Even though he was severely weakened, remarkably, Cageaga was able to parry the first bayonet thrust with ease, using the blade of his tomahawk. But as he slashed his knife, severing the trooper’s hamstring, a musket ball struck his left hip. A second took him in the shoulder and he fell back, surrounded by a ruck of blue and brown tunics. He was still fighting as the bayonets and musket butts drove him to the ground where, finally, beaten down, he sank beneath the soldiers’ boots and the snow around him turned dark with blood.

As Cageaga disappeared from view, Hawkwood scythed his tomahawk blade towards an exposed throat and felt the blade bite. Tugging it free, he saw Tewanias curve his war club against a musket stock. On the other side, Deskaheh and Kodjeote had also hurled themselves into the fray. War clubs rose and swept down. A man shrieked and a musket spat and Kodjeote was flung backwards. Deskaheh screamed with anger as he saw his younger brother shot down.

Sensing a presence behind him, Hawkwood ducked and was halfway through the turn when he felt a stunning blow against his right shoulder. He staggered and saw Deskaheh look towards him and shout something unintelligible. A scream came from nearby, but whether it had been uttered in pain or rage, he couldn’t tell. A pistol cracked.

He looked for Tewanias and saw him hammer his war club against a trooper’s jaw. Then another blow landed across his back and he felt a sharp burn as a bayonet scored his thigh. He tried again to turn but, weakened, slipped on the trampled snow. He heard his name called and saw it was Tewanias battling towards him, and then he saw a trooper drive a musket butt between the Mohawk chieftain’s shoulder blades. As Tewanias fell, the trooper reversed the musket and drove his bayonet into Tewanias’s lower back. Hawkwood’s cry of despair was cut short as something hit him at the base of his skull and the next thing he knew he was falling.

Still conscious when he hit the ground, his shoulder protested as a gun butt thumped into his side. Through half-closed eyes, he saw a figure pushing through the mêlée, sword in hand.

Quade’s face was stained with blood and dirt. There was a rent in his coat and a darkening patch showed where Hawkwood’s musket ball had scored across the top of his left arm. The hem of his coat was damp with mud and melted snow. Beneath the blood and the dirt, his expression was venomous. Hawkwood braced himself for the final thrust. Instead, as the sounds of fighting ceased, he heard Quade snarl angrily, “Get him up!”