Prevost followed his gaze. “Pointe Lévy; it’s where Wolfe pitched camp during the siege. Took him three months to take the city. The Heights are to the south of us. How he managed to get troops and cannon up those damned cliffs beats me. Hell of a thing,” Prevost murmured, as if he couldn’t quite believe the deed had been considered, never mind accomplished.

Wolfe, Hawkwood knew, was General James Wolfe, who, a little over half a century before, after scaling the aforementioned cliffs, had defeated the French general, Montcalm, on the Plains of Abraham, the plateau that lay just outside the city’s walls. The battle had cost both generals their lives, but the Crown’s forces had prevailed and the victory had led, ultimately, to Britain gaining control of what had been, up until then, French Canada.

He looked northwards, to the basin, a broad expanse of gun-metal grey water framed by bleak, snow-covered hills and dotted with the sails of vessels battling gamely through rising swells.

“Your ship leaves on the morning tide,” Sir George said, reading Hawkwood’s mind. “She’s the frigate, Ariadne. She’s carrying dispatches for our masters in London. Fast, I’m told. You’ll be home within a month, all being well. I must say you’re dashed lucky you arrived here when you did. Another few days and there’s a good chance we’d have been iced in, leaving you stuck here until March.”

The Governor put his head on one side and said speculatively, “Glad to be going home, I expect, after your adventures. How long will you have been away?”

Hawkwood thought back. “Three months.”

It seemed longer.

“Soldiers and sailors, eh? You’d think we’d be used to it by now.”

Hawkwood felt like saying, But I’m not a bloody soldier; not any more. Even though he knew that wasn’t strictly true. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

Sir George would know that better than anyone, having joined his father’s regiment, the 60th Foot, as a twelve-year-old ensign. Rising through the ranks, after service in the West Indies, he’d held the posts of lieutenant-governor of St Lucia and governor of Dominica before being appointed lieutenant-governor of Nova Scotia and, eventually, President of Lower Canada.

A not-too-tall, not-too-stout man, with thick side-burns framing affable features, Prevost’s demeanour reminded Hawkwood more of a yeoman farmer than an army commander and senior diplomat, but his record spoke for itself.

“It’ll be Christmas aboard, then,” Sir George followed on cheerfully. “Hard tack and holly. Extra rations of grog, though, eh?” He grinned.

Christmas?

Hawkwood kept forgetting. Not that it mattered. It was the thought of another bloody sea voyage that occupied his mind, rather than a round of festive sea shanties, if there were such things. He supposed he would find out soon enough. He groaned inwardly.

“You said your goodbyes to Major Lawrence?” Sir George asked.