In spite of Nason’s dark looks, Cap burst into a profane account of the Battle of Hubbardton: how Warner had disobeyed orders and stopped six miles short of where he was supposed to stop; how Hale’s regiment had run away and then surrendered; how Leonard’s and Wells’s Massachusetts militia regiments had cursed their officers, laughed at discipline, fled hell-bent from the British, and finally been sent home by St. Clair because the Continental troops were being infected by their licentious, disorderly behavior.

Arnold cut short Cap’s violent ravings with a wave of his hand. “That’s nothing! Nothing! Men are bound to get out of hand in a retreat, unless they’re under proper discipline, and led by men who know their business—know how to give ’em confidence. As for militia, it’s God’s wonder they ever fight at all, when every last one of ’em’s counting the days before he can go home.” He grew suddenly irascible. “I’ll say this for ’em, too: they’ve never failed me yet, which is more than I can say for some gentlemen who consider themselves vastly superior to militia—too superior to provide them with clothing, food or bullets!”

He was, I knew, referring to Congress, but Cap breathed heavily beneath Arnold’s sharp glance. “General,” he said defensively, “I ain’t been any place where I could pick up enough food to provide for all these militia around here. I can’t even get nothing for myself, General!”

Arnold cocked a quizzical eye at Nason and resumed his questioning of us. I had heard it said that no officer in our armies kept himself so well informed concerning the enemy as Arnold. I understood, now, why this was so; for he thought of fifty questions to ask in the length of time any other officer would be thinking of one. He pried and pried into our brains, fishing out things we ourselves had forgotten we knew. Above all else, he was possessed to know how many there were of everything: how many Germans with Burgoyne; how many Canadians, how many Indians, how many sutlers, how many women; how many ox carts, how many other carts; how many trees we had felled on Wood Creek; how many bridges we had destroyed.

When he had pumped us dry, he looked at the notes he had made during our talk and tucked them in a slot on his field-desk. “That means hard work,” he said. “Hard work. According to present count, General Schuyler tells me, Burgoyne has seven thousand men, and we’ve got four thousand. Nearly three thousand of those are Continentals. They’ve got us outnumbered pretty nearly two to one, but if you’ll keep close watch on ’em, so they don’t surprise us, we’ll contrive to lead ’em into a trap somewhere.”

Cap, who had been squirming, suddenly bawled: “Tell the general the one about the silver bullets, Stevie.”