It was as he’d expected. Upon re-crossing the bridge and engaging with the enemy, the column had taken additional losses. Captain van Roos had been among those killed in the first exchange. The dead also included a sergeant and five troopers. Three men, including Lieutenant Smalley from the 6th Regiment, had received wounds. It was the captain’s blood on the front of Dettweiler’s tunic. The lieutenant had held the captain as he’d died.

“Tell me you at least got some of the bastards,” Quade snapped.

A nerve twitched along the lieutenant’s jaw. An observant man might have interpreted the reflex not as a measure of worry but as the manifestation of contempt towards a senior officer who was prepared to show more interest in the fate of the ambush party than the welfare of his own soldiers. Quade appeared not to notice.

“I regret they struck the road ahead of us, Major. But we do have them pinned down.”

Christ Jesus! Quade thought. Must I do everything myself?

“Where?”

Staring through the smoke to where the lieutenant was pointing, he saw the abattis for what it was and subdued the impulse to scream out loud. There’d been no mention of that in the report on the British defences, which could only mean it had been erected in the last few days by the Crown forces as they’d retreated from the frontline into their winter burrows. Why the hell hadn’t Walker and his scouts or the outriders brought word about the wretched thing? Unless Walker had been on his way to report when he’d been killed. And, come to think of it, where were the outriders?

Quade swore beneath his breath. He resisted the urge to look at his watch, knowing they should have been entering Lacolle. By now the blockhouse would have been in sight and within his reach, if it hadn’t been for that Goddamned Hooper.

He wondered where Lawrence had got to. Had he missed him in the woods? Was he trapped behind the abattis with the others? Well, he could bloody die with them, in that case.

Quade stared again at the barrier. I can do this, he thought desperately. And if I can rid myself of Hooper at the same time, that’ll be two birds with one stone. Three, if you include his compatriot.

He turned to Dettweiler. “How many are there?”

The lieutenant looked beyond Quade’s shoulder. “Seven, sir, as far as we can judge. Six hostiles and a white man, though we had to look twice as the fellow appears to be wearing war paint. Sergeant Brody here believes the natives are Mohawk, by their markings. We think three of them may be wounded, including the white fellow.”

It’s not all bad news, then, Quade thought.