Ever mindful of that warning, I tried again and again to see Roche-Fermoy. The whole place was in a hot and irritated turmoil, with men hurrying here and there, as ants run, suddenly frenzied, when a heavy foot descends too near their nest.

I was in a worse stew; for I could no more catch Roche-Fermoy and pin him down than I could a humming-bird. Doc and I haunted his quarters all that long afternoon, but to no avail. He was obliged to rest, his aide told us, after the Council of War. Then he was reported busy with his maps and papers. Then he was having his supper, at which he could not be disturbed, because he was making important plans—or so his aide said.

Toward sundown there was cannonading from the lake-shore. We saw two British gunboats leave the shelter of the line of British vessels, and advance as if to reconnoiter our boom and bridge of boats. They were driven back by a burst of gunfire; but this activity, and the turbulent banging of the guns, increased my rage at being held helpless by this irresponsible French adventurer.

At last, in desperation, I threw myself on the mercy of the aide, who had doubtless been given the position because he spoke French, and I hoped he knew more about French than about war.

“Look here,” I said, “I know you’re sick of the sight of me, but I’ve been promised a command on one of our vessels, and I haven’t got it. Can’t you write out an order and take it to the general to be signed?”

His eyes wavered. “Just at the moment it’s impossible. The general’s too occupied to be disturbed.”

Doc, standing meekly behind me, cleared his throat apologetically. “If he ain’t well, maybe I could help him out some.”

The aide shook his head. “He’s all right, but he’s had a tiring day and can’t be disturbed.”

“If he’s drunk,” Doc persisted, “I know how to fix him.”

The aide made an effort to look haughty, but only succeeded in looking worried. Unquestionably Doc was right. Roche-Fermoy was drunk—too drunk to be of any use.

“For God’s sake, can’t you help us out?” I asked the aide. “General St. Clair told me to come to General Roche-Fermoy, and here we are, hung up in the air like kite-tails, no good to anyone. Tell us what your orders are, so we’ll know what’s going on—so we’ll know what to do. It’s nearly night, and something’s going to happen! What is it?”

The aide looked helpless. “I haven’t had any orders! General Roche-Fermoy hasn’t issued any.” What he said was impossible, yet apparently the simple truth.