As part of his reconnaissance, Hawkwood had scanned the approach roads for sentry posts, but like the perimeter safeguards they’d been conspicuous by their absence. Even now, there appeared to be no piquets on duty at the access points. Could the Americans really be that complacent? Were they so confident in their might and their independence that they assumed no one would dare breach their unguarded perimeter? Well, he was about to prove them wrong.

Opening his greatcoat buttons so as to reveal a glimpse of the tunic beneath, he drew himself up, adjusted his hat, and strode confidently into the lions’ den.

It had been a few years since Hawkwood had last set foot in an army compound, but even if he’d been delivered into the cantonment blindfolded and in pitch-dark, he would have found his bearings almost immediately. Military camps the world over had an odour and an atmosphere all of their own. And so it was with Greenbush.

Hawkwood’s objective was the cantonment’s southern corner. He’d already marked the site of the stables but they would have been easy to find by sense of smell alone. The combination of horse piss, shit, leather and straw was unmistakable. The three blocks of stalls formed a U-shape around a yard, with a farrier’s hut positioned in the centre. Illuminated by lanterns hanging alongside the stable doors, the place looked to be deserted. It couldn’t be that easy, surely?

It wasn’t.

Someone laughed, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the evening. Hawkwood paused, looking for the source, and saw a faint beam of light leaking from a door at the end of the left-hand stable block. As he moved towards it, his ears caught the low murmur of voices and another dry, throaty chuckle. The exchange was followed by a rattling sound, as though several small pebbles were being rolled around the inside of a hollow log.

He paused, aware there were two choices now open to him. The first was to continue by stealth alone in the hope that he could achieve his objective without being discovered, which was unrealistic. The second carried an equal amount of risk, but was more overt and would involve a lot more nerve. If he could pull it off, though, he’d undoubtedly save time.

He decided to go with the second option.

Placing his knapsack against the wall, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Three men, coarse-faced and lank-haired, dressed in unbuttoned tunics, were seated at a rough table surrounded by walls festooned with tack. A small pile of coins and a tin mug sat by each man’s elbow. In the centre of the table a half-empty bottle of rye whiskey stood next to a lantern and a wooden platter containing a hunk of bread, some sliced ham and a wedge of pale yellow cheese with a small knife stuck in the centre of it.