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had been fired throughout the morning. Thirty yards to its left a stand of evergreens presented the possibility of sniper fire or a sudden assault against any force attackingthe shed. Marc’s troop was advancing on this left flank in the running crouch preferred by the infantry. When Marc barked out an order, his squad dropped to their knees and loosed a volley at the target ahead. A few bullets sailed through the several windows, but those striking the wall might as well have been fired into the air. Seconds after this volley, blackened faces popped into view above the windowsills and prepared to return fire.
    The major had anticipated this, and the squad on Marc’s right were already on their knees and aiming. But before they could unleash their volley, gunshots erupted from the copse on the left and several redcoats fell, including the lieutenant about to give the order to fire. When the volley did come, erratic and mis-timed, it scattered only a few wood chips. The snipers in the evergreen copse kept at it. Marc heard a groan to his right and turned to see Private Higgins on one knee, both hands scrabbling at his stomach, as if he were a boy searching his pockets for a missing rabbit’s foot.
    â€œPull back!” the major called out.
    Dragging their wounded with them, the men retreated. Higgins was carried to the rear of the coulee, where the surgeon had set up shop. Major Markham had a flesh wound in his thigh but waved off medical attention.
    â€œWe’ll have to clear out that bit of woods if we hope to take the shed,” the major was saying to his captains. “Riddell, take all of your company and have a go at them. The other two companies will come at the shed from angles left and right. Each troop will fire staggered volleys. The first unit there will go straight in.”
    Hilliard came up beside Marc, breathless and glassy-eyed. “We get the dangerous work, eh, Marc?”
    â€œIt’s all dangerous.”
    â€œAren’t we lucky, though?”
    It will be entirely a matter of luck, Marc thought, but decided not to share this insight with his friend.
    Three-pronged and carefully planned, the next assault began a few minutes later. Marc’s troop, along with the rest of Riddell’s fifty strong company, made directly for the copse. Firing volleys blindly in staggered sequence, they succeeded in stemming the enemy fire from that source while the other two companies closed in on the cowshed. Both groups took casualties. The rebels seemed able to fire from every side except the rear. Every overturned wagon or haystack harboured a sharpshooter. With Hilliard running ahead—sabre brandished, ululating—Marc’s squad roared into the little woods. It was empty. No rebel offered his belly to the bayonet.
    â€œKeep going!” Marc called out.
    They emerged on the far side, prepared to give chase. But thirty-five yards ahead stood a log rampart, hastily constructed of nearby corral railings with gun-slits arranged at intervals. A wave of shotgun explosions shattered the air above the din of the battle now going on around the cowshed on the right. Marc heard the spruce boughs on either side of him rattle, and felt a sharp blow, like a tack hammer’s sting, at his waist. He dropped to his knees. There was no pain. Around him came terrified screams and low moaning. They had been ambushed. He opened his mouth to sound the retreat, but no words came out. With eyes full of righteous anger and a single rivulet ofblood on one cheek, Hilliard looked quizzically at his superior officer.
    Marc swung his sabre frantically.
    Hilliard nodded and yelled, “Back into the bush, lads! It’s a trap!”
    Marc staggered into the trees. Three of his men lay writhing out in the open. He took a moment to examine his wound. There wasn’t one. The bird shot had barely penetrated his jacket, with its extra armour of mud.
    â€œAre you hurt?” Hilliard asked, kneeling