The convoy was under attack. He scrambled up off the camp bed and peered cautiously out the window, back up against the wood paneling, head turned, neck craning so that only his profile was to the glass. The muted light of a winter’s day was beginning to darken into night, and a thick fog clung to the swampy marshland beyond the towpath, which was eerily deserted. And yet the unmistakable pop-popping of gunfire continued, outside and overhead. He reasoned the soldiers had to be on the far side of the barge, using it for cover as they fired over the roofline into the fog. Those returning fire were using the fog to their advantage. Between each volley of shots orders were barked out as muskets were re-loaded. The gunfire continued. There was a cry of surprise. The thud of something heavy hitting the roof over Alec’s head had him momentarily looking up, expecting a soldier to come crashing through the ceiling. More orders were barked out.
