“To keep ’em regular, you mean?” Lawrence grinned.

It was an old joke. People tended not to drink enough water in cold weather, a failing which often led to constipation – a curse of winter campaigning. It made Hawkwood wonder about the state of the troops at the river encampment. Though from the smell that had hit them on the approach, constipation would seem to have been the least of the camp’s problems.

“The Iroquois might be able to run thirty miles and fight a battle at the end of it,” Hawkwood added, “but I can’t see a Yankee column doing that. They’ll want to pitch camp and gather themselves before the assault, if there’s to be one, which will give us more time to catch up.”

“I’m wondering what in God’s name possessed ’em to march in December in the first place,” Lawrence muttered. “I said before; this is no time to launch an offensive.”

“That’s probably the reason,” Hawkwood said. “They know our troops won’t be expecting an attack. Plus they’ll be wondering about you and me and how close we are to the lines and whether we’ve managed to pass a warning. They’ll want to strike before reinforcements can be called up.”

Lawrence shook his head. “If it was your decision, would you attack now?”

“You’re asking me? I’m the one who’s considering going up against four hundred troopers with a handful of Indians and two white men trying to walk in snow shoes. What the hell do I know? Some would call us mad.”

“Fair point,” Lawrence conceded. “Still …”

“If I was to wager on why the Yankees are marching, I’d put my money on dented pride.”

Lawrence blinked. “Come again?”

“They’ve had a bad start to the war. Mackinac, Detroit, Queenston – all defeats. The buggers are smarting. They need a win, something to stir the blood and raise the spirits.”

“And for that they’re going to attack a blockhouse?”

“Which guards an important river. Giant oaks from little acorns, remember? They’re looking beyond Lacolle. They’ve Quebec in their sights. Seizing control of the Richelieu would be a nice way to see in the new year. There’s many who’d see it as an early Christmas present.”

“I’d rather have a cask of Madeira,” Lawrence quipped.

Hawkwood didn’t respond. He looked up. A gap had appeared unexpectedly in the clouds, revealing a widening patch of pale blue. It was the first clear sky they’d seen in days.

The sun shines on the righteous, Hawkwood thought.

Or it was supposed to.

Arriving at Chazy, the column halted. Quade gave the men permission to smoke and brew coffee. Those wishing to attend to more basic needs headed into the surrounding forest. An hour later, bellies replenished, bladders emptied and bowels voided, coffee dregs were poured on to the fires and the column moved off.