He shot himself in over the bulwarks as easily as a boy vaults a fence, ran to the main hatch and peered down it: then turned to the quarterdeck where I, working on the taffrail, stood open-mouthed, wondering whether to tell him about the row-galleys now, or wait until later.

He laughed silently, his teeth tight together. “Good! A tidy little craft! When’ll you put her in?”

“Any time,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

“That’s right! Get her in! Where’s the plans for that Spanish galley?”

“In my bunk up yonder.”

“Get ’em!” he said. “Get ’em!”

He limped aft, down the steep slope of the deck, to stand beside me: hung over the larboard taffrail to squint forward: crossed to the starboard taffrail and did likewise: then faced me and nodded approvingly. “Good!” he said again. “Come up to headquarters, right away! We’ll get at it!”

He sprang up on the taffrail, jumped into space, caught at the staging, and went down a post, hand under hand.

Regardless of the questioning of the carpenters who swarmed around me on his departure, I scrambled to the ground and ran for the bunk-house. The very act of running brought home to me the difference between Arnold and every other officer with whom I had dealt. When other officers gave orders, men obeyed them. When Arnold gave orders, men ran to obey them.

… The windows of the front corner room of Skene’s big house were open as I came up the slope, and Arnold’s high, rasping voice brought me up the steps in a hurry. In the corner room I found General Waterbury, slumped in a chair behind a roughly made table, his lips pursed in a sour smile, while Arnold leaned over the table and thumped it with his fist to emphasize his words. At the end of the table sat Wynkoop, stolid and motionless, except for his beady black eyes, which followed Arnold’s movements as if hopeful of catching him in a blunder.

“Why,” Arnold said, as I came in, “if they’d put a tenth—yes, by God, a hundredth—of the effort into building this fleet that they do into building their measly, pocky privateers, we could blow Burgoyne halfway to Portugal!”

He turned and saw me. “Here he is!” Over his shoulder to Waterbury, he added, “This is Captain Peter Merrill of Arundel. He sailed his own brig to Spain, and I figure on having him handle one of ours for us.” To me he said: “Where’s those drawings?”

I handed him what I had—drawings made on cartridge paper. He unrolled them and spread them on the table in front of Waterbury, weighting the corners with rocks; then shot a quick glance at me.

“As I understand it,” he said, “you haven’t laid down any row-galleys yet.”

“No sir,” I said. “We started to do so, but there wasn’t sufficient material to let us get forward with them.”