“Tewanias is his own man, Sir George. It’s true he’s unlikely to favour the American cause. He’ll either fight for the King or he’ll not fight at all. But his village has taken a mauling in lives lost. He may well choose the non-combatant option. In any case, the final decision will not be his to make. That will be up to the tribal council.”

“Then let us hope the council comes to the right decision.”

For them or you? Hawkwood wondered.

Sir George looked thoughtful. “A future task for our Major Lawrence, perhaps? I’ll have words with Colonel Pearson. He could dispatch the major to make a fresh overture on our behalf.”

Hawkwood said nothing, thinking: That’s what got us into this bloody mess in the first place.

Something must have shown on his face, for Sir George, perhaps in the realization that he’d been discussing military strategy with a man who was no longer a serving officer, then fell silent. Colonel de Salaberry, after two evenings of convivial discussion back at Lacolle, had been made privy to Hawkwood’s status and his reason for being in America. It was inconceivable that he would not have revealed something of Hawkwood’s background in his report. Not in great detail, perhaps, but he was sure to have informed his superior of Hawkwood’s former army service, with the emphasis on the word “former”. All this was conjecture, Hawkwood knew, but had he been in St George’s boots, he would have exercised a degree of caution, too.

“Anyway, it’s something to consider,” Sir George said, lowering his coat-tails. “For I suspect we’ve seen the last of the fighting this year, which’ll give the Yankees time to lick their wounds and reflect on their catalogue of defeats. With luck, they’ll sue for peace. It would be nice to look forward to spring, knowing we won’t have to watch our backs.”

Sir George looked towards the window. “I doubt we can say the same for Europe, though, eh? Can’t see Bonaparte capitulating any time soon – Frog bastard!” Turning, he smiled. “Forgive me. It’s this damned weather; makes a fellow prone to dyspepsia. Now, is there anything you require? You’ve managed to secure accommodation for this evening, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

In an inn close to the waterfront; the bill settled by army scrip, courtesy of the Adjutant General’s office.

“Very good. Then I won’t keep you. I suggest you treat yourself to a decent supper as well. It’ll give you something to remember when you’re tapping the weevils out of your biscuits!” Sir George extended his hand.

“Nothing wrong with weevils, sir,” Hawkwood said as they shook. “They help take your mind off the cheese.”

Sir George was left chuckling as Hawkwood closed the door behind him.