The third option was looking more inviting by the minute. But then it always had. Quade’s disclosures had merely confirmed what Hawkwood had already decided. If he was to have any chance of reaching safety, he should discount the western paths and take the shortest of the three routes: north, up through New York State. If he made for the closest point on the Canadian border, his journey would still involve the negotiation of a river but, unlike the Niagara and St Lawrence, the Hudson, because of its course, had the potential to be an ally rather than an enemy. Winter was approaching fast, however. If he was going to start his run, he’d need to do it quickly.

Though it wasn’t as if he’d be heading into unknown territory.

The flames in the hearth danced as a new batch of customers entered the tavern, bringing with them a heavy draught of cold air from the street outside. Hawkwood looked towards the door. The new arrivals were in uniform; grey jackets, as opposed to the tan of Quade’s tunic. As they took a table in the corner of the taproom, Quade eyed them balefully over the rim of his now-empty glass.

“Pikemen,” he murmured scornfully. “God save us. It’ll be battleaxes next.”

Hawkwood knew his puzzlement must have shown, for Quade said, “My apologies; a weak jest. They’re Zebulon Pike’s boys. Fifteenth Infantry. He’s had them in training across the river.”

“Across the river” meant the town of Greenbush. Hawkwood had been surprised and not a little thankful to discover that Albany wasn’t awash with military personnel. It had turned out that General Dearborn had set up his headquarters not in the town but in a new, specially constructed compound on the opposite side of the Hudson. This was much to the relief of the locals, who, while mindful of the economic advantages of having an army camped on their doorstep, didn’t want the inconvenience of several thousand troops living in their midst. It was a compromise that suited all parties.

“Battleaxes?” Hawkwood said, confused.

“Pike has this notion to equip his men with pole-arms. He’s introduced a new set of drills: a three-rank formation. First two ranks armed with muskets, the third with pike staffs. He reckons it’ll enable a battalion to deploy more men in a bayonet charge.”

“It does sound medieval,” Hawkwood agreed warily.

Quade grunted. “That was my thinking, though there could be some sense in it, I suppose. Most third ranks are next to useless when it comes to attacking in line. Even with bayonets fixed, their muskets are too short to be effective. A line of twelve-foot pikes would certainly do the trick. Would you face a line of men armed with twelve-foot pikes?”

“Only if I had fifteen-foot pikes,” Hawkwood said. “Or lots of guns.”