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like His Royal Majesty’s troops.
    Despite that, Ransom could not heap blame on Stark’s men alone. He was tempted to remind the Colonel that John Stark had cautioned against proceeding farther along the road until the open meadow had been given a good scout. It was Farley who had ignored the frontiersman’s words of caution, stressing the need for haste. Fort William Henry was in dire need of reinforcements, there was no sense in wasting time. Farley had ordered the regiment to cross the meadow at double time. And so they did, marching in all haste, drummers beating a rapid cadence, straight into the jaws of the French and Indian trap.
    Halfway across the meadow the 1st Regiment had encountered a withering blast of musket fire along both flanks. The combined force of La Marines and Abenaki savages concealed among the trees, blazed away at will; while Farley split the column, formed four skirmish lines and ordered his men to return fire. Three hundred redcoats, standing back to back, responded with one volley after another. But it was impossible to see if their rounds were having any effect. And as men began to drop to the ground, wounded and dying, a sense of foreboding permeated the smoke-filled air.
    â€œVirtutis fortuna comes!” Farley railed, his voice turning shrill as the regiment poured another volley into the forest line. They were his last words. Half a dozen musket balls punctured him from neck to navel. He twisted about, dropped his sword, balanced a moment on one leg till it buckled then fell over on his backside, a deep stain spreading over his riddled coat.
    Ransom rushed up and knelt alongside the dying colonel. “Fortune is the companion of bravery!” he softly said. Farley nodded, blinked, his eyes rolling about in his head as he struggled against the dying light. The words seemed to give him peace. Or maybe it was the shock of dying when he least expected it that glazed his eyes and transported him to a happier place, a memory far from the stench of death and the rattle of musketry.
    There was not a single coward among the 1st. Although word of the colonel’s demise swept the ranks, the regiment remained in formation, four columns of men facing both flanks. First the two kneeling rows fired in volley, then the standing ranks, while officers paced along the column, exhorting His Royal Majesty’s troops to resist this ambush, hold firm and punish the enemy. But the officers themselves were pretty targets in their bright red coats and one by one they pitched forward or collapsed, strangling on their own juices.
    And all the while the Abenaki and their French allies kept up a steady gunfire from the stands of hemlock, red oak, tamarack and birch that provided ample protection for the marksmen concealed in the shadows. This armed host was determined to rout the British relief column.
    English bayonets gleamed in the streaming sunlight. Powder smoke billowed, momentarily obscuring the rows of men. The world was awash with the clash of arms, the roar of muskets, howling savages, the rapid percussion of the French drummers back beyond the trees signaling La Marines to fire at will.
    Ransom glanced about him. It was his command now. His command. And it was being wiped out. Soldiers were toppling like so many lawn pins. There were fewer officers now to utter encouragement. He wasn’t certain he could hold them by the force of his persona alone. The futility of the situation had begun to take its toll. Even as he belabored his decision, a gruff-looking sergeant abandoned his position on the line and hurried across to stand at the major’s side.
    â€œBegging your pardon, Major Ransom, but it don’t appear we can advance, sir,” the sergeant exclaimed. Tom Strode, a fisherman’s son whose family had never ventured far from Mousehole on the channel coast, was a gruff, hard-looking man with bushy sideburns and thick brown eyebrows that accentuated his