Lawrence, on the other hand, seemed to be suffering no adverse effects. He’d proved he was at home in the saddle during their escape from the cantonment. When they’d first met back in London, the major hadn’t looked the equestrian sort, but appearances were often deceptive. No doubt Lawrence’s skills had been well-honed during his time in Spain, negotiating the high winding trails of the Sierra de Guadarrama. Traversing New York State must seem positively sedentary by comparison.

Leaving the horses at a livery stable to be fed and watered, they made their way to the nearest tavern. As he followed Lawrence into the smoky interior, there hovered at the back of Hawkwood’s mind the knowledge that, by now, word of the events at Greenbush was sure to be radiating outwards like the ripples in a pool, spread not just by military personnel but by the civilian population as well. In all likelihood, descriptions of the prisoner and the individual who’d aided his escape were already circulating, possibly by poster bill, so the sooner they were on the road again, the better. But while their mounts enjoyed the respite, it made sense for Hawkwood and Lawrence to make use of the facilities as well, providing they kept their wits about them and didn’t linger too long.

Ignoring the seats by the fire and the communal dining table, they chose a table on its own, close to the front window, from where they could view the street and at the same time observe the rest of the room.

A waiter, sleeves rolled to the elbow and wiping his hands on a greasy apron, materialized out of the gloom. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

“Rye,” Hawkwood said, “and whatever’s on the board.”

The slate upon which the daily fare was scrawled was too far away to be read clearly through the dinginess and the tobacco fumes.

“There’s venison stew, roast potatoes and carrots.”

“So long as it’s hot,” Hawkwood said.

The response was a dry sniff. “Should be; been on the stove since Tuesday.”

As Hawkwood tried to remember what day it was, Lawrence grinned. “With luck, the whiskey’ll hide the taste,” he murmured as the waiter left with their order. There was no rancour in the remark. Both of them had long experience of making do when food was scarce; on the march, a day-old stew would have been considered a veritable banquet.

Two glasses arrived, along with an earthenware jug from which the waiter poured two liberal measures before leaving them to it. Lawrence took a tentative sip. “Well, it ain’t Bowmore’s.” Adding with a sly wink while raising his glass in a mock toast, “Any port in a storm, though, eh?”