The rain hammered for another three hours and then stopped as if somebody had turned off a tap. The sudden silence woke Andrew. He rose, rechecked the pickets, retired to bed and woke when bugles in the British camp sounded reveille.
“I’ll have to arrange a soldier-servant,” he scolded himself as he dressed, shaving by candlelight, and nicking his chin in the process. He swore quietly, dabbed at the tiny spot of blood, and stooped out of the tent.
“Hello, Lancelot.” Mariana was with the horse before Andrew arrived and greeted him with a broad smile. “Then answered Lancelot, the chief of knights, as Tennyson wrote. 1Good morning, Lieutenant Baird.”
“Good morning, Mariana,” Andrew replied. “I’m afraid I need Lancelot,” Andrew told her. “We have a busy day ahead of us.”
“I know. We’re hea
