LITMIR.BIZ

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good, sir.” The lieutenant nodded. “You have luggage, Major?” There was no hint of suspicion or even surprise on the aide’s face, which suggested the lieutenant was well used to dealing with his general’s last-minute whims and would probably have been equally unabashed had the general introduced the newcomer as the Sultan of Rangoon.

      “I regret I was separated from my valise. I’ve made arrangements for it to be sent on. I’m carrying all I need.” He indicated the knapsack.

       If he asks for my papers, it’s all over.

      “A pity the same couldn’t be said for our Marshal Marmont,” Souham said as his lieutenant disappeared once more. “Do his cooks still travel with him?”

      He nodded. “All twelve of them, General.”

      “A hell of a way to go to war.” The general parked the cheroot in the corner of his mouth and shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

      The aide was back again, his message delivered. “The coach is ready, sir.”

      Souham nodded. “Right, thank you, Lieutenant. You can relax. Go and get yourself a drink. And mind the bastards don’t serve you from the bottom of the cask.” He turned and removed the cheroot from his lips. “Shall we, Major?”

      They left the hotel and the driver held the coach door open as he followed the general up the steps. It occurred to him, as he took his seat and the driver retracted the steps and closed the door behind him, that he hadn’t bought a ticket.

      As if reading his mind, Souham smiled. “You can spread yourself out, Major. We have the vehicle to ourselves. Rank, as they say, has its privileges.”

      He breathed a sigh of relief. It meant they weren’t likely to be disturbed until they’d reached their destination. He recalled then that Souham wasn’t only a general; he was also a count. He’d received the title after his victory at the battle of Vich; the same engagement that had cost him his eye.

      There was a jolt as the driver released the brake and then the coach moved slowly off.

      The general removed his hat and ran a hand through his thinning locks.

      “So, Major, I’ve a cousin who served with Rochambeau during your war of independence. He tells me that America is a beautiful country.”

      “Indeed it is, sir.”

      Jesus, he thought.

      He wondered how long he’d be able to maintain the charade. What he knew of America he’d gleaned only from his service in the West Indies, during conversations with American merchants in Dominica and St Christopher. He knew a little about the eastern side of the country. Everywhere else was a mystery.

      “So you’ve never been there yourself, General?” he ventured.

      Souham shook his head. “Sadly no.”

      Maybe the gods are back with me, he thought.

      A vision of the moments before his capture came into his mind. He saw the dragoon lieutenant raise the sword – his sword – and drive it home. As the light died in Leon’s eyes he felt the spark of anger deep within him; as if a tiny ember had burst into flame. Somehow, he would make them pay. He didn’t know how. But one day he would exact his revenge for the death of his friend.

      The vision faded. He realized his fists were clenched and that the general was gazing at him with a quizzical expression.

      “Forgive me, sir,” he heard himself say, while risking what he hoped was a rueful smile. “It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I’m a long way from home.”

      Souham shook his head. “No need to apologize, Major. You’re not alone in that. We all are.”

      From outside, above the noise of the coach in motion, there came the sound of hooves on cobbles as a body of horsemen entered the square. He heard voices, someone shouting orders, but the words were indistinct. Parting the blind, he looked out into the night, to where the riders were milling. Torches flickered. He could see dark uniforms and darker-coloured shakos.

      Chasseurs.

      As calmly as he could, he readjusted the blind and sat back.

      “Your aide had better get a move on, General, if he wants to slake his thirst. There’s a unit of cavalry out there who look like they’re about to drink the town dry.”

      The coach hit a pothole and bounced. The noise of the horsemen faded, drowned by the trundle of the coach wheels as they left the square behind. He felt his pulse begin to slow.

      Across from him, General Souham’s right eye glinted with amusement. “I fear you’ve severely underestimated Lieutenant Bellac’s determination where alcohol is concerned.”

      Taking another pull on the last inch of cheroot, the general smiled. “So, Major,” he said, settling himself back into his seat. “We’ve a ways to go. To pass the time, you can tell me all about America.”

      As he watched the light of expectation steal across the general’s face, the thought struck him that this had all the beginnings of a very long night.

      Chapter 2

      Hawkwood waited for the attack. He knew it was coming and he knew it was imminent. Timing his retaliation would be crucial.

      The inscrutable expression on his opponent’s face wasn’t helping matters.

      It seemed to Hawkwood that Chen hadn’t moved a muscle for at least five minutes. It was as if the Chinaman was carved from stone. Neither did he appear to be breathing hard, which was just as disconcerting, but then in their brief association Hawkwood couldn’t recall a time when Chen had ever broken sweat.

      While he, on the other hand, was perspiring like a pig on a spit.

      It wasn’t as if the room was warm. In fact, it wasn’t really a room at all. It was a cellar and it was situated beneath the Rope and Anchor public house which sat in a grubby lane a spit away from Queen Street on the border between Ratcliffe and Limehouse. Tallow candles set in metal brackets around the walls and in a wagon-wheel chandelier suspended by a rope from the centre of the ceiling were the only sources of illumination.

      The rest of the walls were bare save for a row of metal hooks by the door, from which were suspended Hawkwood’s coat and jacket and what looked like an array of farming implements and a selection of tools that would not have looked out of place in a blacksmith’s forge.

      The cellar’s flagstoned floor was covered by a layer of straw-filled mattresses, thin enough so as not to hamper movement and yet of sufficient bulk to absorb the weight of the cellar’s occupants and to prevent injury were they to stumble and lose their footing. They were also there to dampen sound.

      Aside from Hawkwood and Chen, the cellar was empty, though anyone entering who happened to glance over their shoulder towards one of the darkened corners would have been forgiven for thinking there was someone standing in the shadows watching proceedings. A closer inspection, however, would have revealed the figure to be merely a crude wooden effigy. Though even that description would have required a degree of imagination, for the effigy was in fact nothing more ominous than an oaken pillar into which had been inserted four limb-shaped spars. It had been constructed to represent a man’s body with arms extended, but to the uninitiated it looked more like a leafless tree trunk.

      Chen launched his strike. He seemed to do it with a minimum of effort and without a noticeable change of expression. In fact he didn’t so much move as flow. Candlelight whispered along the blade as the knife curved towards Hawkwood’s belly.

      Hawkwood stepped into the attack and drove the tipstaff against Chen’s wrist, turning the blade away.

      Both men stepped back.

      “Good,” Chen said softly, his face betraying no emotion. “Again.”

      Unlike Hawkwood, Chen was wearing

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