Snow had fallen during the night, but it had been a light feathering and not enough to deter the colonel from sending out his dispatch riders: one to the garrison on the Île aux Noix, the other to Montreal, via the north road.

“Gentlemen,” De Salaberry greeted Hawkwood and Lawrence warmly, “I confess I’m rather sorry to see you go. It’s been a while since we had such … stimulating company. Major Lawrence, I do not know how long this war will last, but it would not surprise me if our paths were to cross again. When that time comes, I only hope that it is under less … shall we say … dramatic circumstances.”

They were in de Salaberry’s quarters, which weren’t a whole lot different from Colonel Pike’s back in Plattsburg, Hawkwood noted. There were the same Spartan furnishings – bed, dresser, desk, chair and campaign chest – and the same earthen floor. The only difference was the open fire instead of a metal stove.

“So long as your surgeon remembers that whiskey’s for sipping and not for slopping, I shall look forward to it, too, Colonel.”

De Salaberry grinned. “I will tell him. Though, it might have been worse. He could have used my best cognac.”

Lawrence chuckled and then winced.

“Be sure to have your wounds looked at again by the surgeon in Montreal,” de Salaberry added chidingly.

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

“No, Major. Thank you.”

De Salaberry turned to Hawkwood. “And I have a message from Surgeon Brossard for you, too, Captain. Get your wounds checked, as well. They may not be vexing you at the moment, but we both know what conditions are like on-board ship. The last thing you need is for an infection to take hold while you are at sea. I’d hate to think of them wrapping your remains in a sail and dropping you overboard weighted down with lead shot.”

“Can’t say as I’d like it, either, Colonel,” Hawkwood said.

De Salaberry smiled and held out his hand to each of them in turn. “Good, then I wish you both a safe journey.”

The colonel returned to his desk and Hawkwood and Lawrence left the room. They were half a dozen paces away when the door opened suddenly behind them. The colonel stuck his head out and smiled. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I almost forgot …”

Both men paused.

The colonel raised a hand. “Joyeux Noël!”

And with that, he turned his back, re-entered the room and closed the door.

Hawkwood and Lawrence looked at each other.

“Well, it can’t be worse than my last one,” Hawkwood said.

They made their way outside. The dispatch rider bound for Île aux Noix had already departed. The Montreal-bound courier was waiting with the horses.