Hawkwood knew the major was making a direct translation from the French; after all, what else would they be building in a shipyard if not boats?

The pot-man, his store of relevant information exhausted, took Lawrence’s comment as his cue to depart and moved off in search of another table. As soon as he was out of earshot, Hawkwood explained to the major that an American “batteau” was a shallow-draught craft constructed primarily for river usage. The smallest could be operated by one man, while the largest needed half a dozen oarsmen and could carry up to ten tons of cargo. In the colonies, they had been deployed by the military to transport troops and supplies through the wilderness.

“That’s a bugger.” Lawrence sighed. “Seems we were sold a pup. Maybe we should retire to Fort Edward and shoot that damned waiter.”

“Not until I’ve finished my drink.”

“Looks as though it’s the border and the Vermont road, then,” Lawrence ventured.

Hawkwood did not reply. Lifting his glass, he rotated it gently, watching as the contents swirled, catching the candle light.

“I know that look – I recognize it from our London adventure.” Lawrence lowered his own glass and leaned close. “What’s on your mind?”

Hawkwood gazed into the glass. “Jago’s first rule of commerce.”

“I’m not with you.”

“A friend of mine, Nathaniel Jago – first-class sergeant and former member of the smuggling fraternity. He has a saying: ‘Never let political differences get in the way of turning a profit.’”

“How does that help us?”

“There may be an alternative to the Vermont road.”

Lawrence looked sceptical. “You’re not proposing we wait a week for the schooner to return? We can’t tarry that long. It’d be asking for trouble.”

“I agree. And there’s bad weather on the way, too. The last thing we want is to be snowed in here.”

Lawrence baulked at the thought. “It’ll be that bad?”

“You can count on it.”

“So what do you propose?”

Hawkwood smiled. “Finish your drink, Major. I do believe it’s time for a refill.”

“Oh Lord,” Lawrence groaned, as Hawkwood raised his arm to summon the pot-man. “There’s that bloody look again.”

“Remus Stagg?” Hawkwood said.

The heavy-set man seated alone in the booth at the back of the taproom made no reply. Instead, tearing a crust from the loaf by his elbow, he squeezed the bread between his fingers and dipped it into the small pool of gravy that had settled at the bottom of his otherwise empty plate. When the bread had been soaked to his satisfaction he delivered it to his waiting mouth. Chewing deliberately for several seconds he swallowed, wiped his lips with a none-too-clean napkin and reached for the glass at his elbow. Only then did he look up.

“Who’s askin’?”

“I’m Smith,” said Hawkwood, before jerking a thumb at Lawrence. “He’s Jones.”