Goddamned weather, Quade thought, though he knew, despite the damp and the poor visibility that the fog couldn’t have come at a more opportune time for it gave his attacking force a distinct advantage. In parts, it was almost impossible to see further than a hundred yards in any direction. If conditions persisted, they’d be on top of the British positions before the Limeys even knew they were there.

By Quade’s estimation, they had crossed the border a little over a mile back, though the measurement was somewhat nebulous due to the fog and because every mile of forest looked like every other mile of forest. Moreover there had been no actual physical barrier to deter the column’s advance; indeed, had it not been for the crude marker half-buried at the side of the track, on the northern face of which was chipped a very rough letter Q and on the opposite the letters NY, it would have been hard to tell where one country ended and the other began.

From the maps he’d studied, Quade knew there was a creek up ahead. Not that wide, he’d been advised, or deep, but the banks were steep enough to have required the construction of a simple log bridge to facilitate the movement of wheeled traffic.

When the end of the bridge came into view, Quade found himself buoyed by an unexpected yet undeniable frisson of pleasure. The real border may already have been crossed, but there had been little sense of occasion. It was only now, as he approached the crude-cut, snow-covered timbers, that the true meaning of what he was about to achieve struck home. Caesar may have had the Rubicon and Washington the Delaware, but to Major Harlan Quade, the crossing of this narrow, insignificant creek felt just as symbolic.

It also occurred to him, then, that he should have made his way to the front of the line to lead the troops over himself, but by the time the bridge appeared through the fog, the van was already halfway across. Annoyed with himself for having missed an opportunity, Quade had little option but to follow on behind.

The van had reached the far bank and Quade was only a yard or two away from guiding his horse on to the span when the first call came from the woods on the other side: three screeches in swift succession, answered a moment later by a similar squawk from within the trees on the opposite side of the road.

Crows, Quade thought. He hated the damned birds. They reminded him of churchyards and tombstones.

The next sound was more animal than birdlike: a shrill bark that set the nerve ends jangling. It sounded like a dog fox staking claim to its territory. The fog added to the unearthly quality of the moment. So much so that Quade felt a cold shiver dart along the back of his neck.