Jeffard, mouth agape, passed the reins over.

“Go!” Hawkwood urged. “Go!”

Jeffard turned tail and ran. Pausing only to snatch up his knapsack, Hawkwood climbed on to the first horse. Coiling the reins of the second in his fist, he dug in his heels and spurred the frightened animals out of the yard. As he did so, he saw from the corner of his eye two figures running frantically with buckets towards the smouldering building.

When he was clear, Hawkwood looked back. There were no flames to be seen as yet, but it could only be a matter of time before they became visible. It was doubtful the corporal and his friends would be able to cope on their own. Soon, they’d have to decide whether to carry on trying to save the stable block, or let it burn while they led the remaining horses to safety. From what Quade had told him about the chronic shortage of horseflesh available to the American army, they’d be anxious to preserve at all costs the few they did have.

Either way, they had enough to keep them busy for the moment.

Leaving the scene of impending chaos behind him, he urged the horses up the trail and into the trees. It was darker in among the pines and the last thing he wanted was for the animals to stumble, but he was committed now so he prayed that animals accustomed to carrying dispatches at the gallop would be agile enough not to lose their footing on the uneven slope.

Keeping to the higher ground, he could just make out the rectangular shape of the soldiers’ barracks below him and the latrine blocks attached to each one. Lights showed dimly behind shuttered windows. From what he could see, most of the garrison was slumbering, oblivious to the drama unfolding at the other end of the camp.

A break appeared in the path. Hawkwood paused and took his bearings before dismounting. The last of the barrack blocks was now in sight. At any moment Corporal Jeffard and the two privates would tire of wondering why no help had arrived and decide to sound the alarm for themselves. When that happened, all hell would surely break loose. Tethering the horses to a tree, he made his way down the slope using the woods as cover.

The camp guardhouse lay at the north-eastern corner of the cantonment at the end of a short path linking it to the parade ground. Two-storeys high and built of brick and stone, its entrance was protected by a wooden porch.

And an armed sentry.

Hawkwood waited until the sentry’s back was turned before emerging from the trees at a leisurely pace. He was twenty yards away from the building when the challenge came.

“Halt!” The sentry stepped forward, musket held defensively across his chest. “Who goes there?”