The only similarity was its proximity to a river. Having followed the course of this particular waterway since Fort Edward, where it had begun life as an insignificant tributary of the Hudson, Hawkwood and Lawrence had been well-placed to observe its changing character. In some stretches it had overreached its banks to create patches of soggy marshland, hence the causeways; from Fort Ann, it had meandered on its way before finally arriving at Whitehall as a sluggish, sixty-yard-wide creek that skirted the village on its eastern flank before emptying into a small harbour basin at the base of a precipitous limestone outcrop.

They tethered the horses and retrieved their knapsacks. Lawrence slipped the musket strap over his shoulder. “Another town, another tavern,” he intoned, glancing at the weathered sign creaking a few feet above his head. Sotto voce, he added, “Y’know, for two gentlemen on the run, we seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time in plain sight.”

It was hard to disagree. While they were ahead of the hounds, they were far from safe and every time they engaged somebody in conversation they left a trail, placing themselves in jeopardy.

On the other hand, they needed information and taverns were prime sources for that. If they wanted to get home it was a risk they had to take.

“Where will we find the ferry office?” Hawkwood posed the question casually when the pot-man arrived with a brace of whiskies.

“The landing. It’s over the bridge; other side of the creek.”

As easy as that.

“Though it’d be a waste of a walk,” the pot-man added as he placed the drinks on the table. “It’s closed.”

Lawrence reached for his glass. “Would you know when it opens?”

“I would not. An’ I doubt anyone else does, either.”

An odd comment, Hawkwood thought.

“How so?” Lawrence enquired innocently.

“Because there ain’t no ferry service, that’s how so.”

Lawrence’s smile remained fixed. “Since when?”

“A month back. Suspended due to the hostilities. The military went and commandeered all large vessels, includin’ the Vermont. Services required elsewhere, so they said. Whatever that means.”

The Vermont, Hawkwood assumed, being the name of the ferry.

“And there’s nothing else?” Lawrence asked.

“The old schooner ain’t due back fer a week.”

As opposed to the new schooner? Hawkwood thought, but didn’t say. Presumably, the new one had ended up under military control along with the other “large” vessels.

“That’s our only choice?” Lawrence asked.

The pot-man’s face soured “Rumour has it they’ll be commandeerin’ her as well. Batteaux’ll be the only things left, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Lawrence frowned. “Batteaux?”

“Military took charge of the shipyard, too. Been building fleets of ’em. Workin’ day and night. Been hard sleepin’ sometimes on account of the hammerin’.”

“I can imagine,” Lawrence said. He glanced towards Hawkwood and raised an eyebrow over the top of his glass.