The landlord had peered at them blearily before shaking his head. What rooms the tavern did possess were already taken, but if they were prepared to invest in a jug and a couple of tankards they were welcome to make use of the settles by the fire. The least he could do, he’d told them, for our brave infantrymen.

Hawkwood was still wearing his stolen tunic while Lawrence’s uniform was partially visible at the collar of his greatcoat. As the latter was neither regulation blue nor make-do grey but British scarlet, Hawkwood assumed their host was either colour blind or conveniently unfamiliar with American regimental colours. Whatever his motivation, the offer had been gratefully accepted.

After they’d seen their mounts quartered in the adjoining and equally unprepossessing stable, they had returned to the taproom’s warmth. Too late for a hot supper as well, the landlord had advised them apologetically, but there was bread and some cheese and a wedge of beef pie, which they were welcome to if they didn’t mind the latter being served cold.

They didn’t mind at all, Lawrence had replied, while throwing Hawkwood a broad wink behind the landlord’s back.

Having seen to the food, the landlord had bid them a good night. His only instruction upon departing for his own bed had been for them to keep an eye on the fire and to prevent the embers from falling out of the hearth.

Consisting of three houses and the tavern, the hamlet was too small to warrant a name. From what they could tell in the darkness, there wasn’t a lot to recommend the place other than its position in relation to the post road and its distance from Greenbush.

It had been after midnight when they arrived. Hawkwood had been unsure how far they’d travelled until he spotted the mileage marker on the hamlet’s outskirts. If the figure was accurate, Albany lay some twenty-five miles behind them. He would have preferred to put a greater distance between them and their pursuers, but there were risks involved in travelling over unfamiliar country in the dark at speed. And even though their horses were army dispatch mounts and thus used to being ridden hard, it was clear they had reached their limit. Had they been domestic nags, he reflected, they’d likely have expired several miles back. The only respite the sweat-caked animals had been given was when they slowed to walking pace upon approaching any village on their route, so as avoid waking the slumbering townsfolk and drawing notice to themselves.

For the most part they had stuck to the main road, maintaining their direction north, up through Troy to Lansingburgh, where Hawkwood had thought about using the bridge to re-cross the river. Realizing that this would entail yet another crossing of the Hudson further upstream, probably at Fort Edward, he had opted to remain on the east bank.