We needed no urging; for the body of redcoats that had moved out ahead of the main column had already passed the warehouses. Even in the twilight we could see the buckles on their belts, and hear the voices of their officers. They were beautiful to watch—as beautiful as the troops Nathaniel and I had seen parading in St. James’s Park before the King, but more dangerous.

The water hissed at the bow and along the sides as we dug in our oars. I could feel the whole boat lift when Cap Huff pulled and grunted.

“Roll on, roll on; my ball, roll on,” Verrieul sang softly behind me.

“What the hell you think this is?” Cap growled. “A funeral? Sing faster!”

He broke into a hoarse bellow about the three beautiful ducks—“Rouli, roulong, ma boule roulong—on roulong ma boule!” He went on with the song, singing it so rapidly that parts of it sounded like the gobbling of a turkey; and to that tune the clumsy brown boat went rapidly on its way to Isle aux Noix.

The scarlet-coated infantrymen came to a sudden halt abreast of the smoking ruins of the old barracks. “That’s right!” Arnold said, watching them. “Stop there! You might strike an ambush if you went on!” He turned from his scrutiny of the British troops and spoke to Wilkinson, who was fumbling unbelievingly in the pockets of his saddlebags. “Where’s my field-desk?” he asked. “I’ll write a few letters while the light holds.”

XXI

VALLEY FORGE, from what we heard of it in later days, was no health resort for the troops who wintered there, thanks to a Congress unable to supply them with food or money, and to the unwillingness of certain godly Quakers to sell to anyone but the British, who paid in gold. We heard a lot about it, too, especially from folk who had not been there; but less has been said about Isle aux Noix—possibly because its name is difficult to pronounce, but more likely because those who knew it best were glad enough to forget it.

As to which was the worse, Isle aux Noix or Valley Forge, I won’t try to say. It takes a wiser judge than any man I know to determine whether frozen feet are worse or better than smallpox, or whether it is more enjoyable to be starved by Quakers in the bitter cold or eaten alive by insects in the broiling heat. All I know is that since my sojourn on Isle aux Noix, I am no longer impressed by such preachers as threaten me with hell fire.