“The major has a vivid imagination,” Hawkwood said. “Not that it matters, seeing as you’re going to shoot us anyway. But I’ve had better things to do, frankly. Hell, until Quade dragged us here, I didn’t think you had anything worth spying on.”

Hawkwood saw the two white men at the table tense. Pike’s chin came up again. “Explain yourself!”

“This place,” Hawkwood said. “This camp, the condition of your men. They’re in no fit state to fight a war. I doubt they were up to the job even when Madison threw down the damned gauntlet back in June.” He flicked a glance towards Quade. “Your regular troops have had no fighting experience. Neither have most of your officers, save for people like the major here. Those who did fight in your revolution are likely too damned old to be efficient. General Dearborn, for example. That’s why you call him ‘Granny’, yes?”

Hawkwood had picked that up from the newspapers. It was debatable whether it was a term of affection or ridicule. He saw Quade flinch.

“And your men are housed in this hellhole while the militia have buggered off home for Christmas. It’s no wonder you suffered bloody noses at Detroit and Queenston. If Quebec could see this place, they’d be wondering what all the fuss was about. You Americans are no threat. I wasn’t sure about that until the major shipped us here. Now I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I know it for a fact.”

“You know nothing!” Quade cut in. “Soon, you’ll see—”

“Major!” Pike said sharply, before running the handkerchief across his lips.

“If you’re thinking about the boats,” Hawkwood said, “we saw those too. Mind you, that many, they’d be hard to miss.” He smiled at Quade. “Cat’s out of the bag, Major. You should have brought us the long way round.”

“You’ve got yourself quite an armada, Colonel,” Lawrence said. “We’re impressed. We heard about the batteaux back in Whitehall. Didn’t put two and two together until we came here, though.”

“I’m still not convinced,” Hawkwood said. “Can’t see the snow holding off for much longer. Winters here can be a bitch. So, if you’re going, you’ll need to move soon. Meanwhile, your men are dropping like flies. It doesn’t look promising.”

Then Pike coughed.

It wasn’t a small cough, the sort to subdue a tickle at the back of the throat. Neither was it a polite cough that a person might use to draw attention to what was about to be said. No, this was a sudden, deep, wet, throat-clearing cough that started down in the lungs and exploded in a crescendo of hacking and hawking that sounded as though Pike’s internal organs were being torn loose and would soon be expelled across the insides of the hut.