smoking musket at a crumpled form in a buckskin coat lying by his feet. There was a wound in the corpse’s belly, which had been leaking blood on to the snow, and a hole in the painted forehead.

Turning, the corporal caught Quade’s eye and grinned as he reached into his pack for another cartridge. “Don’t look so fierce now, Major, do they?”