Wilkinson pounded noisily on General St. Clair’s door and went in. In a moment I heard the general protesting bitterly. “Good God, Wilkinson! They couldn’t! How could they ever get to the top of Mount Defiance!”

Arnold’s swarthy, laughing face came to my mind. In my imagination I heard his high-pitched voice, saying what Cap had described him as saying—“the first thing the British would do, gentlemen, would be to put a few guns on that height over there; and right about that time, gentlemen, you’d start running, being as how that hilltop commands not only the fort, but both roads to the south!”

I wondered why Arnold seemed to see things his fellows couldn’t see—why his brain leaped straight to the heart of problems that confronted him, while others fumbled and failed to understand; closed their eyes; dodged the truth as if it were some terrible disease.

The door of St. Clair’s quarters flew open and St. Clair hurried out, followed closely by Wilkinson. They went to the south gun platform, and I after them; for I was more than ever determined, in the light of this latest news, to find berths for Doc and myself aboard one of the galleys.

From the battlements the fort and the waters it commanded, on that hot July 4th, was a heartening spectacle. Beneath us lay the narrow, glassy lake; facing us was the dark slope of Mount Independence, scarred with trenches and surmounted by a fort of palisades. Stretched across the channel, a mile to the northward, was the close-packed line of British vessels, idle and useless-looking. Near at hand the heavy guns on the platforms looked numerous enough and powerful enough to blow all of England to fragments. If ever a place seemed to defy attackers, it was this stone fort.

Except for the line of vessels to the north, there was no sign of an enemy. Every gun was silent: the ragged sentries walked their posts as heedlessly as though every Briton were in far-off Albion. There was nothing to threaten the serenity of the scene—nothing but that wisp of smoke above Mount Defiance. Yet that wisp of smoke was more ominous than any storm-cloud. It meant that the British had marched completely around us, ascended an inaccessible peak, and stood between us and the Hudson.

St. Clair, reconnoitering the mountain-top through a telescope, fumed and fussed. “Wipe off that glass!” he told Wilkinson. “Damn that blasted thing! Here, wipe it off!” He wiped it off himself and again studied the top of Mount Defiance. He handed the glass to Wilkinson.

“What do you see?” St. Clair demanded.

“Two Indians,” Wilkinson said. “There’s somebody that looks like an engineer officer—yes, and an artilleryman. Blue: he’s got a blue uniform. Yes, he’s artillery!”