“There’s not a lot to tell, sir. Captain Douglas and I were on our way from Albany. We heard the Caldwell road was flooded and decided it would be best if we continued the rest of the way by boat. We got as far as Whitehall but found we’d missed the schooner. Unfortunately, we ran into a little trouble with our choice of an alternative vessel.”

Captain Winans’ chin lifted. “Go on.”

“Damned crew turned out to be Federalist sympathizers, didn’t they?”

“On a contraband run,” Lawrence cut in. “Bound for St Johns. They thought they could make a bit extra by handing us over to the British.”

“Smugglers?”

“That’d be one word for them,” Lawrence grated. “Traitorous scum, more like.”

Hawkwood smiled ruefully. “We weren’t in uniform. I imagine someone spotted the regimental branding on our mounts and took a guess that we might not be what we seemed. It was our own damned fault – we should have been more attentive. Being so close to journey’s end made us careless.”

“They attacked just before you struck us,” Lawrence continued. “Captain Matthews and I managed to subdue a couple of them, but it wouldn’t have been long before we were overwhelmed. Might seem an odd thing to say, sir, given what’s taken place, but it was a damned good job you happened along when you did.” Lawrence hesitated and then enquired speculatively. “You haven’t picked any of them up, I take it?”

The reply was curt. “We have not. As far as we’ve determined, you and Captain Matthews are the only survivors.” Winans looked to his first officer for confirmation. “Mr Renner?”

Renner, a dark-haired young man with a round, mobile face and the air of someone trying to appear more mature than his years stood by the door. He straightened. “That’s the size of it, sir. Some scraps of wreckage, but no bodies. Fog didn’t help us, mind,” he added pointedly.

At the mention of bodies, the captain’s jaw flexed. Hawkwood guessed that Winans was contemplating the entry this would necessitate in the steamboat’s log. Presumably such collisions could have a detrimental effect on one’s career prospects.

“You ask me,” Lawrence muttered darkly, “drowning was too good for the bastards.”

Captain Winans stared hard at Lawrence, his eyes scrutinizing the graze on the major’s forehead. He frowned. Then, shoving the charts aside, he drew a notepad towards him and picked up his pen. “I shall require details. The name of the vessel was …?”

“The Snake,” Hawkwood said, “out of Whitehall. The master’s name was Stagg.”

It was almost comical the way the captain’s pen paused in mid-air. A tiny bead of ink dropped from the nib to the notepad beneath, splattering minute black speckles across the open page.