I thought, as I looked at them, that Tom was not far wrong when he spoke of them as ghosts. Some half carried, half dragged, sick men between them. Others hobbled as they walked, seemingly sunk in meditation. They were ragged and draggled, and there was a dreadful suggestion of decay about them, as if they had been corpses that had hung on gallows in wind and weather; and then, cut down, haggardly marched in this retreat.

I saw a cart piled high with supplies; another cart loaded with sick, their faces bloated and discolored with the smallpox: then more supply carts, and more armed stragglers. In their rear was a detachment trying to march in columns of fours, but not succeeding. Gaunt officers marched alongside and exhorted them; while two drummers, thumping wearily on drums the shape of wine-kegs, beat the time. The men slouched along, half asleep, yet wakeful enough, sometimes, to glance back, hollow-eyed, over their shoulders.

As the column passed us, I saw that they were the last of all, so I knew they were Arnold’s rear guard. Far down the road behind them I saw a single rider, pelting lickety-split on a black horse. He drew rein just before he reached the last rank, near where I sat, finishing the eel stew.

It was Arnold, in a blue uniform and high boots. His silver gorget glittered, and there was something hard and bright about him, as if he had been newly polished from top to toe.

“All right, boys,” he called in a voice that might have been considered harsh, but had more of an exciting quality to it than mere harshness—a quality that drove away the last of my numbness and confusion. “All right, boys—keep at it, boys! Not a Britisher within ten miles, and the last bridge burnt! Another hour and we’ll get a full meal into you!”

One of the men in the ranks coughed. “What you got for us today, General? Half an ounce o’ salt pork and one bean?”

There was a sound of sniffing in the ragged lines; and I knew the men must be in fair spirits in spite of their appearance; for in some parts of New England, notably in New Hampshire, a sniff is the equivalent of a hearty laugh in other sections.

Arnold touched his black horse with a spur. As it broke into a canter, Cap Huff thrust out a vast hand and shouted, “Hey, General!”

Arnold gave us a cold glance; then turned his horse in mid-stride and set him down close to us as neatly as a seaman lays a ship’s gig against a dock. “You needn’t wait for further orders,” he told Cap. “Take the first boat you can get to Isle aux Noix and send it back here for another load.”

“General,” Cap said, “where’s Steven Nason?”