Sir George looked at him. “You make it sound like a game of cricket. Just as well we bowled the buggers out, eh? Explains why the Yankees never took it up!”

Dear God, Hawkwood thought. Shoot me now.

The Governor’s face turned serious. “If they had achieved their objective, it would’ve been a close-run thing. We’re spread too thin. I have less than six thousand regular troops at my disposal – and that’s for the whole country. London can’t spare us reinforcements. Europe takes precedent.”

“What about the militia?”

“On paper, around seventy thousand in Lower Canada. That might sound more than sufficient, but the Yankees have a hundred thousand – and more waiting in the wings. In truth, I doubt either side has any idea how many will rally to the flag.”

“So you need all the help you can get?”

“Indeed we do. I am exceeding grateful that, in this particular case, we had the help of your Mohawk friends – and I have affirmed that gratitude in my dispatches to Lord Bathurst.”

Hawkwood wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say thank you, Lord Bathurst being the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies and therefore a figure of some importance. But he was still a bloody politician and Hawkwood, as a rule, despised politicians – present company currently excepted. So, instead, he said, “Thank God for de Salaberry, too. If it hadn’t been for his arrival …”

“Indeed,” said Sir George. “Good thing I listened to him. It was at his insistence that I agreed to set up the Voltigeurs. They’ve certainly proved their worth. A hard taskmaster, I’m told, but needs must when the devil drives, eh?”

“Frankly, sir, he could have turned up wearing a cap and bells and I wouldn’t have minded. He was there when he was needed. That’s what counted.”

Sir George laughed. “Cap and bells! Now, there’s a sight I’d pay to see! Y’know, he fought a duel once. Cut his rival in half, it’s said.”

Hawkwood wasn’t sure how to respond to that, either, though he recalled there had been a slight but interesting indentation on de Salaberry’s forehead which could well have been an old scar from a sabre slash.

“How are your wounds, by the way?” Sir George enquired.

“Mending, sir; thank you.”

Fortunately, the bayonet graze had been just that; inconvenient but not life-threatening. The wound in his upper arm had needed more attention, a process that had involved several sutures along with the liberal use of Surgeon Brossard’s rapidly depleting stock of alcohol and another herb poultice, courtesy of the Kahnawákeró:non medicine man.