As he’d made the way across the lobby towards the sergeant-clerk on duty, footsteps echoing, Quade had ignored the stares of curiosity. That, of course, had piqued the onlookers’ curiosity even more, as he’d known it would. The clerk’s head, however, had remained obstinately bowed. Only when Quade announced himself had the sergeant deigned to look up; clearly unimpressed, he informed the major that he was in the wrong building – prisoner processing was next door.

A tense stand-off had followed during which Quade tried to stare the sergeant down, demanding that General Dearborn be informed that Major Harlan Quade of the 13th Infantry was reporting for special duties as ordered and that he’d come bearing gifts. The major had then handed the sergeant the ‘wanted’ notice, with an instruction to deliver it to the general.

The sergeant – whose eyes had widened briefly as they took in the escort and prisoners – had taken the proffered notice. But instead of scurrying off, he had told Quade that the general was indisposed. And no, Colonel Pike wasn’t available either. He was supervising the construction work down at the river encampment.

To his credit, Quade had recognized that another outburst would get him nowhere. Instead he placed his hand on his sword hilt in a significant manner. That had been enough to stir the sergeant to state hurriedly that Colonel Simonds, 6th Infantry, might, after all, be available and would the major care to wait?

The sergeant had disappeared at a trot, returning with the news that Colonel Simonds would indeed grant an audience. However the colonel had given strict orders that both prisoners and their escort must remain behind, detained under lock and key at the colonel’s pleasure.

That had been the last time Hawkwood and Lawrence had seen the major. No doubt he was busy promoting himself as man of the hour, acquainting anyone who would listen with a list of Hawkwood and Lawrence’s offences and an account of how he’d brought the two dangerous fugitives to justice.

At least this time we don’t have to walk, thought Hawkwood as they emerged from the gaol’s side entrance to find a canvas-covered wagon waiting.

“You’d think the bugger would have come to wave us off,” Lawrence murmured as he and Hawkwood were ordered to climb aboard. The escort followed.

As the wagon pulled away, Hawkwood looked back.

Another time, Quade, he thought.

“Well, they’re not taking us back to the ferry,” Lawrence observed quietly.

They’d only been on the road a matter of minutes, but the unfamiliarity of the streets told Hawkwood the major was right. They were not retracing their route. Instead, they were veering west, away from the lake.