“These native medicines are a wonder. The Indians have forgotten more about the healing properties of forest plants than we’ll ever know. I’ve adopted a number of their remedies myself and have found them to be most efficacious in the treatment of wounds and maladies.”

Humming quietly to himself, Brossard retrieved a clay jar from his supply cabinet and measured out a handful of the earthy-smelling contents. Grinding them into a powder with a pestle and mortar and into a paste with the addition of what looked like melted beeswax, he applied the salve in an even layer to each of Lawrence’s wounds, though not before dousing the areas liberally with half the contents of a small whiskey bottle, prompting an impressive stream of obscenities from what, up until then, had been a relatively passive patient.

“My father was a physician, too,” Brossard explained, when Lawrence had stopped blaspheming. “He marched with Montcalm and learnt many secrets from Huron medicine men.” He added smilingly, “And now, here we are: sons of French soldiers along with Huron and Mohawk who were once sworn enemies, all coming together to serve an English king. Life is strange, is it not?”

Lawrence, he advised, if all went well, would be fit enough to travel in two days.

Tewanias’s deeper bayonet wound was of greater concern. Swabbing it as best he could, Surgeon Brossard then took the unusual step of consulting his patient for advice. Tewanias sent word for the Kahnawákeró:non war captain, who in turn summoned his own healer, Brossard being happy to defer to native lore.

Fascinated, Hawkwood watched as, between them, medicine man and surgeon – using ingredients from Brossard’s pharmacy mixed with herbs from the healer’s pouch – set about concocting their own potions which they then administered both directly to the wound and orally. They would know the benefit, the Kahnawákeró:non healer told them, by the morning of the third day.

Tewanias, while not ready to fight a battle, was on his feet by the evening of the second day, when Colonel de Salaberry came and took Hawkwood aside.

“If the major is fit, you must both depart in the morning. I have dispatches for the military authorities in Montreal. A courier will be leaving here at first light. You can travel with him. From Montreal, Major Lawrence can return to his duties. As for you, Captain, it’s late in the season but there should be a schooner available to transport you downriver to Quebec. From there, you will be able to secure passage to England. Do not delay, otherwise there will be no journey home, certainly not for you, not for another four months. The weather will not permit it.”

I’ll bear that in mind,” Hawkwood said, and went to tell Tewanias the news.

“I am deeply sorry, rake’niha,” were his first words.

The Mohawk war captain stared into his eyes. “For what?”