It was not Dominicus, nor the fife, however, that moved me, but a small flat-backed figure, marching beside the column and nearly at its rear; nor did I recognize that figure until I heard Cap Huff bawling for Steven Nason, and saw Cap galloping down the road like a moose to fall in step beside it.

It was Steven Nason’s wife, Phoebe. She wore tow-cloth leggins tucked into moccasins and held up with a red sash over tow-cloth breeches; and her blue-checked shirt was open at the neck. A blue handkerchief was knotted around her head; and at her throat was a string of brown beads. When she came nearer I saw that dust had caked black on her lips, so I knew she had traveled hard through the hottest part of the day. Nevertheless there was a cheerfulness to her smile that put me in mind of an eager spaniel: never too weary to be alert and gay.

“I promised these men they’d have the best there is,” I heard her tell Cap. “Find Steven and look after it, and I’ll see you after we’ve reported and got ’em settled.”

She left Cap and trotted ahead to the front of the line. I saw her pointing to Skene’s big house. The sound of the fife was smothered in the hurroaring and whistling that greeted these welcome newcomers as they swung up the slope.

… Just to look at Phoebe, later, as she sat beside our fire, eating Zelph’s pone and catfish stew, was enough to hearten us; but she had news that was more heartening still.

She had come by way of Rumford; then had cut across to the Hudson and up it, so her charges might have good roads on which to make forced marches.

“There were two regiments in Saratoga,” she said. “Connecticut regiments, with a brigadier general in command.” She eyed Cap Huff meaningly. “They’re bound for here, so to stand guard over you and see you tend to work, instead of spending your days in riotous living.”

“Connecticut regiments!” Cap growled. “Pirates! They’ll be trying to work off their clay coffee beans and wooden nutmegs on us!”

“Who’s the general?” Nason asked.

“Waterbury,” Phoebe said.

“My God,” Cap bawled, “there’s another general I never heard of! Why in God’s name don’t they send us a general that knows something—somebody like Arnold or Schuyler?”

“I don’t know how true it is,” Phoebe said, “but Waterbury’s men claim they’re coming to join Arnold. According to them, it’s Arnold and Waterbury who’ll be in charge of building the fleet.”

“In charge hell!” Cap muttered. “They can’t chew hay and spit spikes and oakum, can they?” More hopefully he added: “If that’s true about Arnold, maybe he’ll let us undress those two regiments, if they got clothes, and calk the vessels with their pants.”