It was time to bring out the reading-room map. Waiting until the coffee and the bill had been delivered, Hawkwood pulled the folded page from his pocket. Lawrence drew his chair closer.

Hawkwood found Albany and traced the river north, up the shepherd’s-crook squiggle that was the Hudson River. Lake George and Lake Champlain were represented by two parallel, dark-coloured elongated shapes that resembled claw marks.

“There.” Hawkwood tapped the paper.

Whitehall lay at the southern tip of Lake Champlain. Above it was a small anchor.

“Ticonderoga’s here.” Hawkwood indicated a point a quarter of the way up Champlain, where the two bodies of water appeared to touch.

Lawrence stared thoughtfully at the illustration. “It’s a risk, it being a naval base but Whitehall is close to Vermont.”

“On the border, or as near as.”

A border which ran north, bisecting Lake Champlain’s entire length all the way to the Canadian line.

Lawrence said, “I’m told the good citizens of Vermont don’t have quite the same enthusiasm for the war as other easterners. Have you heard that?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“So it could suit us very well.”

“You mean if we’re discovered they may offer us sanctuary?”

“It’s possible. Worth thinking about, anyway.”

There was some merit to this, Hawkwood thought, though the idea of throwing themselves upon the mercy of the local populace on the off chance they’d be of a Federalist persuasion wasn’t the most sensible reason for a making a detour, the possibility shouldn’t be discounted.

“How far is it?” Lawrence asked.

“Hard to tell; this map’s bloody useless.” Hawkwood tried to bring the coach-office map to mind. “Twenty miles; maybe a bit more.”

Lawrence’s head lifted. His eyes took on a shine. “If our friend in the apron’s right and the road’s not in too bad a state, we could be there tonight.”

Hawkwood thought about the ferry. Although he’d just spent a month at sea, he’d never felt entirely at ease on water. He preferred solid ground beneath his feet to the rolling of waves. And lake waters could get very choppy. And Lake Champlain was a very big lake.

But Whitehall to Ticonderoga by way of Champlain couldn’t be that great a distance and, with their intended road now blocked, it made sense to at least consider the alternatives.

After all, there was the first rule of evasion to consider:

Moving targets were harder to hit.

“Well, this is jolly,” Lawrence said.

The major was being sarcastic; it wasn’t jolly at all. It was anything but.