Private Hilton sniffed lugubriously. “Scruffy beggars, that’s what. If they’ve given the dog stripes, wonder what rank they’ve given the Indian?”

The corporal, whose name was Lovell, pursed his lips. “I heard tell some of ’em have been made captains, but if you want to ask him, be my guest.”

Private Hilton offered no reply but scratched his thigh absently, his nose wrinkling in disgust as his hand came away damp. Wiping dog slobber from his fingers on to his uniform jacket, he shook his head.

“Bleedin’ officers,” he muttered.

Quietly.

Emerging from the treeline, Wyatt reined in his horse and stared out at a rolling countryside punctuated with stands of oak, pine and hemlock. The estate was spread across the bottom of the slope. It covered a substantial area, comprising barns, storehouses, workshops, grist and saw mills, a smithy and several cottages, and could easily have been mistaken for a small, peaceful village had it not been for the tents and uniformed troops gathered at its heart.

One building, set apart from the others by virtue of its size and architecture, caught the eye. Sheathed in white clapboard, and with leaf-green shutters, the mansion, which was built on a slight rise, was protected at the front by a circle of yellow locust trees and at the rear by two enormous stone blockhouses.

As they approached the camp perimeter, Wyatt’s attention was drawn towards several dark smudges moving slowly across the south-eastern horizon. The plumes of smoke were too black and too dense to be rising from cooking fires. Somewhere, off beyond the pinewoods, buildings were ablaze. As he watched, more drifts began to appear, like lateen sails opening to the wind. The fires were spreading. For a second he thought he could smell the burning but then, when his nose picked out the scent of coffee, he knew the aromas were emanating from the field kitchen that had been set up in the lee of one of the blockhouses.

In the camp itself, all appeared calm. There were no raised voices; no officers yelling orders, putting the men through their drills. There was, however, no hiding the purposeful way the soldiers were going about their business or the sense of readiness that hung in the air. There were no musket or rifle stands. Every man carried his weapon to hand in case of attack. Wyatt glanced towards the boy who, to judge from the way his eyes were darting about, was overawed by the appearance of so many troops.