“For God’s sake!” the sutler cried in exasperation. “How much rum you expect to drink, anyway?”

Doc glanced toward Sponge-belly and the others, hunkered down beside our canoe, still busy at their painting. He counted on his fingers. “Nine nice Injuns,” Doc said. “Nine nasty bottles.”

The sutler looked mulish. I untied my medicine bag. It was made of two mink skins, soft-tanned and almost black, so that it had value. I tossed it on the counter. “Six,” I told him, pointing to the bag and Doc’s bracelet. “You give six.”

Before he could answer, there was a heavy muffled thump, a distant thud, such as could only come from the far-off explosion of a big gun. Hard on its heels came a burst of thudding that struck against our ear-drums like padded hammers.

The sutler laughed triumphantly. “Hear that? They’re blowing hell out of ’em down there—seven thousand of the finest troops this rat-hole of a country ever saw! I’ll give five bottles for your damned Sac gew-gaws; not another drop!”

The women gathered in groups, staring into the blue haze to the southward. The thudding tumbled against us with a soft turbulence. Other women ran down from the tents to join the throng on the curved beach.

“Take it or leave it,” the sutler said, setting five bottles on the counter. “Come on: take ’em and go on up to Ticonderoga where you belong.”

Doc picked up the bottles and contrived to stuff all of them in his medicine bag, which, being a shaman’s bag, was large.

“You know my sister?” Joseph Phipps asked suddenly. “You know Ellen Phipps?”

“Your sister!” the sutler exclaimed. “What the hell you talking about! Damned if you ain’t the damnedest Injun ever I see! We don’t keep squaws in this camp.”

The thudding of the distant guns ceased as suddenly as it had started.

“Now what’s the reason for that?” the sutler cried. He made shooing motions. “Go on! Git out o’ here! I got to pack up this truck and get ready to move up with the army. They’ll knock hell out of these Americans in about half an hour, and then they’ll need food and licker.”

“My sister,” Joseph Phipps repeated. “She got brown hair. She kin to Burgoyne’s friend. You know that lady?”

The sutler stared at him, open-mouthed. “Burgoyne’s friend! Burgoyne’s friend! Now what in the name of God do you know about Burgoyne’s friend? Who do you think you’re talking about, anyway?”

“Marie de Sabrevois,” Joseph said.