were beyond the blade and slid them up and down it. The leather strap was severed in seconds.
In his peripheral vision he picked up movement. A figure climbed out from under a poncho. The man walked towards him through the mud and sheeting rain. Stratton moved his hands back behind the pole and felt for the knife.
The man stopped in front of Stratton, water cascading over the rim of his hat. Stratton looked up to see that it was the ambushers’ leader. When the soldier saw the body his eyes widened and his stare flicked to Stratton’s hands behind the pole. He crouched slowly beside the dead man to see who it was. Recognising the body, he flashed a look at Stratton again, his straggly soaked hair hanging out from under his hat. Closer now, he leaned to look at Stratton’s hands - and saw the cut leather bindings in the splashing mud beside them. In that instant he knew he was in trouble.
He cried out as he turned to run away. But he slipped in the mud and fell to his knees. He reached for his pistol frantically as he looked back. Stratton was already coming for him. The man screamed but Stratton cut him short by driving the knife upwards into his throat. The man fired his pistol into the ground as Stratton forced the blade in all the way to the hilt and up into his brain. His last breath escaped as a gurgle through the hole in his throat, which quickly filled with blood.
Several men clambered from under their ponchos.
Stratton sprinted away.
He did not know in which direction to go nor did he particu larly care as long as he got out of there. He slammed into a body under a poncho in the blackness, kicking it so that the man yelped in pain. Stratton sprawled in the mud, got up and kept on going. He saw the lights of the main tents ahead and veered away. Flashlights came on through the pouring rain and he ran from them too. A shout went up.
He heard loud bangs, saw muzzle flashes in the dark, but the gunshots were hopeless efforts. Someone was hit by a bullet meant for Stratton and screamed. Another man shouted abuse and yelled for the shooting to stop.
Stratton smashed into a soaking bush and ran straight through it. The thorny branches cut into his bare flesh but he felt nothing. He was running on pure adrenalin. Where the foliage was thick and he couldn’t push through it he went under or around it, scrambling through the soupy mud, which was knee-deep in places.
The bushes gave way to a rocky incline but he did not slow down as he scrambled up it, careless of the jagged stones cutting the bare soles of his feet. His heart pounded in his chest, his lungs sucked in air, but he pushed on, finding hidden reserves of strength and will. He had his freedom back and he was not about to give it up again, knowing this was probably his last chance for escape.
As the ground levelled out Stratton found himself running through grass. He had gone a good distance from the camp and stopped to catch his breath and listen for pursuers. He put his hands on his knees and sucked in air. The rain made it difficult to hear much but that was to his advantage too.
He looked back and could just make out his deep muddy footprints in the soft ground. It reminded him that he could still be easily tracked and he set off once again, not as fast now but at a pace he felt he could maintain for several miles.
Stratton began to think where he should head for and how to work out where he was. He also thought about Louisa. Ideally he should look for his emergency stores. But without the GPS he was not confident that he could find the location in the darkness. He would have to aim in the direction of the camp and then, once he knew where he was, make his way back along the route to where the rebels had been hanged. He doubted he could make it back to the camp by dawn, though.
Concern for Louisa now overshadowed his relief at escaping. He feared he might not get to her in time. The Neravistas had been moving into position all day and a dawn attack seemed most likely. Stratton pushed on with renewed determination.