Only when the force had finally assembled at Lachine had war bands from the Lake of Two Mountains been dispatched to search for and capture rebel patrols to prevent them from spreading word of the impending raid, thus clearing the path for the main body of troops to come in behind them undetected.

And, incredibly, the plan had worked. More than five hundred men – over three hundred whites and nearly two hundred native allies – had successfully negotiated the landing at Crown Point and completed the nine-day march through enemy territory without a shot being fired.

This morning was the first time Wyatt and his group had sighted a rebel force – either regular or militia. If that’s what this lot were, Wyatt thought. Their dress and weaponry certainly suggested the latter, but then every man who lived in this part of the state, close to what could loosely be termed the frontier, had a gun, for protection as well as a means of providing food for the table. It was possible they were just a group of friends out for a morning’s hunt.

But Wyatt didn’t think so. There was something in the way the riders held themselves that smacked of grim authority. They looked like men with a purpose.

As he watched them walk their horses across the stream in single file, Wyatt began to experience an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

When Tam started towards the door, ears pricked and grumbling at the back of his throat, Will Archer’s first thought was that it was more than likely a deer. The animals often came to drink at the creek, particularly at this hour, when the sun was just showing over the treetops and the farm was at its most peaceful.

He looked through the window but there was nothing to see, save for the view of the stream and the forest; the same view that greeted him every morning.

Behind him, the dog emitted another low, more menacing growl.

Not a deer then, Archer thought, alerted – though he wasn’t sure why – by the continuing gruffness in Tam’s voice. The hound was extremely good natured as a rule and signs of aggression were rare.

As the first of the riders came into sight Archer’s stomach knotted.

“Will? What is it?”

Archer turned to his wife, who was standing by the table in a flour-dusted linen apron. Her hands were bound in a damp cloth, holding a loaf she’d just removed from the oven. Turning the hot bread on to the board in front of her, she put down the cloth and tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, leaving a fresh smudge of flour on her right cheek.

“Stay here,” Archer instructed.

She frowned, concerned by the warning note.

“We have visitors,” Archer said.