Albany, rather than Greenbush, was shown due to its significance as the state capital. It was surmounted by a drawing of a fort topped by the stars and stripes. The next nearest American military presence deserving of capital letters and distinguishable by another tiny fort, was Plattsburg, where Dearborn had set up his winter camp.

Hawkwood shifted his gaze north, at the river and the landscape that lay beyond. He’d been fresh from a return visit to the State Street coach office and mulling over the choices that had been presented to him by the ticket clerk when he’d encountered the major. Now that Quade had confirmed his suspicions over which was the most advantageous route to Canada, there was still the mode of transport to consider. Hawkwood had no intention of walking all the way to the border.

Albany had received its capital status due to it having become the centre of commerce for the north-eastern states. Post roads ran through the city like spokes on a wheel. The most important one – referred to by the clerk as the Mohawk Turnpike – which led directly eastwards through Schenectady to Utica and on to Sackets Harbor, Hawkwood had already dismissed. It was only when the clerk had listed the intermediate halts along the route, that a cold hand had clamped itself around his heart at the mention of one particular name.

Johnstown.

It was a name from a life time ago and one he’d not thought of for many years. Knowing that his reaction must have shown and aware that the clerk was giving him an odd look, Hawkwood had forced his mind to return to the present.

There was an alternative route, the clerk told him. The northern turnpike, which formed part of the New York to Montreal post road. Though, unfortunately, it was also prone to flooding after heavy rain. In fact, the clerk had warned, stretches of it between Albany and Saratoga had already become impassable due to the recent torrents.

What about the river? Hawkwood had enquired, his mind half occupied with trying to shut out the echo from his past.

The clerk had shaken his head. The Hudson was only navigable as far as Troy, six miles upstream. There might be batteaux travelling further north, but Hawkwood would have to investigate that possibility himself by talking to one of the local boat captains.

Hawkwood had been on the point of turning away when the clerk said, “Might I suggest the ferry to Troy, sir? You could pick up the eastern post road there. It runs all the way to Kingsbury and from there along the old wagon road to Fort George, where it links on to the turnpike you would have taken. See here …”