Throwing up his right hand, Hawkwood caught the knife man’s wrist and twisted it to lock the arm before slamming the heel of his left hand against the braced elbow. The man yelled as the bone broke and the knife joined the cudgel on the ground. Hawkwood released the arm and stepped back.

“Your choice, gentlemen,” he said calmly, already knowing the answer. “What’ll it be?”

The two men turned tail. At least they’ve one good arm and one good leg between them, Hawkwood thought as he watched them hobble away. He kicked the discarded weapons into the shadows and reached down to the kneeling man who stared back at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Gripping Hawkwood’s hand and using his cane as support he rose to his feet and brushed himself down, allowing Hawkwood a glimpse of a uniform jacket beneath the coat.

“Well I don’t know who you are, friend, but I’m damned glad you were in the neighbourhood. The name’s Quade. Major Harlan Quade, Thirteenth Regiment of Infantry.”

The major held on to Hawkwood’s hand.

“Hooper,” Hawkwood said. “Captain Matthew Hooper.”

“I’ll be damned. Well, in that case, Captain Hooper, I hope you’ll allow a major to buy a captain a drink.”

Hawkwood ran a quick eye over what he could see of the major’s tunic and smiled. “Happy to accept, sir. It’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

Major Quade was currently on medical furlough from wounds sustained on the Niagara Frontier. Watching him stare into the depths of his whiskey glass, Hawkwood wondered if the major’s invitation might not have been born out of a desire for companionship rather than as a gesture to thank him for coming to the man’s rescue.

Not that it wasn’t gratifying to be appreciated every now and again, but Hawkwood suspected it was the rye that was doing most of the talking and he’d already asked himself: if the major had been in civilian dress and had he not identified himself as a ranking officer, would he still have accepted the offer of a drink?

Probably not, but the greatcoat and a glimpse of the uniform beneath it had made Hawkwood’s decision for him. A military man would likely have information about the disposition of local troops, and given Hawkwood’s current status as a foreign combatant on enemy soil it could prove useful to know which areas were best avoided.

They were seated at a table in the Eagle Tavern, less than a stone’s toss from the Hudson River. It was a comfortable enough establishment, with a generous selection of liquors, a moderately civil staff and, more importantly, a welcoming fire in the hearth.