Seeing his disappointment, Nathan offered him recompense.

'If you'd really like to help us…' he began.

Daniel rallied. 'Yes, Father?'

'You can sharpen my sword.'

He indicated the weapon that lay across the other end of the table. Daniel snatched it up willingly and rushed off to the outhouse where the whetstone was kept. Watched by Tinker, he first cleaned the blade with an old rag then he carefully sharpened it until its edges were like razors. He was exhilarated by the thought that he was holding a sword that had killed an enemy and inflicted wounds on other men. When his work was done, he could not resist taking part in an imaginary fight, parrying blows from an invisible foe before beating him back and thrusting the sword deep into his stomach. For a short while at least, he was a member of the rebel army.

Nathan decided to inspect the farm, going out into the fields to speak to each of his men and to examine his small dairy herd. Daniel and Tinker accompanied him. At first, the boy thought that his father was checking on what progress had been made in his absence but, when it was all over, another thought occurred to him. Nathan Rawson was taking leave of old friends, giving each of them a few kind words by way of a last memory of him in case he never saw them again. Victory was obviously in grave doubt. Daniel shuddered.

That evening, Nathan tried to bring some comfort to his wife and child. Seated in his favourite chair in the parlour, he talked to them between puffs on his clay pipe and long sips of cider.