We slid out into the lake, set a course between the point of Grand Isle and the high shores of Valcour Island, and were off on our long journey to the northward—a journey that we hoped, as do all those who go off to war, would bring us nothing but comradeship and gay adventure, and perhaps a little glory.

When Cap had indiscreetly aired his opinions of the financial abilities of Congress, he questioned Verrieul in a hoarse and angry voice concerning the Indians who might be used against us by the English—provided we had heard correctly in London from Marie de Sabrevois.

“You want to listen to this, Cap’n Peter,” he told me, while Verrieul pondered. “You never can tell when information about these red weasels might come in handy.” Cap was profane, and put no curb on his tongue where Indians were concerned when he was with me; though in Nason’s presence he sometimes contented himself with looking contemptuous when red men were mentioned.

“Weasels?” Verrieul asked. “Which ones do you call weasels?”

“All of ’em!” Cap said. “They’re all a lot of dirty, thieving, red weasels! Cut your throat quick as a wink, and can’t hold their liquor!”

“How about your friend Natanis of whom I’ve heard you speak?” Verrieul asked. “How many throats has he cut?”

Cap was indignant. “Don’t get the wrong idea about Natanis. He’s a friend. He’s different, Natanis is. Stevie saved his life once. We’ve all kind of helped each other a few times.”

“But dirty, eh?”

“I told you he was different,” Cap said. “He really ain’t an Indian, except for having an Indian father and mother and a red hide. He don’t even drink, the poor iggorollamus: he don’t understand nothing about pleasure at all!”

Verrieul nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s a strange thing about Indians. We find them peculiar because, although they are called savage, they are often as civilized as white men, and sometimes more so.”

“Like hell they are!” Cap said. “How are they?”

“Because,” Verrieul said, “in every Indian nation, even the worst, there are many good men, and more honest ones, and even some that are merciful toward their enemies, which is against all common sense. White men, being civilized and not at all savage, avoid common sense as much as possible; but all Indians, whether good or bad, are taught to have a high regard for common sense. Those that are merciful, therefore, are merciful in spite of their teachings; whereas white men, who are forever taught to be merciful, are often the opposite.”

Cap scratched his head. “I don’t see no sense to what you say! Why is it against common sense to be merciful to an enemy?”

“Look,” Verrieul said. “We’re making war against the English. We make war against them in order to kill them, do we not?”

“For sure we do!”