It was early evening when the woods finally gave way before them and the lights of Champlain village twinkled into view. A collective sigh of relief ran through the ranks.

Being close to the border, the village’s inhabitants had become used to the comings and goings of the military, but the place was small and they were not disposed to giving the troops free run. Quade took the column across the river and on to a site a mile to the north-east to set up camp. In the absence of tents, spruce branches were cut to make temporary bivouacs beneath the trees. Fires were lit.

Quade met with his officers.

“Less than two miles to the province, gentlemen. We’ve made excellent time.”

He looked around the semicircle of uniforms: a captain and two lieutenants from each company.

“We may be on our own ground but I do not want the men complacent. Set piquets. Two-hour watches. Make sure the fires stay lit. They will keep the cold at bay.”

Quade drew out a pocket watch and consulted the dial. “Silent réveillé at five-thirty. Inform your sergeants that I want all troops to check their weapons upon muster. Random inspections to be carried out. Anyone whose musket is not serviceable or who has damp powder is to be put on a charge. Punishment will be severe. Remind them they are regulars and not the Goddamned militia. Carry on.”

Watching the officers disperse, Quade helped himself to a mug of coffee. Adding some whiskey from a silver flask, he took a sip and rolled the drink around his tongue.

In the aftermath of the Greenbush incident, he was all too aware that the upcoming assault was likely to be his last chance to redeem himself. Both the Greenbush commandant and, latterly, Colonel Pearce had made it plain that the only reason Quade had retained his authority was because of the shortage of combat-experienced officers. One more wrong move and his name would be added to the list of officers who’d vanished into obscurity. Quade was determined that was never going to happen.

Lacolle would be his reprieve.

By Hawkwood’s reckoning, they’d been on the move for more than eight hours when, in the gathering dusk, Tewanias and Cageaga halted.

“We are being followed,” Cageaga said softly, speaking in Mohawk.

There was no alarm in his voice, which struck Hawkwood as odd.

“Oneida?” asked Lawrence, when the announcement was translated for his benefit. Looking anxiously through the trees, he slipped the musket off his shoulder. “You think they’ve found us?”

“I don’t think so,” said Hawkwood, frowning as he watched Tewanias. The war captain was staring back the way they had come with what appeared to be weary resignation.

“You might as well join us, boy,” Cageaga called softly. “I can smell you. You are also making more noise than a herd of elk.”