The clerk had referred Hawkwood to the wall behind his counter, upon which was suspended, to use the clerk’s own description, ‘this most excellent map by Mr Samuel Lewis of Philadelphia’. Following the clerk’s finger, Hawkwood had seen that both roads were clearly defined.

Two choices, then, Hawkwood thought as he folded his own map away. Remain in Albany until the northern post road was passable, which could turn out to be a very long wait; or try the ferry route. If he chose the latter, at least he’d be on the move and heading in the right direction.

Johnstown.

The name continued to hover at the corner of his mind, like an uninvited guest hidden behind a half-opened door. Hawkwood pushed the memories away, back into the shadows, forcing himself to concentrate on the more pressing task in hand.

The jetty for the local ferries lay at the end of the steamboat quay. It struck Hawkwood as he set off that the clerk had failed to mention the steamboat when giving him his directions. Hawkwood assumed that was because Albany and not Troy was the vessel’s terminus. Either that or the clerk had a questionable sense of humour and had wanted Hawkwood to get the shock of this life if and when the damned thing turned up and he was in the vicinity.

In which case, the plot had worked.

It was a pity Nathaniel Jago wasn’t here, Hawkwood reflected. His former sergeant and staunch ally, who’d protected his back from Corunna to the slums of London’s Ratcliffe Highway, would certainly have had something to say on the matter, even if it was only to remark that they were both a bloody long way from home.

And even as that thought crossed his mind, there rose within him the reality that the statement would only have been half. For Hawkwood was probably closer to home now than he had been at any time in the last thirty years.

Johnstown.

The slow clip-clop of iron-shod hooves and the creak of an ungreased axle came from behind. Hawkwood stepped aside to allow the vehicle room.

It was as he glanced up that he became aware of the expressions on the faces of the people around him. Some appeared curious; others strangely subdued, while a few displayed a more unfathomable expression which could have been interpreted as sympathy. Intrigued, Hawkwood followed their gaze.

It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.

Of the dozen or so uniformed men seated or slumped in the back of the mud-splattered wagon, more than half wore their tunics in full view while the rest wore theirs beneath shabby greatcoats. All were bare-headed save for a couple sporting black shakos. The ones whose heads were not bowed gazed about listlessly, their pale, unshaven faces reflecting the resignation in their eyes.