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his squad on the frontal assault and hand-to-hand fighting with sabre and bayonet.
    He heard the opening volleys, then the individual gunfire of the advancing troops, left and right.
    â€œThey’re pinned down already,” Hilliard informed him. “We’ve got to go in now, or our fellows will be cut to pieces.”
    Marc tottered to his feet. “Sergeant,” he said to Ogletree, “have the men fix bayonets. We’re going to clear those buggers from that pile of poles!”
    Moments later, Marc found himself leading the charge across ground that he had already traversed twice. The enemy gunfire on both flanks of the rampart had stopped abruptly. The rebels must have guessed at the plan and were hastily reassembling at their gun-slits to take on the frontal assault. Dodging dead horses and two fallen comrades, Marc’s men sallied towards the barricade, bayonets brandished and voices roaring with menace and bravado. At the same time, the troops on either flank began to rise and make a dash towards the same target. This was it. Once in such motion, no British infantry unit could be stopped, short of annihilation.
    Marc was the first man to leap up onto the rampart and start swinging his sabre. There was nothing to swing at. In less than thirty seconds the rebels had melted away, undetected. Their rampart had been raised on the crest of a shallow coulee, so they had been able to retreat running upright and unseen to a dozen possible sniping positions beyond.
    â€œDamn it all,” Hilliard cursed angrily, slicing at the air with his fearsome blade and looking up and down the barricade. “All that suffering on our part and we haven’t killed one of the bastards yet!”
    â€œTrue,” Marc said. “But we’re gaining ground bit by bit. Their ground.”

H aving cleared the left flank of skirmishers and enfilading sniper fire, Captain Riddell’s company now turned its attention to assisting the main assault force. Major Markham had abandoned any attempt at a systematic infantry charge: all personnel were firing at will, whenever they could locate the source of enemy strafing. The battle was being waged on the rebels’ terrain using their own favoured tactics: hit, run, hide, and hit again. Even so, a number of sheds and barns had been cleared, at some cost, and gradually the rebels were being herded into an ever more crowded and shrunken territory. If General Colborne had given Gore double the complement of troops—or if Gore had not exhausted the ones he had in a fruitless forced march aimed at surprise—then sheer persistence and willingness to take casualties would have worn the enemy down and eventually resulted in a bloody but complete victory. As things now stood, there were simply notenough rested and motivated regulars to do the job. Major Markham himself had been stalled but not stopped by two wounds to his neck.
    â€œWe’ll take that barn over there,” Marc said to Hilliard and Ogletree, who was dragging one leg behind him. Spurts of gun-smoke issued from the cracks in the rotting barn-board, and the soldier beside Ogletree clutched at his thigh and spun to the ground.
    â€œSpread out and approach when you can!”
    A dozen men dropped low, grateful for the cautionary order. While sporadic, the fire from the barn was hazardous enough to keep Marc’s men pinned down. He thought of ordering a series of timed volleys, but the exposed men would be cut to pieces with little tangible result. As soon as the rebels spotted any threatening activity, they got off as many rounds as they dared, then seemed to dive into the hollows or behind stout obstacles so that any return fire or volley thundered by without harm. Again, if they had had more men, such a defensive tactic would have quickly failed: the sheer firepower and discipline of the regulars would have proven too much. Even Marc, a novice in these affairs, could see that if they took