We came into the valley helter skelter—men from Learned’s brigade of Continentals running alongside Morgan’s and Dearborn’s men: men from Poor’s brigade of Continentals scuttling here and there, looking for their own companies and not finding them. There were no companies: there seemed to be no captains: no order: no rallying point—nothing but a confusion of shouting and running.

Nason caught me by the arm. “There’s Morgan.” Morgan was ahead of us, his face scarlet, bawling words nobody could hear. Nason pulled at me. “Come on! For God’s sake, come on!”

Out in front of us Arnold, too, was shouting, his voice shrill and rasping. With his sword he made sweeping, scythe-like motions. His horse pranced and caracoled with excitement. Men hurried toward him, shouting unintelligibly. They were mostly Continentals and militia, among them a few of Morgan’s men.

“They’re going with Arnold,” I shouted at Nason.

“We’re with Morgan, you damned fool!” he said.

Cap Huff, his mouth wide open and his face dripping perspiration, couldn’t take his eyes off Arnold.

Nason kicked him violently. “Get down the road where you belong! Follow Morgan!”

Cap and Doc turned and ran. I called to Joseph Phipps and we hurried with Nason after Cap. We caught up with a ragged drift of Morgan’s riflemen, some of Dearborn’s among them, a group of bewildered-looking Continentals and a few wild-eyed militia.

I looked back. Arnold was reining his prancing, curveting mare off the road, toward the nearer of the two fortified hills, and after him poured a yelling mob, waving their muskets above them.

Arnold whirled the mare. She bucked and kicked; then set off at a canter toward that silent nearer hill. Behind him raced his motley assemblage of soldiers.

Out from the forest poured more militia and more Continentals; more militia and still more militia. Some followed us down the road, but mostly they spread out, fan-wise, to scramble after Arnold.

The sight of those frantic, joyous soldiers, howling and running through the fields behind that speeding officer in blue and buff, made me feel I had somehow lost the chance to do great things.

That feeling lessened when the top of the hill toward which Arnold was charging erupted in smoke, flashes and thunderings. The whole valley shook with the crashing din. Momentarily I expected the mob following Arnold to falter, to throw themselves down, to go tumbling back whence they came.

They did nothing of the sort. They ran on and on, behind the galloping Arnold: ran to the base of the hill and started running up it.

All this I saw as I went hurrying toward the silent farther hill, pushed on by Nason, who ran at my elbow. I wondered whether that hill, too, contained within itself companion thunderings to those that crashed and rolled unendingly from the hilltop toward which Arnold and his mob were pressing. I wondered how far beyond that hill, and where, Nathaniel was—Nathaniel and Ellen Phipps.

*    *    *