They hauled him to his knees. A pistol muzzle was placed against the back of his skull. Focusing through a wash of pain, he looked around at the carnage and the gorge rose into his throat. Beyond where Tewanias had fallen, Cageaga’s corpse would not have been recognizable had it not been for the broken feathers and the beading on his buckskin coat. The back of his skull and his shoulders were thick with blood and one leg was twisted beneath him. His tomahawk lay within inches of his outstretched hand.

Like rag dolls tossed aside in a fit of childish rage, the bodies of Deskaheh and Kodjeote lay intertwined, beaten and bloody. Around them, a dozen uniformed corpses bore witness to their defiance. Most had been felled by gunshots, but the rest displayed the wounds of close-quarter battle. As he watched, a trooper placed his musket against Deskaheh’s skull and pulled the trigger.

“Spare me your revulsion,” Quade said, observing Hawkwood’s expression, as the echo of the shot died away. “Given what your savages did to their comrades, it’s no more than they deserve. At least we’re putting them out of their misery. Better a ball to the back of the head than a lingering death.”

Hawkwood fought back rage and stayed silent, knowing any response would have been inadequate. There were no sympathizers here. While some of the troopers were sifting among the bodies of their comrades, looking for signs of life, others loitered, fascinated by the white man with the painted face. The hostility in the air could have been cut by a knife.

Quade stared down at him. “Proved quite the savage yourself, haven’t you, Hooper? Even got that damned muck on your face. You think that makes you one of them now?” he added sneeringly.

Hawkwood looked back at him. “I was always one of them, Quade.”

The sneer was replaced by a frown.

Hawkwood’s head had at last begun to clear. “I assume a tribunal is out of the question?”

The frown slid away, to be replaced by a thin smile, devoid of humour. “We’ve been through that, remember? Though, even if that hadn’t been the case, you wouldn’t qualify.” The corner of Quade’s mouth lifted. “Ah, but then you won’t be familiar with General Hull’s proclamation that no white man found fighting on the side of an Indian is to be taken prisoner?”

There was a coppery taste at the back of Hawkwood’s tongue. At some time he must have bitten through it; probably when he’d been struck on the head. He spat out blood. “Last I heard, General Hull was being held in Quebec. I’m not sure his proclamations carry much weight any more.”

Quade shook his head. “Ah, but they do, believe me. Not that it matters, anyway. We’ve already established you’re a spy and … well, you know the punishment for that.”