Most people in that predicament would quail but fear was unknown to Daniel. What drove him on was an instinct for survival, sharpened by years in combat against French armies. Fear only induced panic and he always remained cool. As he zigzagged his way through the wood, his eyes were alert as he searched for ways to shake off the patrol. The half-dark that enfolded him had come to his aid but it now proved treacherous. Unable to see it properly, his horse misjudged the size of a fallen tree trunk. Instead of hopping easily over it, the animal caught its front hooves against the timber and pitched helplessly forward. Daniel was thrown from the saddle, hitting the ground hard and somersaulting twice before he came to a halt.

The horse was the first to get up. Momentarily dazed, Daniel scrambled to his feet but he was too late to stop his frightened mount from careering off into the undergrowth in the direction from which they’d just come. It was eventually caught by one of the soldiers.

‘I have his horse!’ he cried in triumph. ‘He’s on foot.’

The announcement produced a round of cruel laughter.

Daniel didn’t stay to listen to it. He was already running at full speed through the trees, dodging bushes, jumping logs, looking to left then right in a desperate search for a hiding place. His heart was pounding and his lungs were on fire. Any second he could be ridden down and hacked to death with a sabre. He came at last to a small clearing and clambered up a tree. Then he deliberately dropped his hat onto the ground below. Nestling against a thick branch, Daniel waited, trying to muffle the sound of his heavy breathing. He was no French wine merchant now but an experienced British soldier who’d been cornered by the enemy before. There had always been a way out in the past. The trick, he’d discovered, was to find it.

He could hear their voices, calling out to each other, placing bets on who would catch their prey first, boasting about what they’d do to him with their sharp blades.