“Can’t be helped.” Hawkwood patted his horse’s neck and eyed the skull. “I’d hate to have to waste a horse and a bullet.”

“The lad said it was eight miles to Fort Ann,” said Lawrence, gazing into the distance. “There can’t be more than a couple of miles to go.” Drawing himself up, he gave a wry grin. “Ah, well, they do say that exercise is good for the soul.”

They led their mounts into the trees, where they were relieved to discover that a secondary trail had already been created, a sign that they weren’t the first travellers to have abandoned the log road in favour of a safer course. Although the ground was still exceedingly boggy, it wasn’t as treacherous as the causeway. Invigorated by the improved conditions, they set off along the trail, boots and hooves squelching in harmony.

It might have been the familiar scent of the woods or the snatches of remembered birdsong that triggered the recollection, Hawkwood would never know, but it was so sudden and so vivid that he felt his breath catch.

In his mind’s eye he saw a twelve-year-old boy lost in a forest wilderness, surrounded by shadows. Whether the shadows were cast by men or beasts, he did not know. He could not make out details. He knew only that some were friend and some were foe and that his life depended on being able to tell the difference.

A nuthatch squawked. Jolted from his reverie, he found that Lawrence was gazing at him with a look of amused enquiry.

“A penny for them,” the major said amiably.

Hawkwood forced a smile. Lawrence, sensing his comment had hit a nerve, did not press him, a courtesy for which Hawkwood was grateful.

After a further hour’s trudging, the ground grew firmer and the trail widened out. They remounted.

Fort Ann lay beyond the next belt of woodland. Reaching the village, they found there was no fort there either, though a few isolated pine stumps from the original stockade remained. A sprawling farmhouse, a couple of barns and a timber mill occupied the site.

By now it was late afternoon. Keen to make up for lost time, they pressed on. By the time the lights of Whitehall finally appeared it was early evening and Hawkwood felt as if he’d just travelled two hundred miles instead of twenty.

“Well, whoever named this place certainly had a sense of humour,” murmured Lawrence as the town took shape before them. “Whitehall, indeed! I’ll wager they’ve never been within a thousand miles of Horse Guards.”

Hawkwood couldn’t fault Lawrence’s pithy observation. Crouched at the bottom of a gorge and dwarfed by the steep slopes that surrounded it, the New York version of Whitehall was as far removed from its London namesake as it was possible to get.