To make matters worse, the site wasn’t even flat. The bulk of the accommodations ranged across the side of a steep hill. Thick stands of pine occupied the high ground while the lower reaches ended in bluffs at the foot of which could be seen the river, flowing between gaps in the trees. Despite there being two prime ingredients – timber and water – within easy reach, it wasn’t the first place Hawkwood would have chosen to set up a camp.

And it was still expanding. At the edges of the wood, trees were being felled and branches lopped and stripped to provide material for small wooden cabins, two rows of which had already been raised along the crest of the hill.

It was hard to estimate the number of souls in situ, despite the amount of canvas on view, as there seemed just as many men making use of bivouacs as there were in tents, while some of the shelters at the bottom of the hill looked to be made from little more than pitched blankets. There had to be a couple of thousand troops at least.

Hawkwood recalled the conversation they’d had with Renner. Transfixed by the scene before them, it wasn’t hard to see why the people of Plattsburg – who probably numbered less than a thousand – didn’t want their town to be overrun by this many military personnel, especially if there was sickness in the ranks.

“If they don’t get the rest of those cabins up soon,” Lawrence observed quietly, “there’s a lot of poor buggers who won’t see Christmas.”

Hawkwood wondered about camp discipline, for he could see that not everyone was engaged in the building work. Pockets of cold and hungry-looking men were huddled around the fires. From the air of despondency that hung over the place, and from the looks on faces, a high percentage of the occupants appeared to have already given up the fight.

The wagon cranked its way up the slope, heading towards an area of levelled ground upon which several tents had been pitched in the lee of two large, sentry-guarded huts and a quartet of spindly wooden poles from which fluttered a limp Stars and Stripes and a trio of equally despondent regimental pennants.

The wagon halted. A uniformed officer stepped forward.

Quade.

“Seems I spoke too soon,” Lawrence muttered as he and Hawkwood obeyed the order to climb down.

Beckoning the escort, Quade led the way to one of the huts. Officers’ accommodation, Hawkwood guessed. It didn’t matter if you were building a garrison or a temporary camp, officers’ quarters always took priority.

“Wait here.”

Ignoring the sentries’ lacklustre salutes, Quade entered the hut and disappeared. Two seconds later, he was back.

“Bring them.”

Inside the hut, four men were gathered around a table strewn with documents. They looked up as Quade re-entered.

“The prisoners, Colonel,” Quade announced.