He dismissed me; and I, encouraged by his optimism as well as by the knowledge that at last I had friends to whom to turn, hurried to the south corner of the fort’s grass-grown embankments.

I came suddenly on Tom Bickford, crouched over a slab of curly maple, carving from it a new stock for his musket, and saw beyond him other familiar figures.

Tom, hearing my step, darted a quick, hard look at me—a look in which I saw none of the gentleness that had first drawn me to him. Then he leaped up to clap me on the shoulders. When the others joined us, their faces looked hard and forbidding, as had Tom’s. It was a hardness that must, I thought, have come from the trials they had borne. They were a staunch lot—Steven Nason, a half-drawn map in his hand; Joseph Phipps, a trim figure in a green hunting frock; Cap Huff, swinging an eighteen-inch trout fresh from the Hudson; Natanis, respectfully studying the eagle tattooed on Doc Means’s chest. The sight of these old friends of mine, all together, was a sharp reminder that Nathaniel ought to be among them; and to conceal my feelings I coughed harshly and said to Tom, “Well, I see you broke your musket.”

Tom dropped his hand from my shoulder and glanced at his musket, as if surprised to see it there. “Yes, Cap’n Peter. I broke it on a Britisher up at Hubbardton. We ain’t hardly had a minute to call our own since then—not till today.” In a hesitant voice he added, “We heard about Nathaniel. Cap told us. He can’t be right in his head, Cap’n Peter.”

“No,” I said. I forced myself to meet the gaze of each one of those who stood before me. Their faces, I suddenly saw, had nothing hard about them. They were no different than they ever had been, and the eyes fixed on mine were both shrewd and troubled.

“That’s what I told ’em,” Doc said. “Your brother’s sick. Anybody’s sick if he’s in love. He falls in love because he’s sick, and just being in love makes him sicker.”

“Well,” Nason said, “let’s get straightened out.” He glanced suspiciously at the crumbling ramparts above us: then moved out into the grassy meadow between the ramparts and the river. He sat on the warm turf, motioning me to sit beside him. Tom Bickford came too, with his block of curly maple, and Cap with his trout, which he disemboweled neatly with an expert thumb. The others sat in such a way that no one could approach us unseen.

“Well,” Nason said again, “we’re mighty glad to have you back. We thought you were dead. I guess you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes,” I said, “I am. So are you. We were close to the brink, all of us. You and Cap and Tom and—and Nathaniel.”

“Yes, I’m coming to that. I know all about it. Cap told me. He told me who your brother got acquainted with. I used to know that woman.”