Hawkwood felt the tension slipping away. As long as he and Lawrence remained on the move, every mile covered was a victory gained. But that didn’t mean they could relax. In that regard the cold was an ally, for it prevented sleep. Nevertheless the constant dipping of the oars was beginning to have a hypnotic effect upon his senses. It was something of a relief, therefore, when Lawrence emerged from below a few hours later and said softly, “Your turn.”

“Wasn’t I supposed to give you the tap?” Hawkwood said.

“No need, my dear fellow.” Lawrence smiled. “If we may return temporarily to our respective ranks, as a major to a captain, I’m giving you a direct order: get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”

Hawkwood didn’t have the energy to argue. He went below, located his cubbyhole and climbed into his cot. He felt something hard strike his knee and realized that Lawrence had transferred guardianship of the musket. Smiling to himself, Hawkwood stretched out, still in his coat, and drew the blanket across his body. Within minutes, he was asleep.

When he awoke, he was aware of two things. It had grown colder and the deck was canted, so they must be under sail. Making his way topside, he found that dawn had broken and that the sky was the colour of wet slate. Stagg was manning the tiller.

“Mr Smith.”

“Captain,” Hawkwood said.

Lawrence was leaning against the dinghy, gazing out over the starboard gunwale. His coat carried a light coating of spray. He turned and smiled. “You slept well?”

“Strangely, yes. Did I miss anything?”

“Nothing of note. We’re out of that damned river at last, and we’ve just passed Ticonderoga.” Lawrence indicated a bleak-looking promontory a mile or so behind them on the port side.

There wasn’t a lot to see: a curve of muddy foreshore behind which a bare, tree-denuded slope rose towards a two-hundred-foot-high summit strewn with rocks and clumps of immature woodland and what appeared to be the remains of massive stone ramparts nestling among them like stubs of broken teeth.

“There was a better view from the south,” Lawrence said. “Not that there’s much left of the place, mind.”

Hawkwood had lost count of the abandoned forts they’d passed along their route. Most, like the one occupying the hill behind them, had changed hands so many times it was hard to remember who’d built them in the first place. Their stones were steeped in blood; not just British but French, American and Indian, along with a host of other nationalities. Now there was nothing to show for all that sacrifice of life but these moss-covered ruins. And in their midst, men were at war yet again.