Schuyler looked up at me. His eyes tilted upward at the outer corners, and his lips seemed on the point of puckering, as if to whistle thoughtfully. “Indians?” he asked in a courteous voice. “What Indians took you, and where?”

I told him the barest outline of our captivity. He stared from me to Doc as my tale progressed. “Just a moment!” he said, at one point. “You say you saw St. Leger’s force. How many Indians were with him?”

“Eight hundred,” I said.

Doc coughed deprecatingly. “And a lousy lot they were! You give me the proper medical supplies, General, and I bet I could scare all eight hundred of ’em so they’d run three times around Lake Superior without stopping.”

“No doubt,” Schuyler said dryly. “No doubt.” To me he added: “This is a remarkable story you tell me. Have you any documents to corroborate it?”

“Documents!” Doc exclaimed. “Them Sacs and Foxes ain’t noted for writing documents much, General. We was lucky to get away with our pants and a layer of paint. We ain’t even seen anything that looked like a document since Valcour Island.”

I unbuttoned my shirt and silently offered, for the general’s inspection, the tattooed eagle on my chest. To Doc I said, “Show him yours.”

Protesting modestly, Doc pulled up his shirt and then, abruptly brazen, thrust his naked breastbone almost against Schuyler’s long nose. “Old Shaman Means and his favorite pet rooster, General,” he said. “I don’t give everyone a view of him free of charge.”

“There, there!” Schuyler exclaimed testily. “That’s enough!” He waved Doc away and sat contemplating us for a moment or two. Then he moved suddenly in his camp chair, as if irritated. “You’ve earned a rest,” he said, “but you can’t have it. I can’t spare a man from here, so if you’re expecting to join General Arnold, I can’t offer you much encouragement.” He looked at me haughtily, as though ready for a protest. I think he thought that because I was a New Englander, I might make difficulties about serving under him, as did so many of our New Englanders—especially the militiamen.

“General,” Doc said, “we’re almostrested to death.”

“There’s several things I can put you to doing,” Schuyler said. “I’m sending men out to locate St. Clair, and there’s messages to be carried up the Mohawk.”

The thought of being sent away to a place where I could do nothing to save Nathaniel from the consequences of his folly—where I could take no steps to help him in case, by some miracle, the opportunity arose—was dismaying.