“That’s enough for you,” Nason told Cap. To Whitcomb he said, “I’ll take the information I asked for, and I’ll take it now.”

There was a trace of surprise in Whitcomb’s voice. “I guess maybe there’s something in what you say. Let’s see, now. Most of those stories about Arnold came from folks that got a good deal of sympathy for Colonel Easton and Major Brown. Appears to me I never heard anybody talk so violent about anyone as the colonel and the major did about Arnold when they went through here.”

“Where were they going?” Nason asked.

“Near as I could make out,” Whitcomb said, “they were going to Congress to complain about Arnold and try to get higher rank.”

“Higher rank for Easton!” Cap Huff cried. “What rank’s he entitled to? Regimental wet-nurse?”

Whitcomb shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know anything about that. There’s a lot of New Hampshire officers been listening to Easton and Brown, on account of the things Arnold’s been saying about Bedel and Hazen. They stick together pretty well, the New Hampshire officers do. There’s a good many of ’em think we’d get along better if the war could be put in the hands of New Hampshire men, without too much interference from strangers. They’re the ones that tell you how Arnold didn’t do anything in Montreal except steal. If Arnold ever gets into a court-martial, he’d better make sure there ain’t any New Hampshire men on the court.”

Nason stared at Whitcomb and Whitcomb contemplated the fire, in which eel bones still burned blue. I pretended to be half asleep; but I was a turmoil inside, wondering and wondering about the letters Ellen had carried from St. John’s for Easton and Brown. I dared not speak, for fear I might somehow set Nason on Nathaniel’s trail—somehow involve Nathaniel, and Ellen with him, in disaster.

“I don’t like it,” Nason said. “I don’t like any of it! There’s something queer in all this. It’s like a bad dream—one of those that make you say, ‘This happened before.’ Ever since Arnold made his first attack on Canada, nearly a year ago, lies about him have poured out of Canada. They poured out of Quebec; and now here they are, pouring out of Montreal!”

“They’re scared of him,” Cap Huff said. Apparently the effect of the thistled rum was wearing off. “It ain’t worth lying about anyone unless you’re scared of him.”

Whitcomb was thoughtful when he rose, and in his voice was a trace of discomfort. “I better go along with these boys and pick up the boats you need.” He slapped the remaining timbers calculatingly.