Johnson smiled. He’d become used to his second-in-command’s dry sense of humour. Scott, a former lieutenant in the Company of Select Marksmen, had been assigned to the expedition by Governor Haldimand. Even though their time together had been short, the two officers had formed a strong bond.

“Splendid! I’d feel insulted if they weren’t.”

Scott returned the smile, shifted in his saddle and winced. The colonel and he were the only officers on horseback; their mounts had been donated by a Loyalist sympathizer whose farm lay adjacent to the invasion route. Neither of the animals had taken kindly to having a new rider and it showed in their skittishness. To add to his discomfort, Scott, unlike his colonel, was not a natural horseman.

“We’ll take a rest,” Johnson said, reining in. “Thirty minutes. It’ll give the stragglers a chance to catch up. Pass the word. Deploy piquets. The men may smoke if they wish.”

“Yes, sir.” Hoping his relief didn’t show, Scott turned his horse about and trotted back down the column to relay the order.

The colonel rested his hands on the pommel. Taking a deep lungful of air, he let it out slowly and gazed about him, first at the forest and then at the trail running through the trees ahead of them. Though it was referred to as a road, the description was a misnomer. In reality it was no more than a rough dirt track; for the most part wide enough to accommodate a heavy wagon or half a dozen men marching abreast, but here and there, in short stretches where the path had become overgrown, there was hardly room for two men to walk side by side.

Every four or five miles the trail would open on to a clearing where two or more paths converged. Usually, the wider trail was the correct one, but in some instances it was only by referring to the compass that the column had been able to maintain its course. That and by following ancient wheel ruts which, although worn shallow with age and crumbling at the edges, were still visible beneath the layer of pine needles and the animal tracks that decorated the forest floor.

Often, the indentations would give a clue as to who and what might have gone before, with some of the deeper impressions hinting at army ordnance, further proof that the roads were of military manufacture or had been utilized by troops over the years. A quarter of a century before, Johnson’s own father would have made use of such pathways to move soldiers and equipment against the armies of the French general, Montcalm.

The plaintive call of a whip-poor-will rang out from the woods to Johnson’s right. His gaze switched as he attempted to trace the bird’s location, but with the shadows among the trees constantly shifting, it was an impossible task.