Quade was rather pleased with that last statement. There was, in fact, an element of truth in it. When he’d suborned the troopers into his scheme, he’d done so using Colonel Pike’s name. They had been led to believe that, prior to his confinement, the colonel had ordered the death of the British spies who had slain two members of the 15th Infantry. The troopers, aggrieved by the Greenbush slayings and intent on retribution, had not questioned the order. So far as they were concerned, it had come down from their colonel. Therefore they were not being asked to commit murder but to deliver justice.

Quade pressed on. “Or it could be, sir, that they were averse to the prisoners being housed in one of the huts while brave American soldiers were out in the cold with only a blanket to keep them warm.” Adding, with a helpless shrug, “Who knows what was going through their minds? I fear that’s something we may never fathom.”

“Meanwhile,” Pearce snarled, “we’ve two armed British spies running loose around the countryside! God damn their eyes!”

It was hard to tell from the colonel’s menacing glare whether the curse was aimed at the insubordinate dead troopers or the two men who were now on the run. Best to remain silent, Quade thought.

Never having dealt with Pearce, he found it difficult to read the man. He knew that the colonel was about his own age, though they were from different backgrounds. A widower, Quade had heard, and a descendant of Scots-Irish immigrants, Pearce had been a soldier for almost twenty years, serving mostly with volunteer units, rising eventually to the rank of Major General, 3rd Division of Militia. It had been President Madison who, a month after the outbreak of hostilities, had called upon his services and appointed him colonel of the 16th Regiment.

Quade was reflecting on what that said about the quality of regular senior staff officers when the door opened, allowing a cold blast of air to enter. A sentry poked his head in.

“Captain Walker’s here, Colonel.”

“What?” Pearce barked, annoyed at the draught and the interruption. “Ah, yes, very well. Send him in.”

The sentry stood back as two figures entered the hut, one dressed in a buckskin coat and wide-brimmed hat, the other wearing a dark cloak.

“Amos,” Pearce said. He inclined his head towards the captain’s companion. “Cornelius.”

The Oneida warrior bowed his head briefly in return.

“You heard?” Pearce said to Walker.

Throwing Quade a glance of acknowledgement, the bearded man removed his hat. “I did.”

Pearce clicked his tongue. “Damnedest thing. The major and I have been discussing the matter. Question is, can we catch the bastards?”

Walker pursed his lips. “Any idea how long they’ve been gone?”