Konrad clapped his hands to his side, standing so straight that he leaned backward. In a high, monotonous, unaccented voice he said loudly, “Cheneral Gates iss der greadest cheneral in der vurld.” Then he looked at Cap with eager attention. Cap hooked his thumbs in his belt, surveyed Konrad proudly, and strolled away carelessly. Suddenly he turned and raised a forefinger as a signal. Konrad protruded his tongue and forced air noisily around it, making a disgusting sound at which Tom Bickford, Joseph Phipps and Lewis Vincent laughed until they cried.

Cap glowed with pride. “Didn’t take over fourteen or fifteen hours to learn him that. Konrad’s smart!”

“Look here,” I said, “can’t you think about anything but Konrad?”

Cap eyed me morosely. “What else would I think about?”

“What else? Why, anything else that’s of interest to me! How did Lewis Vincent get here? How is it you can go gunning for British pickets without having your scalps snatched off? Have you heard any news of—any news of my brother?”

Tom Bickford answered for him. “That was the first thing we asked Lewis Vincent, Cap’n Peter, when he got away and joined us. He couldn’t get away till after the western Indians went home. That’s how it happens we’re able to be so free with their pickets.”

He spoke more earnestly. “It’s lots of fun, Cap’n Peter: honest. There aren’t any Indians to bother us, hardly. They went home a week after Jennie McCrae was killed. They felt Burgoyne was being too strict with ’em.”

“Listen!” Cap said savagely. “For three years I ain’t heard about nothing but war! I’ve had war for breakfast, war for dinner, war for supper—and damned little else! I’ve had war morning, noon and night, and some of the nights have been a week long. I’ve had a bellyful of war, out in these damned dark woods, playing tag with wolves and dead men, and not knowing when some red-coated poop-head’ll pop around in back of me and blow off the top of my skull. For God’s sake, shut up about the war! Lemme talk to Konrad and forget about it for five minutes, will you?”

Doc scanned him closely. “You’re sick.”

“I ain’t sick!” Cap shouted. “I’m tired of this lousy war! I’m tired of folks that tell you to do things they ain’t got the gizzard to do themselves! I’m tired of that clay-faced louse Gates and that little antimire Wilkinson, prowling around here and getting the credit for what me and George Washington and Schuyler and Arnold done! For God’s sake, ain’t it enough to have to fight in a lousy war like this without having to talk about it?”