Cap’s voice was incredulous. “Lincoln! I saw him once. He’s the fat one, ain’t he?”

Nason nodded.

Cap snorted. “How the hell would Lincoln lead us? He’s so fat he can’t straddle a horse! If he led us, he’d have to be pushed in a wheelbarrow! How would you feel if you was being encouraged to climb that hill at Freeman’s Farm by a fat general in a wheelbarrow? My God, Stevie, how’d you like to have to push him? Somebody’d have to!”

Nason said nothing.

“Stevie,” Cap said, “Arnold ain’t going to leave us, is he?”

“Yes. He’s asked Gates for a pass for himself and his aides, so he can go down and join Washington, where he’ll be allowed to make himself useful.”

Cap made an ineffectual hissing sound. We sat there, staring at the darkness of the forest across the ravine. I saw from the attitude of these men that in all that Northern Army there was only one leader in whom they had confidence. Without him, I wondered, what would become of all of us?

Konrad lifted the kettle from the fire—a stew of boiled meat and potatoes. We took it from him and ate in silence.

When we were finished, Cap studied his knuckles. “If we ain’t responsible to nobody but Arnold,” he said to Nason, “and if Arnold’s going to leave the army, why don’t we take it easy tonight? Why don’t we stay right here and get a good night’s sleep?”

“We’ll do the same as usual,” Nason told him. “Those British pickets have to be tended to, no matter what happens to Arnold.”

Cap rose and stretched himself. “Well, it’s dark enough, ain’t it? What you waiting for?”

“What’ll I do?” I asked Nason. “I told Varick I’d see Arnold tonight.”

“Keep away from him,” Nason said. “You’re under my orders. You’ll kill pickets with the rest of us.”

Tom, Cap, Joseph Phipps and the others gathered up their muskets, powder horns, hatchets and shot-pouches. Konrad, standing stiffly by the small fire before the lean-to, was shivering.

Doc stepped close to him. “Why,” he said feebly, “he’s crying. He’s crying his eyes out!”

Cap came and looked in Konrad’s face. “Yes,” he admitted, “he certainly is! I wisht I could break him of it. Every time we go out picket-shooting, he cries. Sometimes he cries mornings and afternoons too. What you s’pose is the matter with him, old Catamount?”

“Prob’ly he’s homesick,” Doc said mildly. “Prob’ly he gets to thinking he won’t never see no one he likes, ever again.”