The major rested his drink and unbuttoned his coat. A plain brown jacket, purchased from a general merchandise store in Fort Miller, a village eight miles south of Fort Edward, had replaced his scarlet tunic. The tunic was tucked away in a knapsack similar to Hawkwood’s that had been bought at the same establishment. Lawrence planned to re-don the scarlet when they got to the border, as a precaution against being used for target practice by an over-enthusiastic British piquet.

Hawkwood was again clad in his own clothes. While the stolen uniform had served its purpose, now he needed no disguise beyond a mud-splattered coat and boots. With no distinguishing facings to draw the eye, they were just two more road-weary travellers in search of a drink and a meal, and thus no different to anyone else in the room.

The food turned out to be surprisingly good. When they finished, they pushed their empty plates to one side and Hawkwood surveyed the room over the rim of his glass. The tavern was enjoying a brisk trade and no one had given them a second glance. He considered stretching his legs and then decided it was probably best not to get too comfortable.

“Damn it,” Lawrence muttered.

Hawkwood followed his gaze. Spots of rain were hitting the window.

The waiter returned for the empty plates. About to bear them away, he paused. “Would you gentlemen be heading north, by any chance?”

Hawkwood tensed. He felt Lawrence do the same. The question, however, had been rhetorical; without waiting for a reply, the waiter indicated the droplets of water running down the window pane. “If’n you are, you’re in for a delay. There’s no road the far side of Glens Falls. Bridge is down and the mud’s axle-deep. There’s wagons been stuck there half a day, they say, backed up through to Caldwell. Some folks have been taking the Whitehall road. If the ferry’s in service, it’ll take you to Ticonderoga. Quicker’n the road, that’s fer sure. You’ll be able to pick up the highway from there.”

The waiter gave another nod in the direction of the window. “Thought I’d mention it, seein’ as the rain’s settin’ in and we’ve run out of rooms.” He allowed himself a crooked grin before adding, “Now, anything else I can get you? ’Nother whiskey or a beverage? Coffee pot’s clean – cook scrubbed it this morning.”

“We’ll take the coffee,” Hawkwood told him, digesting the information about the disruption to traffic. That would explain why they’d encountered no south-bound coaches during their ride. “We’ll settle the account, too.”

“Whitehall?” Lawrence murmured when the waiter had departed. “If that’s not an omen, I don’t know what is.”