AT TICONDEROGA, in those next few days, everything was wrong. No sooner had we crossed back to the fort from Cap’s cabin on the steamy noon of July 3rd, 1777, than Whitcomb took Cap and Joseph Phipps from me and sent them off on private business. The rest of the day Doc and I spent in search of clothes, which were scarce as gold gorgets. Half the Continental troops were garbed in ragged homespun; and the militia were scarecrows, unkempt and shambling, their officers strangers to discipline, drill and neatness. Yet even the militiamen felt free to laugh at our leggins, belt cloths and shaven heads.

By nightfall Doc had swapped his shaman’s bonnet for a shirt and something that had once been a coat. I had begged a shirt and a pair of breeches from two Massachusetts militiamen, and had found and washed a handkerchief for my naked poll; but at that, Doc and I might rightly have been considered the worst-dressed men in General St. Clair’s army.

It was on the 4th that the storm began to break. I had gone to Wilkinson to ask for an assignment—something at which Doc and I could busy ourselves. He still held a grudge against me because of my former closeness to Arnold, and regarded me owlishly with jaw muscles all a-throb. “The general hasn’t made up his mind, yet, how to use you, Captain. You’ll have to be patient. The general has a great deal on his mind, Captain. We’ve entered you on the rolls.” He gave me a condescending nod. “You’ll have your pay as from July 1st.”

“I can get along without pay, Major,” I said, “but I can’t get along without work—not at a time like this. There’s five armed vessels off Mount Independence, Major. Some of them look pretty familiar to me. Put me in command of one of ’em. You haven’t forgot I sailed the Congress galley, have you?”

He shook his head. “That was a most unfortunate affair,” he murmured. “Not only throwing away his ships, as he did, but setting his vessel afire and leaving his wounded to be burned to death.”

He moved his jaw muscles in a deliberate manner, a profound ass if I ever saw one.

“He?” I asked. “Do you mean Arnold? Where did you hear any such story as that, Major?”

“Oh, it was told to Congress on trustworthy authority.”

“Trustworthy authority be damned,” I said. “Congress was also told on good authority that General Burgoyne had no intention of attacking Ticonderoga this summer. Congress told General St. Clair he needn’t look for Burgoyne in this direction; but he’s here, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” he said, “but that makes no difference. We’ll beat them off.” He was exactly what Cap had called him: a tit-wit.