All the vessels of the fleet, when they left Skenesboro, had been unrigged and at loose ends, unballasted and ungunned, just short of total wrecks. Now they were shipshape and handsome, their canvas neatly furled and the new striped flag of the United Colonies whipping out from every masthead. It was a miracle, this crescent of fourteen armed vessels, their black guns staring open-mouthed at us—this makeshift fleet manned by half-clad landsmen, whose white skins showed through the slits in their beggars’ rags, but who still could swing their arms at us and howl a hearty welcome.

A ball of smoke popped from the side of the Royal Savage. A torrent of cheering echoed from the high slopes of Valcour, to vanish in the roar of the guns that saluted us and the thunder of our own replies, only to burst on us again as the smoke clouds drifted backward to cling in wisps among the pines and birches.

A boat slid out from under the counter of the Royal Savage. In the stern sheets sat a stocky, broad-shouldered figure, brightly uniformed, all blue and gold and buff. It was the general. He pointed to the center of the line, making a circling gesture.

I looked at Tom. He nodded. “She’ll go as she is,” he said. We shot into the middle of the crescent, like a rabbit plunging into a hole. Close on one side was the Washington, her yards already lashed and her sails brailed up: on the other side a gundelo with a single 12-pounder in her bows, two 9-pounders amidships, and a newly broached keg of rum in her stern. We were so close that the gabble of the crews was loud in our ears.

Tom turned our vessel on her heel and laid her between the Washington and the Royal Savage. “What’s the anchorage?” I asked the quarterdeck of the Royal Savage.

“Six fathom and good bottom!” they shouted.

By the time General Arnold came aboard, our anchor was down, our sails were clewed up against our two raking yards, and we rode as neatly between our neighbors as though our snub noses were made fast to the same boom.

Nason lined up the men for the general; and, considering that some of them were Bounty Boys who, less than a month before, had been called the very sweepings of hell, they made a smart appearance—as smart as any body of men can make when their breeches are in shreds and their coats no better.

The general was all business when he climbed over the side. He came to a stop before Nason’s marines, pushed his under lip out and up, and balanced himself with feet far apart. It was always hard to guess what he was thinking; and when he stared at something as he now stared at Nason’s scarecrows, his thoughts were usually miles away.