Gates made the note on the requisition. I tried again to ask what strength the British would bring against us, but he interrupted me. “According to my understanding, all these row-galleys have an outlandish rig.”

“Lateen,” I said. “Two masts, with a lateen sail on each.”

Gates shook his head. “Never heard of such a thing! You’ll have to keep watch on the riggers and see you get what you want. Don’t spend a minute here that you don’t have to! Not a minute! It’ll be terrible if the British come down from St. John’s, and catch Arnold without the ships he’s counting most on!”

“Sir,” I said, “I’d like to know whether I can depend on the services of one of my best men—Steven Nason. He went north on a scout a month ago and—–”

Gates stopped me with an uplifted hand: then rose from his desk and went to the narrow window that looked out on the parade ground. The sentries on the battlements were staring down at some common object of interest; and I could hear a confused gabbling and cheering.

Wilkinson came into the room with an appearance of exaggerated coolness, but his jaw-muscles were throbbing.

“Sir,” he said, “before crossing to Mount Independence, I ventured to prosecute my search for Captain Merrill’s—–”

“What’s that noise?” Gates interrupted. “For God’s sake, Wilky, get to the point!”

“Sir,” Wilkinson said, “it’s a messenger from General Arnold with two prisoners—two officers.”

Gates peered from the window again: then turned an exasperated glare on Wilkinson. “What two officers?”

“British,” Wilkinson said. “Two British officers. It’s that Whitcomb again. Whitcomb took them.” There was disparagement and expostulation in his voice.

“Whitcomb!” Gates exclaimed. “Whitcomb!” He hopped slightly, ejaculating, “Ha! Whitcomb! Ha, ha! Whitcomb!” as if in uncontrollable delight.

The gabbling and cheering grew louder. Through the window we saw soldiers sweep through the gate of the fort and spread out, fanwise, on the parade ground, to stare at three figures in the center. One was Steven Nason. The others were blindfolded and wore gaudy scarlet coats. Their waistcoats were scarlet as well, and their white breeches snugly bound with black gaiters. On their heads were closefitting caps of black leather with a metal plate sticking up in the front, as if to protect their foreheads from bullets. They might have been snatched straight out of St. James’s Park instead of captured in the middle of a wilderness.

I was as interested in them as was the crowd; for they were the first Britishers any of us had seen at close range.

Gates fussed about his desk, straightening his papers. “Go back to your vessel, Captain,” he told me. “This is an omen; a good omen! You asked me for Nason, and yonder he is, with conquered British—very pat! very pat! Yes, we’ll take it as a sign from heaven!”