Braddock took a deep breath. “Just savouring the moment,” he replied, then took another deep breath, and added: “No doubt many wonder why it is we’ve pushed so far west. These are wild lands, as yet untamed and unsettled. But it shall not always be so. In time, our holdings will no longer suffice, and that day is closer than you think. We must ensure that our people have ample room to grow and further prosper. Which means we need more land. The French understand this—and endeavour to prevent such growth. They skirt around our territory—erecting forts and forging alliances—awaiting the day they might strangle us with the noose they’ve built. This must not come to pass. We must sever the cord and send them back. This is why we ride. To offer them one last chance: the French will leave or they will die.”

By my side, Ziio gave me a look, and I could see that there was nothing she would like better than to prick the man’s pomposity straight away.

Sure enough. “Now is the time to strike,” she hissed.

“Wait,” I said. When I turned my head I found she was looking at me, and our faces were just an inch or so apart. “To scatter the expedition is not enough. We must ensure Braddock fails. Else he is sure to try again.”

Kill him, I meant, and there would never be a better time to strike. I thought quickly then, pointing at a small scouting convoy that had peeled away from the main regiment, said, “I’ll disguise myself as one of his own and make my way to his side. Your ambush will provide the perfect cover for me to deliver the killing blow.”

I made my way down towards the ground and stole towards the scouts. Silently, I engaged my blade, slid it into the neck of the nearest soldier and was unbuttoning his jacket before he’d even hit the floor.

The regiment, some three hundred yards away now, began to move with a rumble like approaching thunder, the drums began again and the Indians used the sudden noise as cover to begin moving in the trees, adjusting their positions, readying the ambush.

I mounted the scout’s horse and spent a moment or so calming the animal, letting her get used to me, before taking her down a small incline towards the column. An officer, also on horseback, spotted me, and ordered me back into position, so I waved an apology then began to trot towards the head of the column, past the baggage train and camp followers, past the marching soldiers, who threw me resentful looks and talked about me behind my back, and past the band, until I came almost level with the front of the column. Close now, but also more vulnerable. Close enough to hear Braddock talking to one of his men—one of his inner circle, his mercenaries.

“The French recognize they are weak in all things,” he was saying, “and so they have allied themselves with the savages that inhabit these woods. Little more than animals, they sleep in trees, collect scalps and even eat their own dead. Mercy is too kind for them. Spare no one.”

I didn’t know whether to chuckle or not. “Eat their own dead.” Nobody still believed that, surely?

The officer seemed to be thinking the same thing. “But sir,” he protested, “those are just stories. The natives I have known do nothing of the sort.”

In the saddle, Braddock rounded on him. “Are you calling me a liar?” he roared.

“I misspoke, sir,” said the mercenary, trembling. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am grateful to serve.”

“Have served, you mean,” snarled Braddock.

“Sir?” said the man, frightened.

“You are grateful to ‘have served,’” Braddock repeated, drew his pistol and shot the man. The officer fell back from his horse, a red hole where his face had been, his body thumping to the tinder-dry forest floor. Meanwhile, the report of the gun had scared the birds from the trees and the column suddenly drew to a halt, the men pulling muskets from shoulders, drawing weapons, believing they were under attack.

For a few moments they remained at full alert, until the order came to stand down, and the word filtered back to them, a message delivered in hushed tones: the general had just shot an officer.

I was near enough to the front of the column to see George Washington’s shocked reaction, and he alone had the courage to stand up to Braddock.

“General!”

Braddock rounded on him, and perhaps there was a moment in which Washington wondered if he was to receive the same treatment. Until Braddock thundered, “I will not tolerate doubt among those I command. Nor sympathy for the enemy. I’ve no time for insubordination.”

Bravely George Washington countered, “None denied he erred, sir, only . . .”

“He paid for his treachery as all traitors must. If we are to win this war against the French . . . Nay, when we win this war . . . it will be because men like you obeyed men like me—and did so without hesitation. We must have order in our ranks, and a clear chain of command. Leaders and followers. Without such structure, there can be no victory. Am I understood?”

Washington nodded but quickly looked away, keeping his true feelings to himself, and then, as the column moved off once more, moved away from the front on the pretext of attending to business elsewhere. I saw my chance and manoeuvred my way to behind Braddock, falling into position by his side, just slightly behind so that he wouldn’t see me. Not yet.

I waited, biding my time, until suddenly there was a commotion from behind us, and the officer on the other side of Braddock peeled away to investigate, leaving just the two of us up front. Me and General Braddock.

I drew my pistol.

“Edward,” I said, and enjoyed the moment as he swivelled in his saddle and his eyes went from me, to the barrel of my pistol and then to me again. His mouth opened, about to do what, I wasn’t sure—call for help probably—but I wasn’t going to give him the chance. There was no escape for him now.

“Not so fun on the other end of the barrel, is it?” I said, and squeezed the trigger . . .

At exactly the same time as the regiment came under attack—damn, the trap had been sprung too soon—my horse gave a start and the shot went wide. Braddock’s eyes flashed with hope and triumph as, suddenly, there were Frenchmen all around us and arrows began raining down from the trees above us. Braddock pulled on the reins of his horse with a yell and in the next moment was mounting the verge towards the trees, while I sat, my pistol in my hand, stunned by the abrupt turn of events.

The hesitation almost cost me my life. I found myself in the path of a Frenchman—blue jacket, red breeches—his sword swinging and heading straight for me. It was too late to engage my blade. Too late to draw my sword.