Two maps displayed in a four-day-old edition of The War had eventually provided the information he’d been searching for: the disposition of British and American forces. One covered the operations around the Detroit River; the other reflected events that had taken place further east in New York State along the northern Canadian border and the Niagara Frontier. Studying the maps carefully while referring to the corresponding dispatches, it hadn’t taken long to deduce that if he was to try to reach the British lines, three escape routes were available to him – none of which looked in the least inviting. There was no need to make a decision there and then, however, because no matter which route he ended up taking, all roads led to one inevitable transit point:

Albany.

What had made him hesitate, though only for a moment, had been the fact that Albany had recently been designated the headquarters of the American Army’s Northern Command.

Deciding that was a bridge he’d have to cross when he came to it, Hawkwood had surreptitiously extracted the New York map page from the newspaper and folded it into his pocket. As he’d left the Exchange, one thought remained uppermost in his mind.

No one had said it was going to be easy.

The coach had left Boston at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. His seaman’s bag having been swapped for a more convenient knapsack, Hawkwood had alighted from the coach at Albany’s State Street terminus at eight o’clock in the evening of the following day, a mere three days after his arrival on to American soil.

And more than twenty years since his departure.

The major caught the pot-man’s eye and raised his empty glass.

“I’ll have the same again and another brandy for my friend.” As the order was borne away, Quade began to massage his right thigh.

“How’s the leg?” Hawkwood asked.

“Stiff as a board and aching like the devil, but the surgeon told me I can probably return to duty by the end of the week.”

Quade didn’t look or sound that enthused by the prospect. From the exchanges they’d had so far, Hawkwood could understand why.

The drinks arrived.

“Whiskey for you, Major,” the pot-man said. “Brandy for the gentleman.”

If you only knew, Hawkwood thought. He took a swallow, savouring the warmth of the alcohol as it passed down his throat, and watched as Quade downed half the contents of the whiskey glass in one go.

“You were telling me about Queenston,” Hawkwood said.

Queenston was where the major had received his wounds. Not that Hawkwood was that curious as to how Quade had come by his injuries. He was more interested in what information the major might have regarding American and British troop emplacements.