“Oh,” Arnold said, “I was sent up here to make myself useful, so I volunteered. I’ll go to its relief. I’ll take a brigade and start tomorrow.” His glance was satirical. “We all have our troubles, you see. I just had word from Congress that they’d voted on whether to restore me to my proper rank or not. They voted not to do it. Yes, they saw no reason for doing so. And in spite of all Schuyler’s done for their safety, they voted to call him down to Philadelphia to face a court-martial. He’ll be relieved of his command, and he’ll sit in a hot room in Philadelphia, trying to prove he isn’t a traitor—trying to satisfy a lot of politicians that he hasn’t played the coward.”

His words made me sweat. “Who’ll take his place?”

Arnold seemed not to hear. “I mention these things because you’ve got your work cut out for you, and because injustices improve your vocabulary. If you get men for us in New England, you’ll have to ignore your personal troubles. You’ll have to be in a rage over the injustice and pettiness that’s got this country by the throat!” He jumped up suddenly and thrust his swarthy face close to mine. “You’ll have to forget everything but our needs! Coax ’em! Shout at ’em! Fight ’em! Hammer ’em! Curse ’em! Get men, and more men, and more men! By God, they’ve got to come out! They’ve got to fight! They’ve got to stand a little part of the things we’ve stood! They can’t stay back there, rotting in their feather beds, chewing and spitting and stuffing themselves with food while we’re chased and shot at like rats! God damn it, they can’t! They can’t!”

He sat down as suddenly as he had risen. My throat was dry; I was shaking all over.

“Can you do that?” Arnold asked quietly. “Can you forget your brother and do that?”

“Yes,” I said. The word choked me.

Arnold nodded. “Then there’s nothing more to be said, except this: I haven’t recommended you for promotion, because if you’re promoted you’ll have to spend most of your time writing letters asking for things that don’t exist and explaining something you didn’t do to people who won’t believe you, no matter what you write. I want you to stay a captain, like Nason, until we have less need for good scouts. Understand?”

When I said I did, he glowered at me. “You’ve been a good officer, and don’t think I’m not appreciative. Sometime I may be able to show you that I am.”