But as redoubts went, this was better than some he’d had to defend. With the swamp only a short throw to their left, the abattis had been well sited. Assuming there was marshland on the opposite side of the road too, they were unlikely to be outflanked. An attack would have to come from the front.

“You are wounded, Mat-huwa!” Tewanias said, alarmed.

“It’s only a scratch,” Hawkwood heard a voice beside him say. He saw Cageaga smile weakly.

Hawkwood shook powder into his musket’s pan. He had four cartridges left. Tewanias and the others were no doubt equally low on ammunition.

So we’d better make what we have count.

Though, he knew, even as he made the promise, that the chances of keeping up a sustained rate of fire were non-existent. There would be an opportunity for perhaps one re-load before they were over run because by then their muskets would probably have become fouled with use anyway.

A hand touched his arm. He looked to his side and was astonished to see Cageaga hauling himself up.

“My gun, little brother. I may not be able to run, but I am not yet dead.”

Wordlessly, knowing better than to argue, Hawkwood passed him the carbine.

“Good.” Cageaga checked the load. Satisfied, he raised the gun – wincing as he did so – on to the top of a log and sighted along the barrel. Accentuated by the black paint, his eyes glittered like coals.

“Now,” he murmured, bloody spittle landing across his chin, “let them come.”

This time when he heard the reports, Quade knew it had to be the column. Powder bursts, like exploding puffballs, were visible through the trees. Gripping the musket, he plunged towards them.

Not wishing to run into crossfire, Quade emerged on to the road some yards behind the forward skirmish line. He looked for Captain van Roos, the officer he’d left in charge of the column, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither were any enemy bodies, Quade noted, with a growing sense of misgiving. He’d hoped for at least one or two. Hooper’s among them, preferably, but any of his Indian friends would have sufficed.

He saw van Roos’ lieutenant hurrying towards him, a sergeant at his shoulder. The lieutenant’s name was Dettweiler. It was evident he was relieved to see Quade, but it was just as apparent that he was the conveyor of bad news. He straightened and touched the peak of his shako in hasty salute, while eyeing the musket in Quade’s hand.

“Well?” Quade’s eyes went unerringly to the bloodstains down the front of the lieutenant’s jacket.