The major had long legs. He was equal to Hawkwood in height and about the same age, give or take a year, though his dark hair was shorter, cut back from a widow’s peak and greying at a faster rate. There was also a gaunt aspect to his features, which, Hawkwood thought, could have been due to his injury. Or it could have been from the trauma of reliving his ordeal. That might also have accounted for the haunted look in his eyes.

It occurred to Hawkwood that the more the major drank, the more his looks matched his mood. For while the alcohol appeared to be having little effect on either his balance or his vocabulary, it grew apparent that he was becoming more morose with each sip. Hawkwood suspected that if Quade were to drink to excess he would not be a happy drunk.

Men like Quade were nothing new; officers unwilling to accept their own failings while finding constant fault with others, usually men of a more senior rank. Though if half of what Quade had told him was true, it was small wonder the man was feeling bloody. The American army appeared to be in a sorry state, with a lack of experienced soldiers of all ranks, not to mention supplies and weaponry and even horses for their recently created dragoon regiments.

According to Quade, some enlisted men were having to fight in bare feet because there was a shortage of boots. The major’s own uniform jacket was brown and not the regulation blue because there was a dearth of indigo cloth.

Hawkwood tried to imagine what the British army would do if there wasn’t enough scarlet weave. It didn’t bear thinking about. But then, until this latest conflict, the Americans hadn’t been involved in a war on home soil since gaining their independence. Little wonder they were at a disadvantage when they were trying to rebuild their army.

The major was from Virginian military stock. It had been the young Quade’s intention to study artillery and engineering at Fort Clinton, until his father advised him that a new professional army was being formed to combat the threat from the north-western Indian tribes who, a year previously in a bloody battle on the Wabash River, had inflicted the greatest defeat upon the United States Army by a native foe. Quade had been one of the United States Legion’s first recruits.

“We got our revenge at Fallen Timbers,” he told Hawkwood. “They had no option after that. They had to sign the damned peace treaty.”

Hawkwood presumed that Fallen Timbers was a battle the Indians had lost. Quade obviously expected him to know about it. Probably best, Hawkwood thought, to remain silent and not disabuse the major of that particular notion.