A wooden bridge appeared before them. The timbers grumbled loudly beneath the vehicles’ weight. Hawkwood gazed down at the swift-flowing water below. No reprieve there. The stream was too shallow to provide refuge. Besides, he’d already suffered one ducking. What was the point of another?

The settlement was changing as they moved inland. More buildings were coming into view. A few whose façades hinted at some kind of public service seemed quite new, suggesting there was more prosperity here than had first met the eye; probably a benefit of the pre-war, cross-border trade with Canada. The rest were the usual mix of houses, taverns, churches, stores and livery stables.

In the spring and summer, with the trees in full bloom, Hawkwood thought the place would probably have looked pleasant and welcoming. But not today, not with the winter skies and the bitter wind blowing off the bay. Though he had to concede that the gloom he attributed to the settlement could have been due to his and Lawrence’s collective mood. It wasn’t easy maintaining a cheerful disposition with the threat of a hangman’s noose looming over you.

It struck him as curious that their arrival had not drawn more attention. A few people had turned their heads to observe the procession from the harbour, but if they noticed the two civilians in greatcoats flanked by soldiers, they gave no sign. From the general air of indifference, it seemed Plattsburg’s residents had grown used to the movement of troops and equipment. A string of loaded wagons and a handful of marching men weren’t anything new.

Which had to be especially galling for Quade, Hawkwood reflected, given his obvious desire to be the centre of attention. Serve the crowing bugger right. What had he expected, a carpet of palm fronds?

The lead wagon came to a halt and one of the escorts turned. “We’re here, Major.”

“Here” was a large red-brick building that didn’t so much imply civic responsibility as shout it from its gabled rooftop, though notwithstanding the substantial frontage with its white-shuttered windows, clock tower and portico entrance, the words PLATTSBURG COURTHOUSE engraved into its Roman-style lintel did rather give the game away.

As the wagons moved off, a wooden sign to the right of the door caught Hawkwood’s eye. Carved into it, with considerably less precision than the words above the lintel, was the designation: HEADQUARTERS, UNITED STATES ARMY, NORTHEN DEPT.

Lawrence, following Hawkwood’s gaze, noted the misspelling and rolled his eyes. “Christ,” he whispered. “No wonder they’re bloody losing.”

Hawkwood did not reply. As he surveyed the building, a vision of Remus Stagg’s grinning visage came suddenly to mind as did a well-known phrase: revenge is sweet.

If the bastard was looking down on them – or, as was more likely, looking up – there was no doubt Stagg would be laughing his bloody head off.