It had been an instinctive act, but the consequences proved catastrophic for his attacker. The length of the pike meant it did not have far to travel. The running man stopped dead, his face frozen into a mask of disbelief as the steel tip sank into his chest. Dropping the pistol, he fell to the ground, hands clasped around the wooden shaft protruding from his body.

There was a scream of rage as Sergeant Dunbar saw his men dealt with so comprehensively. And then Lawrence was there with the horses.

“Move your arse, Captain!”

Grabbing the dead man’s pistol and thrusting it into his coat pocket, Hawkwood threw himself into the saddle.

Behind them, Dunbar, fighting for breath after his exertions, had fallen to his knees.

Lawrence turned as Hawkwood found the stirrups and brought his mount under control. “Which way?”

Hawkwood quickly surveyed the bodies of the two troopers and the dark figures running about the parade ground like demented termites. The cantonment appeared to be in total disarray.

“North. We head north.”

Lawrence grinned. “Excellent! After you!”

“Yes, sir, Major!”

As they dug their heels into the horses’ sides, Hawkwood couldn’t help but grin in return. Relief at having accomplished what he had set out to do was surging through him. And the only cost had been a hat. A more than fair exchange for the freedom of one British officer, in anyone’s book.

Especially as he’d hated wearing the bloody thing anyway.

4

May 1780

From his vantage point at the head of the column, Sir John Johnson turned to view the ranks of uniformed men marching in file behind him. They were a formidable fighting force, as good as any he’d served alongside; tough, fearless and loyal, he was proud of each and every one of them. When the right men fought for a cause, he thought as he gazed at their gritty, determined faces, they were well nigh unstoppable.

It was approaching midday and though the forest canopy provided a welcome shade, it was still oppressively warm. Ignoring the sweat trickling down the inside of his tunic, he addressed the man riding by his side. “How are they faring, Thomas?”

Captain Thomas Scott turned and looked over his shoulder, beyond the first phalanx of troops, to where a string of tired-looking civilians could be seen emerging slowly from around a bend in the trail.

“A few more blisters, a sprained ankle or two; nothing too calamitous.”

“The surgeon’s taken a look?”

Scott turned back. “He has. He tells me we won’t have to put any of them out of their misery just yet.”

“And the prisoners?”

“Cursing your name with every breath, sir.”