"I SANK DOWN WEARILY IN A LONELY, HOMESICK STATE."

After a hundred years, the history of a major war fought by a successful nation is often looked back on by that nation with a sense of self-satisfaction.

Distance blurs the scene; haze hides the rough gaps in the spectacle until the long lines of victorious armies glide effortlessly across the horizon, with no chasm to interrupt their triumph.

Yet there is one group of people who can't look at the past through a false lens. The marks of their struggles are still visible on the land; the fight for survival was too brutal, and the scars are too profound to hide or cover up.

For us, the pages of the past turn brightly; battles, harshly marked, stand out clearly like our hills against the sky—because in this land we have no haze to blur the truth.

Treading the stark hallway of our Pantheon, we, too, finally arrive at victory—but what a victory! Not the familiar, gracious goddess, with her broad wings, crown, and wreaths, but a bare, desperate being, emaciated, fearless, turning her hard face to the west.

The passing years can't provide us with any golden dust to cover the sides of the hungry crowds that move across our skyline.

Our worn-out armies gather in a harsh, bright light, each soldier clear to see, each battle displayed in detail.

Pains they went through, we go through.

The faint-hearted who fail are seen by us as if they failed before the nation just yesterday; the brave are celebrated anew as we read; the traitor, to us, is not a ridiculous Guy Fawkes, but a current-day Judas.

We remember that Ethan Allen roared at the gate of all earthly kings at Ticonderoga; but we also remember that his hatred for the great state of New York brought him and his Vermont men dangerously close to the mess that ruined Charles Lee and Conway, and that swallowed poor Benedict Arnold.

We follow Gates's army with painful sympathy to Saratoga, and there we cheer for a victory, but we turn from the commander in disdain, his brutal, selfish, shallow nature fully exposed.

We know him. We know them all—Ledyard, who died without a stain on his honor, murdered by his own sword; Herkimer, who passed away because he wasn’t brave enough to do his duty and ended up being called a coward for it; Woolsey, the cowardly Major at the Middle Fort, mumbling vile words in his fear when Sir John Johnson's rangers surrounded him; Poor, who squandered his life for vanity when that life truly belonged to the land! Yes, we know them all—great, greater, and lesser—our grandfather Franklin, who navigated a brutally cold and selfishly disdainful French court, aged, alert, and cheerful to the very end; Schuyler, calm and unflappable, overseeing the North, which was his responsibility, completely unconcerned with himself or the pack barking at his heels; Stark, Morgan, Murphy, and Elerson, the courageous riflemen; Spencer, the interpreter; Visscher, Helmer, and the Stoners.

Into our view, too, come terrifying figures—not shadowy or creepy, but real, breathing people, who look at us and extend their bloody hands: Walter Butler, with his horrific smile; Sir John Johnson, heavy and pale—pale, perhaps, with the memory of his broken promise; Barry St. Leger, the drunken scalp dealer; Guy Johnson, a mastermind of mass murder; Brant, known as Thayendanegea, brave, fearsome, loyal, but—Mohawk; and that dreadful she-devil, Catrine Montour, in whose hot blood flowed savage lineage and the blood of a Canadian governor, who struck us hard until the raging streams of Tryon ran with blood!

No, we’re not deluding ourselves; there are no magnificent armies, banners waving, triumphantly marching through the sunset’s brilliance; no winged victory with a smooth forehead crowned with laurel to help us forget the devastation. We can’t hide our history or sugarcoat our legends. Only romance can legitimize a story based on truth; because romance is more alive than history, which, in the end, is just the bare bones of romance.

RWC

BROADALBIN,

May 26, 1902.

• I. THE ROAD TO VARICKS'.
• II. IN THE HALLWAY.
• III. COUSINS.
• IV. SIR LUPUS.
• V. A NIGHT AT THE PATROON'S.
• VI. DAWN.
• VII. AFTERMATH.
• VIII. RIDING THE BOUNDS.
• IX. HIDDEN FIRE.
• X. TWO LESSONS.
• XI. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
• XII. THE GHOST-RING.
• XIII. THE MAID-AT-ARMS.
• XIV. ON DUTY.
• XV. THE FALSE-FACES.
• XVI. ON SCOUT.
• XVII. THE FLAG.
• XVIII. ORISKANY.
• XIX. THE HOME TRAIL.
• XX. COCK-CROW.
• XXI. THE CRISIS.
• XXII. THE END OF THE BEGINNING.

• "I SAT DOWN HEAVILY IN HOMESICK SOLITUDE".
• "YOU'RE MY COUSIN, GEORGE ORMOND, OR I'M THE FATTEST LIAR SOUTH OF MONTREAL!".
• "SHE SUFFERED US TO SALUTE HER HAND".
• "NOW LOOSE ME--FOR THE FOREST ENDS!".
• "THIS IS THE END, O YOU WISE MEN AND SACHEMS!".
• "JACK MOUNT LOOMED A COLOSSAL FIGURE IN HIS BEADED BUCKSKINS".
• "INSTANTLY MOUNT TRIPPED THE MAN".
• "A STRANGE SHYNESS SEEMED TO HOLD US APART".

We stopped at the crossroads; he stretched his legs in the stirrups, raised his arms, yawned, and slapped his large hands down on each thigh.

"Well, goodbye," he said seriously, but didn’t make any move to leave me.

"Are we parting ways here?" I asked, regretting the end of my brief encounter on the Johnstown highway.

He nodded, yawned again, and took off his round silver-fox fur cap to scratch his curly head.

"We definitely go separate ways here if you're heading for Varicks," he said.

I paused for a moment, then thanked him for the enjoyable time his company had given me and wished him a safe trip.

"A safe journey?" he repeated, casually. "Oh yes, of course; safe journeys are pretty rare around here. I appreciate the thought. You're very nice, sir. Goodbye."

Yet neither he nor I pulled back on the reins to turn our horses, but sat there in the middle of the road, staring at each other.

"My name is Mount," he said after a moment; "let me guess yours. No, hold on! Don't tell me. Give me three guesses like a sportsman; my hunting knife against the straw you’re chewing!"

"Sure thing," I said, amused, "but you probably wouldn't guess it."

"Is your name Varick?"

I shook my head.

"Doorman?"

"No. Pay close attention to your knife, buddy."

"Oh, I guess I figured it out," he said casually; "your name is Ormond—and I'm glad to hear it."

"Why are you happy about it?" I asked, curious, also wondering about his knowledge of me, a stranger.

"You'll figure that out for yourself when you meet your family, the Varicks and Butlers," he said, and there was a cocky tone in his voice that annoyed me. Still, I was hesitant to argue with this boyish giant whose friendly company I had enjoyed during my long journey through a place that felt so unfamiliar to me.

"My friend," I said, "you're pretty straightforward."

"Only in words, sir," he replied, casually swinging one massive leg over the pommel of his saddle. Relaxed in the sunshine, he opened his fringed hunting shirt to the breeze.

"So you're heading to the Varicks?" he thought out loud, his eyes gradually shutting in the sunlight like the striking eyes of a lounging lynx.

"Do you know the lord of the manor?" I asked.

"Who? The landlord?"

"I mean Sir Lupus Varick."

"Yeah, I know him—I know Sir Lupus. We call him the patroon, even though he’s not from the same elite group as the Livingstons, the Cosbys, the Phillipses, the Van Rensselaers, and those upper-class guys who play around with the high, middle, and low justice—and who will play no more."

"Am I wrong," I asked, "in thinking you’re from Boston?"

"In a way, you are," he said, opening his eyes. "I was born in Vermont."

"Are you a rebel then?"

"Wow!" he said, laughing, "you really twist our English language! It’s his Majesty over the ocean who’s rebelling against our home-grown Congress."

"Isn’t it risky to share stuff like that with someone you don’t know?" I asked, smiling.

His bright eyes gave me comfort. "Not to all strangers," he said slowly, swinging his free foot over his horse's neck and settling his weight in the saddle. One big hand dropped, almost by accident, over the pan of his long rifle. Watching without letting on, I noticed his forefinger touch the priming, subtly, and find it dry.

"You aren't one of the King’s people," he said calmly.

"Oh, do you think I'm a rebel too?" I asked.

"No, sir; you’re neither one nor the other—like a tadpole with legs, not quite a frog and not a pollywog. But you will be."

"Which one?" I asked, laughing.

"My wisdom can’t lift that veil for you, sir," he said. "You can take your chameleon colors from your friends the Varicks and stay gray, or from the Butlers and turn red, or from the Schuylers and turn blue and buff."

"You think I have very little strength of character," I said.

"I give you about twenty years and no experience."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir; with sincerity and a Spanish rifle—which you might need before this May turns into June."

I looked at the beautiful Spanish weapon resting against my pommel.

"What do you know about the Varicks?" I asked, smiling.

"More than you do," he said, "because they are your family. Look at me, sir! Like you, I'm wearing deer skin from throat to ankle, and your nose is always sniffing the wind. But this wind is unfamiliar to you. You see, you smell, but your eyes are asking, 'What is it?' You're a woodsman, but a stranger among your own family. You've never seen a living Varick; you haven't even seen a partridge."

"Your wisdom is wrong there," I said, with a hint of malice.

"Have you seen a Varick?"

"No; but the partridge—"

"Wow! A small creature, like a gray meadowlark transformed! You call it a partridge, I call it a quail. But I'm talking about the crested thunder-drumming male that struts around all puffed up like a Spanish nobleman from long ago. Wait, sir!" He pointed to a line of bird footprints in the dust just ahead. "Can you tell me what kind of creature left its mark there?"

I leaned from my saddle, carefully scanning the sign, but the bird that made it was unfamiliar to me. Still bending from my saddle, I heard his mocking laugh, but I didn’t look up.

"You've got a lynx-skin for a saddle blanket," he said, "but that lynx never screeched within a thousand miles of these hills."

"Are you saying there are no lynxes here?" I asked.

"Sure, but their ears don’t have any black-and-white markings. Sorry, I don’t mean to annoy you; I read while I run, sir; it’s just my habit."

"So you've followed me on a back trail for a thousand miles—out of habit," I said, not exactly happy.

"A thousand miles—if you don't mind."

"Or without it."

"Or without it—a thousand miles, sir, on a back trail, through forests that bloom like gigantic gardens in May with flowers sweeter than our white water lilies blooming on trees with glossy leaves year-round; through thickets that stretch out great, green, many-fingered hands at you, dripping with golden jasmine; where pine woods are as rich as bacon; where the two oaks shed their leaves but are always in foliage; where thick, blunt snakes lie in the mud and give no warning when they strike. So far, sir, I track you back to the soil where your baby fingers first dug—soil as white as the snow that you will see for the first time in your twenty-three years of life. A land with no hills; a land where vultures glide all day without flapping their curled wings; where slimy dragon-like creatures watch from the water's edge; where Greek slaves sweat at indigo vats that attract vultures like carrion; where black men labor, singing all day on the sea islands, picking cotton blossoms; where monstrous horrors, hornless and legless, wallow out to the reeds and graze like cattle—"

"Man! You imagine a nightmare!" I said, frustrated, "while I come from paradise!"

"The outer edges of paradise are close to hell," he said. "Wait! Smell that scent in the air."

"It’s jasmine!" I whispered, and my throat tightened with a wave of homesickness.

"It’s the last of the arbutus," he said, lowering his voice to a soft tone. "This is New York state, Tryon County, sir, and that bird singing over there isn’t the gray singer of the Spanish orange tree, teasing the jays and the red flame-colored birds that call 'Peet! peet!' among the china-berries. Do you know the wild partridge-pea from the pine barrens, that releases its seeds with a soft pop when the pods are touched? There’s a red bud in this land that has burst violently into crimson bloom, scattering seeds of death to the eight winds. And every seed leads to a battle, and every root drinks blood!"

He straightened up in his stirrups, his blue eyes shining, face hot under the thick layer of tan and dust.

"If I recognize a guy when I see him, I recognize you," he said. "God bless our country, buddy, on this lovely May day."

"Amen, sir," I replied, feeling a buzz of excitement. "And may God save the King all year long!"

"Yeah," he said again, with an annoying laugh, "God save the King; he's beyond any human help now and heading straight to hell. Friend, let's go our separate ways before we start arguing. You’ll be with me or against me this time next week. I knew I was talking to a man, not just some tavern sign."

"Still, this fight with Boston has nothing to do with me," I said, feeling uneasy. "Anyone who messes with the historic rights of Englishmen is messing with my country, and that's all I understand."

"Which country, sir?"

"Britain."

"And when does Greater Britain divide?"

"It can't!"

"It does."

I took off the red handkerchief I was using as a cap and held it between my fingers to let it dry in the breeze. As I watched it flutter, I said:

"Friend, in my country we never deal with problems until we face them, nor do we get out of the hammock until we reach the sandy riverbank. A hunting shirt isn't made until after the bullet has done its job, and no one goes fishing for mullet with a hook and line. There's always time to ask for wisdom."

"Friend," said Mount, "I have red quills on my moccasins, and you have pieces of seashell. That's the only difference between us. Goodbye. Varick Manor is the first house four miles ahead."

He turned his horse around, then paused for a moment, held him back, and glanced at me.

"You'll see some interesting people over at the patroon's place," he said. "You're used to the ways of your peers; you grew up in a place where hospitality, courtesy, and respect are given to equals; where elders are expected to show dignity and kindness; and where young people learn duty and humility from an early age. It's similar with us—except where you're headed. The powerful patroon families, with their large estates, their land grants, and their feudal systems, have been dominant here for years. They have the power of life and death over their servants; they rule their estates without question, only answering to God for the responsibilities they've been given. And they are important people, sir, even now—these Livingstons, these Van Rensselaers, these Phillipses, still lords of their estates; Dutch in origin, refined, polite, proud, holding the title of patroon much like a noble holds his crown."

He raised his hand, smiling. "It's not the same with the Varicks. They are patroons as well, but they're related to the Johnsons of Johnson Hall and Guy Park, and to the Ormond-Butlers. However, they are different from both the Johnsons and the Butlers—extremely different from the Schuylers or the Livingstons—"

He shrugged his broad shoulders and dropped his hand. "The Varicks are all crazy, sir. Goodbye."

He kicked his horse with his soft leather heels; the animal sprang onto the western road, and the rider turned back towards me with a gesture that was somewhat friendly and maybe a bit threatening. "Tell Sir Lupus to go to hell!" he shouted cheerfully and rode off through the golden dust.

I sat on my horse to keep an eye on him; soon, far away on the top of the hill, the sun glinted off his rifle for a moment, then the bright flash disappeared, and there was nothing on the hilltop except for the drifting dust.

Lonelier than I had ever felt since that day, three months ago, when I left our plantation by the shallow Halifax, which the hammock barely separates from the ocean, I grabbed the reins with sluggish fingers and talked to my mare. "Isene, we need to head east--always moving, sweetheart. Come on, girl, there's grain somewhere in this Northern land where you've carried me." And to myself, muttering as I rode: "What a name he gave my cousins the Varicks, this giant forest runner, with his boyish face and strong limbs! And he wasn't too friendly about the Butlers, either--cousins as well, but I don’t know how we're related--"

The road leading into the forest made me instinctively stop talking, and once again, for the thousandth time, I took in new scents and looked into the leafy depths for those familiar trees that guard our Southern forests. There were pines, but they weren’t our pines; these were feathery, dark-stemmed trees. There were oaks, but neither our golden water oaks nor our large green-and-silver live oaks. Little pale flowers bloomed everywhere, mere shadows of our bright Southern blossoms; and the rare birds I spotted were gray and small, and reluctant to sing, as if the stillness that lay in this Northern forest was a threat not to be disturbed. I felt a wave of loneliness wash over me; my shoulders slumped and my head hung heavily. Isene, my mare, walked quietly down the soft forest road, so silently that a rabbit jumped from between her front legs, and the slender, striped, squirrel-like creatures froze in place as we passed, before they suddenly broke into their high-pitched chatter of fear or anger—I couldn’t tell which.

Had I a night to spend in this wilderness, I wouldn’t know where to find a palm frond for a torch or where to look for kindling. Everything was unfamiliar; signs were puzzling; tracks felt like unreadable books. The east winds brought rain, while at home they bring us the soothing warmth of the Spanish grants by the coast. The northwest winds that we fear turn these northern skies to blue and make the bees buzz on every blossom.

There was no salt in the air, no citrus scent in the breeze, no heavy fragrance of the big magnolia flower filling the wilderness like a church aisle where a young bride walks, wrapped in lace.

But in the heat, a heavy, sweetish smell lingered; it's called balsam, and it mixed with a faint scent like our bay, which comes from a bush known as sweet-fern. That, along with the strong smell of the bluish, short-needled pine, was always clogging my nostrils and confusing me. At one point, I thought I detected a 'possum, but the musky odor came from a rotting log; and a stale fox might have crossed upwind and I wouldn't have noticed, so dulled had my sense of smell become in this unfamiliar Northern world.

Musing, restless, a bit confused, and extra alert, I rode through the woods and finally emerged onto a dusty, sunny road. And right away, I spotted a house.

The house was made of stone, large, square, and gray, featuring a pillared porch instead of the long double galleries we construct; it had a row of dormer windows in the roof and was surrounded by a stockade of huge timbers. In the four corners, there were small forts with openings for rifle fire.

Noble trees stood within the fortified walls; outside, green meadows surrounded the area; and the grass was thick and soft, a vibrant green like a jewel in color—grass we rarely see except in random spots in swampy areas where the sun shines in early spring.

The house was still a hundred rods away to the east. I rode on slowly, noticing the neglected fences on both sides, and thought that my cousin Varick could have taken an hour to fix them, for his pride's sake.

Isene, my mare, had already caught the scent of the distant stables, and was pricking up her beautiful ears as I took off my wide hat made of braided palm leaves and put it on my head, ready to greet my hosts when I rode to their doorstep in the Spanish style we followed back home.

So, as I cantered along, I crossed a log bridge that went over a ravine, where I spotted a gristmill below; then I reached the stockade. The gate was open and unguarded, so I guided my mare through without any challenge from the small corner forts and rode right up to the porch, where an old Black servant stood, dressed in an oversized, shabby uniform. When I pulled up, he gave me a dull, almost sullen look, and it wasn't until I spoke sharply to him that he shuffled forward and came down the two steps to hold my stirrup.

"Is Sir Lupus at home?" I asked, looking curiously at this silent, dull-eyed man, so different from our cheerful guys back home.

"Yes, sir, he has come home, sir."

"Then announce Mr. George Ormond," I said.

He stared but didn’t make any move.

"Did you hear me?" I asked, amazed.

"Yeah, sir, I heard you, sir."

I stared at him in disbelief, then walked past him toward the door.

"Are you going to look for Mars' Lupus?" he asked, blocking my path with one wrinkled, blue-black hand on the brass doorknob. "Because if you are, you’d better not, sir."

I just stared.

"Kaze Mars' Lupus just said he's going to kill the first man who disturbs him, sir," continued the black man in a flat monotone. "And I expect he's going to do it."

"Is Sir Lupus still in bed at this hour?" I asked.

"Yes, sir."

There was no feeling in the old man's voice. Something made me think that he had delivered the same message to visitors many times before.

I was really upset by the rudeness because he must have known when to expect me from my servant, who traveled with my boxes by boat from St. Augustine to Philadelphia, where I stayed behind while he went ahead with my letter. Still, as angry and disgusted as I was, there was nothing I could do except swallow my pride, go in, and sit there doing nothing until the rude lord of the manor finally woke up to greet his guest.

"I guess I can come in," I said, sarcastically.

"Yeah, sir; Miss Dorry said: 'Cato,' she said, 'if the young man comes when Mr. Lupus is drunk, just take care of him, Cato; put him almost anywhere except in my bed, Cato, and just call me if I’m not busy with my work--'"

Still talking, he opened the door, and I walked into a large hallway, dirty and messy. As I stood there hesitating, a huge crash came from the floor above.

"Miss Dorry is busy," the old man noted, lifting his serious, wrinkled face to listen.

"Uncle," I said, "is it true that everyone in this house is crazy?"

"We sure are, sir," he replied, lacking any enthusiasm.

"Are you too wild to take care of my horse?"

"Oh no, sir."

"Then go and give her a rubdown, feed her, and let me stay here in the hallway. I want to think."

Another crash rattled the solid oak ceiling; far off, I heard a young girl laughing, followed by a muffled chorus of voices from the floor above.

"Miss Dorry and the kids," the old man noted.

"Who are the other people?"

"Waal, there is Miss Celia, and Mr. Harry, and Mr. Ruyven, and Mr. Sam'l, and the baby, little Mr. Benny."

"Everyone's crazy?"

"Yes, sir."

"I will be, too, if I stay here," I said. "Is there an inn nearby?"

"De Turkle-dove and Olives."

"Where are you?"

"'About five miles down the road, sir."

"Feed my horse," I said, sulkily, and sat down on a bench, rifle resting between my knees, and in my heart a deep anger against my relatives, the Varicks.

So this is Northern hospitality! This is a Northern gentleman's home, with its dusty ceiling, its small window panes stained by rain and dirt, its bare floors lacking polish, scattered with odds and ends--here a worn riding cane; there a pair of tarnished spurs; over there a red hunting coat draped over the banister, its hem muddy from feet that may have used it as a mat in bad weather!

I leaned forward and picked up the riding crop; its cane end was capped with heavy gold. I also lifted the spurs for inspection; they were beautifully crafted in silver.

Faugh! This isn’t poverty; it’s just the laziness of an alcoholic, ruining good things!

I looked into the fireplace. Ashes of burnt-out embers filled it; the andirons, covered in smoke and grime, stood out sharply against the dark, sooty opening of the hearth.

Still, overall, the hall was designed in a good and even impressive way; simple, as a gentleman’s home should be; perhaps a bit too heavy, and lacking the elegant and balanced galleries that we from the South take pride in; because the banisters were excessively bulky, and the rail above resembled a fortress, and for a newel-post, someone had foolishly placed a bronze cannon, with the breech facing up; and while it was green and beautiful, it was bizarrely inconsistent.

Standing to get a better view of the hall, it struck me that someone had taken beautiful old furniture from an impressive English mansion and transported it across an ocean and through a forest to decorate this rough house. There were portraits in frames of generals and statesmen from the Ormond-Butlers, including one of the great duke who fled to France; and there were portraits of the Varicks before they mixed with us Irish—rosy-cheeked Dutchmen, gaunt young men with match-lock guns, and one admiral, with a star and sash on his worn blue steel armor, staring at me with pale, smoky eyes.

Rusted suits of armor and clusters of weapons arranged in star shapes and circles were displayed between the large paintings, each featuring a moth-eaten stag's head, covered in dust.

As I walked slowly along the paneled wall, my nose in the air to take in these forgotten trophies, I came to another picture, hanging all by itself near the spot where the wall goes under the staircase, and at first, I couldn't see it because of the darkness.

Imperceptibly, the contours of the figure emerged from a deep, rich background in the dim light, and I could see a young man fully equipped in armor, except for the helmet, which he held in one smooth, blue-veined hand.

The face also started to take shape; rounded, delicate, topped with a bundle of golden hair; and suddenly I noticed the eyes, which seemed to open gently, like violets in a shady forest.

"What Ormond is this?" I mumbled, fascinated but annoyed to see such feminine curves in any guy; and, with my buckskin sleeve, I wiped the dust off the gilded plate in the lower frame.

"The Maid-at-Arms," I read out loud.

Then, at first like a distant voice barely audible through the southern winds, the faint echo of a legend returned to me—perhaps shared by my mother during those drifting hours of childhood that were almost forgotten. Yet, I seemed to envision white, sunlit sands and the long, blue waves of a summer sea, and I heard the wind rustling through the palms, along with a song—it was definitely my mother’s; I recognized it now—and suddenly, the words came drifting on a whisper of ancient melody:

"This is for the act she performed at Ashby Farms,
Helen of Ormond, Royal Maid-at-Arms!"

Memory was finally awakening, and the gray legend resurfaced from the past, about a maid, Helen of Ormond, who, for love of her cousin held captive in his own home at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, cut off her hair, dressed in armor, and set out to find him; how she arrived at Ashby and rode straight into the entrance, forcing her horse into the great hall where her lover lay, and threw him, all in chains, across her saddle, riding like a demon to freedom through the Desmonds, his enemies. Ah! now my throat was aching with the memory of the song, and that strange line I never understood—"Wearing the ghost-ring!"—and, like that, the words formed and faded on my silent lips:

"This is for what she did at Ashby Farms,
Helen of Ormond, Royal Maid-at-Arms!

"Even though the lords of Ormond will always be
Butlers to the Crown,
New honors will still come to her
Who, dressed in armor, rode for love to Ashby Farms;
Let her title be: A Maid-at-Arms!

"Calm amid love's challenges,
The Maids-at-Arms will forever,
Wearing the ghost-ring, succeed with their loyalty.
They will sweetly conquer with a sigh
And defeat with a tear
Captains that a trembling world might fear.

"This is for what she did at Ashby Farms,
Helen of Ormond, Royal Maid-at-Arms!"

Staring at the picture, my lips trembling with unspoken words, a deep sense of loneliness washed over me, causing a dryness in my throat that made me gulp. I stumbled back to the couch by the fireplace and sank down heavily into a feeling of homesick solitude.

"I SAT DOWN HEAVILY IN HOMESICK SOLITUDE".

Then hatred arose, a sudden animosity towards these Northern skies, and these strangers from the North who dared to claim kinship with me, attempting to draw me northward with false promises of guidance and a mockery of hospitality.

I was up on my feet in no time, boiling with anger, ready to trade insults because I intended to leave without saying goodbye to my host—a real insult, and a serious one among us. Furious, I bent down to grab my rifle from where it was resting, and as I threw it onto my shoulder and turned to leave, my eyes caught sight of a woman in flowery silk coming down the stairs. She was bare at the neck and elbows, her fingers barely grazing the banister as she moved.

She hesitated, one foot ready to step down; then it landed silently, and she stood in front of me.

Anger faded away under the even beauty of her gaze. I bowed, just as I noticed a hint of mockery in the curve of her red lips, and I bowed even lower because of it, slowly straightening up to the dignity her playful eyes seemed to challenge; and her lips, too, defied me silently—no, in every part of her body and from every fingertip she seemed to mock me, and the slow, deep courtesy she offered was way too slow and far too low, and her recovery was a wonder of crafty malice.

"My cousin Ormond?" she said with a slight lisp; "I'm Dorothy Varick."

We looked at each other in silence for a moment.

There was a hint of powder in her shiny hair, like a dusting of snow on gold; the neckline of her gown was torn, despite its opulence, and a tattered piece of lace hung down, obscuring the delicate half-sleeve of Chinese silk.

Her face, pale as ivory with a hint of rose, wasn't just a doll's face, despite its symmetry and a little scar that balanced the dimple in her rounded chin; it had a certain nobility to it. While it might have been too pure for sensual beauty, it carried a weird and thoughtful sweetness, like enchanted marble coming to life.

Suddenly, a voice echoed from above: "Dorothy, come here!"

My cousin frowned, looked at me, then laughed.

"Dorothy, I want my watch!" the voice echoed again.

Still looking at me, my cousin slowly pulled out a large, jeweled watch from her chest and showed it to me for inspection.

"We were matching mint dates with shillings for Dad's watch; I won it," she said.

"Dorothy!" the voice insisted.

"Oh, come on!" she exclaimed, impatiently. "Can you be quiet?"

"No way!"

"Then our cousin Ormond will come upstairs and give you what Paddy gave the kettle drum--won't you?" she added, looking up at me.

"And what was that?" I asked, shocked.

Somebody on the landing above burst into laughter; and, as I turned red, my cousin Dorothy also started to laugh, revealing a glimpse of her small, white teeth beneath her red lips.

"Are you annoyed because we’re laughing?" she asked.

My tongue burned with a comeback, but I stayed quiet. These Varicks might forget their manners, but I wouldn’t forget mine.

She rewarded me with a smile, taking me in from head to toe with her bright eyes. My buckskins were dirty from traveling, and the fringes were in tatters; and I realized that she noticed all these details.

"Cousin," she said with a slight lisp, "I’m afraid you’re a bit of a dandy."

Instantly, a new burst of laughter echoed from the landing—such bright, genuine laughter that it got to me, despite my annoyance.

"He's a great guy, our cousin Ormond!" came a bright young voice from above.

"He'll be one of us!" shouted another; and I caught a glimpse of a flowered petticoat being whisked away from the edge of the gallery.

I looked at my cousin Dorothy Varick; she was staring with laughter in her eyes, but her mouth was modest.

"Cousin Dorothy," I said, "I think I’m a decent person, even if I’m a bit rough around the edges and still respectable. If these traits don’t prevent you from accepting me, please shake my hand in friendship because, honestly, I’m really yearning for a warm welcome from someone in this unwelcoming place."

Still staring, she slowly raised her arm and offered me a fresh, sun-kissed hand; I had intended to shake it, but a sudden shyness held me back, and as her soft fingers rested in my palm, I lifted them and touched them with my lips in silent respect.

"You have nice manners," she said, glancing at her hand but not pulling it away from where it was resting. Then, on a whim, her fingers locked around mine tightly, and she looked me directly in the eye.

"You’re a great friend; welcome to Varicks', cousin Ormond!"

Our hands dropped apart, and as I looked up, I noticed a group of young punks on the stairs, staring at us. When I caught their eye, they scattered but then regrouped defiantly. A seventeen-year-old redhead came down the steps, awkwardly extending his hand.

"I'm Ruyven Varick," he said. "These girls are crazy to provoke men like us—" He stopped to grab Dorothy by the arm. "Give me that watch, you tease!"

His sister dismissively pulled her arm away, and Ruyven stood silently holding a handful of ripped lace.

"Why don't you introduce us to our cousin Ormond?" said a sixteen-year-old maid.

"Who wants to meet you?" Ruyven shot back, moving closer to his sister again.

I insisted that I did, and Dorothy, with playful enthusiasm, introduced me to Cecile Butler, a slim girl with olive skin and beautiful dark eyes. She extended her hand for me to kiss in such a determined way that I bent down very low to hide my smile, aware that she had seen my greeting to my cousin Dorothy and intended to accept nothing less for herself.

"And those guys over there are Harry Varick and Sam Butler, my cousins," Dorothy said casually, slipping back into a more primitive way of speaking as she pointed them out with her pink-tipped thumb. "And that kid on the stairs is Benny. Come on, we're going to throw hunting knives for pennies. Can you do it?--but of course you can."

I looked around at my barbarian relatives, who had pulled out hunting knives from hidden pockets in their clothes, and were now eagerly crowding around Dorothy, who seemed to be the leader of their group’s mischief.

"Still, that watch is mine," Ruyven said assertively. "I'll give it to our cousin Ormond—" but Dorothy interrupted: "Cousin, here's how it happened: Dad lost his watch, and the rule is that whoever finds things around the house can keep them. So we all rushed to the porch where Dad fell off his horse last night, and I think we all spotted it at the same moment; and I, being the oldest and strongest—"

"You're not the strongest!" shouted Sam and Harry at the same time.

"I," Dorothy said calmly, "being not only a year older than Ruyven, but also stronger than all of you combined, kept watch, despite your silly noise--and I intend to keep it."

"Then we exchanged shillings for it!" shouted Cecile.

"It was only fair; we all found out about it," Dorothy explained. "But Ruyven matched it with a Spanish piece where the date was on the back, and he claims he won. Did he, cousin?"

"Mint-dates are always the same!" said Ruyven; "guys our age get that, right, Cousin George?"

"Have I not won fairly?" Dorothy asked, looking at me. "If I haven't, let me know."

With that, Sam Butler and Harry raised a fuss that they and Cecile had been treated unfairly, and all of them appealed to me until, confused, I sat down on the stairs and looked longingly at Dorothy.

"In Heaven's name, cousins, give me something to eat and drink before you come to me with your lawsuits for judgment," I said.

"Oh," cried Dorothy, biting her lip, "I forgot. Come with me, cousin!" She grabbed a bell-rope and rang it vigorously, and a loud gong echoed through the hall with its harsh noise; but no one came.

"Where the heck are those guys?" said Dorothy, biting off her words with a sharp snap that startled me more than her curse. "Cato! Where are you, you lazy--"

"Ahm here, Miss Dorry," said a calm voice from the kitchen stairs.

"Then bring something to eat—bring it to the gun room right away—something for Captain Ormond—and a bottle of Sir Lupus's own claret—and two glasses—"

"Three glasses!" yelled Ruyven.

"Four!" "Five!" shouted Harry and Cecile.

"Six!" added Samuel; and little Benny chimed in, "Seven!"

"Then bring two bottles, Cato," Dorothy called out.

"I want some light beer!" protested Benny.

"Oh, go suck your thumbs," Ruyven shot back, with the harshness of an older brother; but Dorothy ordered the small beer and told the servant to hurry.

"We all intend to keep you company, Cousin," Ruyven said cheerfully, patting my arm to reassure me; and honestly, I felt a bit uncertain around these relatives of mine, who seemed completely confident.

"You referred to me as Captain Ormond," I said, turning to Dorothy with a smile.

"Oh, it's all the same," she said cheerfully; "if you're not a captain now, you will be soon, I bet--but I shouldn't talk about that in front of the kids--"

"You can talk about it in front of me," said Ruyven. "Harry, take Benny, Sam, and Cecile somewhere they can't hear us--"

"Pooh!" exclaimed Harry, "I know all about Sir John's new regiment--"

"Will you shut up, you little fool!" interrupted Dorothy. "Servants and donkeys have long ears, and I'll cut yours if you make that noise again!"

The sound of glasses clinking on a tray ended the discussion; Cato, the Black man, followed by two more Black men, walked into the hall carrying silver trays, and at a nod from Dorothy, we all followed them.

"Guests first!" hissed Dorothy in a low whisper, as Ruyven squeezed past me, and he backed off, embarrassed, while Dorothy, with a bored tone and the demeanor of a duchess, said, "Your arm, cousin," and linked her arm with mine, throwing her head back with a sultry, disrespectful look at poor Ruyven.

And so we walked into the gun room, with Dorothy Varick on my arm, and behind me, though I didn’t notice at first, Harry was seriously leading Cecile the same way, followed by Samuel and Benny walking arm-in-arm, while Ruyven sulkily walked alone.

There was a big, stained table in the armory, or gun room, as they called it; and on this, without a tablecloth, our meal was laid out by Cato, while the other servants stepped back, panting and grinning like overweight dogs after a chase.

And, by heaven! my cousins the Varicks had everything they needed in solid silver and fine glass, which I noticed without any hint of vulgar curiosity while Cato sliced a cold roast and opened the bottles of wine—a claret that filled the room with the scent of a garden in September.

"Cousin Dorothy, I'm honored to raise my glass to you," I said.

"I toast to your health, Cousin George," she said seriously. "Benny, leave that wine alone! Isn't there any non-alcoholic beer? Why are you coughing and spilling wine you shouldn’t be drinking? Take his glass away, Ruyven! Do it quickly, I mean it!"

Benny, without his wine, slumped down morosely in a pile and started swinging his legs, banging his shoes against the table with every kick, causing my wine to jiggle in my glass and spill onto the table.

"Stop that, you!" shouted Cecile.

Benny calmed down, scowling.

Though Dorothy was trying hard to convince me that they had just eaten an hour ago, it didn’t seem to lessen their appetites. I was surprised by how they drank; at home, a glass of wine is enough for young ladies, and a half-glass for guys like Harry and Sam. But when I finished my glass, Dorothy emptied hers too, and the servants refilled her glass whenever they refilled mine. I became worried and kept watching to see if her face would flush, but my anxiety was for nothing, as her heartbeat didn’t change at all no matter how much red wine she drank.

And wow! her little white teeth were working hard while her pretty eyes scanned the scene, making sure everything was in order at this gypsy feast. Cecile and Harry started fighting over a glass, which broke into pieces under their grasp, splattering them with red wine.

"Silence!" shouted Dorothy, standing up, her eyes fiery. "Do you want our cousin Ormond to think we're rude savages?"

"Why not?" Harry replied. "We are!"

"Oh, Lud!" Cecile said in a slow, tired voice, fanning her flushed face, "I wish I had just had a light beer--Harry, if you kick me again I’ll pinch you!"

"It's a shame," Ruyven remarked, "that guys like us can't enjoy a glass of wine together in peace."

"Your age!" laughed Dorothy. "Cousin Ormond is twenty-three, silly, and I'm eighteen—or pretty close to it."

"And I'm 17," retorted Ruyven.

"Yet I challenge you to a wrestling match," Dorothy noted with a shrug.

"Oh, your big feet! Who can move them?" he replied.

"Big feet? Mine?" She bent down, yanked a satin shoe off her foot, and slammed it on the table, daring everyone to match it—a small, silver-buckled creation from Paddington, with a stylish red heel and a delicate shape, slim like the crystal slipper from a fairy tale.

There was no denying its shape; she took it off and, bending down, slowly put it on her foot.

"Is that the shoe Sir John drank to your health from?" sneered Ruyven.

A deep blush crept across Dorothy's cheeks, and she grabbed her wine glass as if she were about to throw it at her brother.

"A married man, too," he laughed—"Sir John Johnson, the chubby baronet of the Mohawks—"

"Damn you, will you just shut up?" she shouted, getting ready to throw the glass, but I jumped up, horrified and shocked, arm reaching out.

"Ruyven," I said, sharply, "are you the one throwing such a taunt to shame your own family? If there's anything inappropriate in what this man Sir John has done, shouldn't we be dealing with him instead of making a stupid jab at Dorothy?"

"I apologize," stammered Ruyven; "if there had been any wrongdoing in what that idiot, Sir John, did, I wouldn't have just talked—I would have taken action a long time ago, Cousin Ormond."

"I'm sure of it," I said kindly. "I'm sorry, Ruyven."

"Oh, wow!" said Dorothy, her lips twitching into a smile, "Ruyven only said it to annoy me. I can't stand that baronet, and Ruyven knows it, and keeps bringing up a silly drinking party where everyone ended up under the table, even Walter Butler, and that slowpoke Sir John among the first. And they say," she added, full of disdain, "that the baronet found one of my old shoes and filled it up to toast my health—damn him!"

"Dorothy!" I interrupted, "who on Earth taught you those awful swear words?"

"Oaths?" Her face turned bright red. "Is it wrong to say 'Damn him'?"

"It’s a common swear that guys use—not women," I said.

"Oh! I thought it was harmless. They all laugh when I say it—Dad, Guy Johnson, and everyone else; and they curse in other ways—words I wouldn’t use even if I could—but I didn’t know there was anything wrong with a good, strong 'damn!'"

She leaned back, one slender hand toying with the stem of her glass; and the blush faded from her face like the afterglow from a calm horizon.

"I’m afraid," she said, "that you from the South have a charm that we don't possess."

"Make sure to reflect on your faults while you can," Harry said quickly.

"We're not very refined—even Walter Butler and Guy Johnson laugh at us right in front of Dad," said Ruyven. "What on earth is it about us Varicks that makes people whisper and giggle and nudge each other? Am I all mixed up, like a Oneida at a scalp dance? Does Harry have bat wings for ears? Are Dorothy's legs bent, that everyone stares?"

"It’s your red hair," Cecile noted. "The good people think they see the noon sun setting in the woods—"

"Oh, come on! You always say that," Ruyven snapped.

Dorothy, leaning forward, looked at me with dreamy blue eyes that seemed to see right through me.

"We're definitely a bit crazy, ... as they say," she thought. "Otherwise, we seem like everyone else. We wear appropriate clothes when we feel like it; we were educated in Albany; we are people of status, just like the other patroons; we have all the servants and tenants we need—so what's wrong with them, nudging and staring and grinning when we walk by?"

"Mr. Livingston says our behavior is shocking to everyone," Cecile murmured.

"The Schuylers want nothing to do with us," Harry added with a sigh, "and I admire them for that, too."

"Oh, they all act disgracefully when I go to school in Albany," Sammy exclaimed; "and I beat that whiny young patroon, too, because he saw me and ignored my greeting. But I think he’ll acknowledge me next time."

"Does quality not come to visit you here?" I asked Dorothy.

"Visit us? No, cousin. Who will welcome them? Our mom is gone."

Cecile said: "They did come once, but Uncle Varick had Sir John's mistress over for dinner with them, and they got offended."

"Mrs. Van Cortlandt called her a painted hussy--" began Harry.

"The Van Rensselaers left the house, claiming that Sir Lupus had treated them poorly," added Cecile; "and Sir Lupus said: 'Come on! When the Van Rensselaers are too good for the Putnams of Tribes Hill, I'll eat my spurs!' and then he laughed until he cried."

"They never came back; no one of importance ever comes; nobody ever shows up," Ruyven said.

"Except for the Johnsons and the Butlers," Sammy corrected.

"And then everybody gets quiet; they were here last night and Uncle Varick is still in bed," said little Benny, innocently.

"Can everyone please be quiet?" Dorothy shouted, angrily. "Dad said we aren’t supposed to tell anyone that Sir John and the Ormond-Butlers came to see us."

"Why not?" I asked.

Dorothy clasped her hands under her chin, rested her bare elbows on the table, and leaned in close to me, whispering confidentially: "Because of the war with the Boston folks. The country is full of rebels—rebel troops in Albany, rebel gunners at Stanwix, rebels in Edward, Hunter, and Johnstown. A scout of ten men came through here last week; they were chasing a war party of Brant's Mohawks, and Stoner was with them, along with that big guy in buckskin, Jack Mount. And do you know what he said to Dad? He said, 'For Heaven's sake, choose a side, Sir Lupus, because if you don't, we'll hang you to a crab-apple tree and see what color you turn.' And Dad said, 'I'm not a partisan King's man'; and Jack Mount replied, 'So you're the joker of the pack, huh?' And Dad said, 'I'm not part of the game, and you know it, you rogue!' Then Jack Mount wagged his big forefinger at him and said, 'Sir Lupus, if you're just a joker, one side or the other has to get rid of you!' And they rode off, loading their rifles and laughing, while Dad swore and shook his cane at them."

In her excitement, her lips nearly brushed against my ear, and her breath warmed my cheek.

"Everything I saw and heard," she whispered, "and I know Dad told Walter Butler because a scout came yesterday, saying that a scout from the Rangers and the Royal Greens had crossed the hills. I saw some of Sir John's Scottish guys riding like wild men on the new road, and that big idiot, Francy McCraw, charging at their front and bragging like a rooster."

"Cousin, cousin," I protested, "all of this—these names— even the reasons and the ways of this war, are beyond my understanding."

"Oh," she said, surprised, "haven't you in Florida heard about our war?"

"Yes, yes—everyone knows that war is with you, but that’s it. I know that these guys from Boston are fighting our King; but why are the Indians getting involved?"

She looked at me with a blank expression and made a small gesture of disappointment.

"I guess I need to teach you some history, cousin," she said. "Dad tells us that history is happening all around us these days—and, would you believe it? Benny thought that books were being made in the woods surrounding the house, so he sneaked out to take a look, despite the rule that Dad set—"

"Who thawed me?" shouted Benny.

"Shh! Be quiet!" said Dorothy.

Benny leaned back in his chair and pounded on the table, shouting defiantly at his sister over Harry's laughter.

"Silence!" shouted Dorothy, standing up, red-faced and angry. "Is this a corn feast, that you all sit barking in a circle? Ruyven, hold that door, and make sure no one follows us--"

"What for?" Ruyven asked, standing up. "If you plan to keep our cousin Ormond to yourself—"

"I want to talk about secrets with my cousin Ormond," said Dorothy, proudly, as she got up from her chair, her nose in the air, and gave that heavy-lidded, disdainful look that had once before made Ruyven shrink, and now made him feel small again.

"We're going to the playroom," she whispered as she walked past me; "that room has a lock; they'll all be banging on the door soon. Follow me."

Ere we had reached the top of the stairs, we heard a shout, a rush of footsteps, and she laughed, exclaiming: "Didn't I say so? They are coming after us now, full speed! Come!"

She took my hand and hurried down the last few steps, then through the upper hallway, leading me as her light feet flew. I felt embarrassed, confused, and partly laughing, partly ashamed to be running through a strange house in such a silly way.

"Here!" she gasped, pulling me into a large, empty room and slamming the door shut, then leaned against the wall, breathless, to listen as the pursuit rushed in, banging and kicking against the panels and walls, frustrated.

"They're really upset about losing their new cousin," she said, smiling at me with pride in her eyes. "They all think highly of you, and now they'll be eager to follow you around like eager pups all day long." She tossed her head. "They're good kids, and Cecile is a sweet girl, too, but they have to understand that there are times when you and I want to be alone together."

"Sure," I said, seriously.

"You and I have a lot to think about, a lot to talk about in these uncertain times," she said confidently. "And we can't chat about important issues in front of these kids--"

"I'm seventeen!" Ruyven shouted through the keyhole. "Dorothy won't be eighteen until next month, the little fool--"

"Don't worry about him," said Dorothy, raising her voice so Ruyven could hear. "A guy who eavesdrops on his elders through a keyhole isn't cut out for anything serious--"

A loud pounding on the door drowned out Dorothy's voice. She remained calm and waited until the noise died down.

"Let’s sit by the window," she said, "and I’ll tell you how we Varicks are caught between the deep sea and the devil."

"I want to come in!" Ruyven shouted, sounding threatening. Dorothy laughed and pointed to a large leather and oak armchair. "I'll sit there; move it by the window, cousin."

I pulled a chair for her; she sat down with effortless grace and signaled for me to get another chair for myself.

"Are you going to let me in?" Ruyven shouted.

"Oh, go to the--" Dorothy started, then blushed and looked at me, apologizing in a quiet voice.

A nice parent, Sir Lupus, with every child in his family ready to curse like soldiers from Flanders at the slightest provocation!

Half reclining in her chair, limbs comfortably stretched out, Dorothy crossed her ankles and placed her hands behind her head, embodying laziness in every line and curve, from her shiny shoes to the muted gold of her hair, which, as I mentioned, was barely dusted with powder.

"To really understand this war," she thought aloud, more to herself than to me, "I guess it's important to grasp things I don’t understand; like how our King ended up losing the city of Boston, and why he hasn’t sent his soldiers here to our county of Tryon yet."

"Too many rebels, cousin," I joked. She ignored me and kept talking quietly;

"But I do understand this much: our province of New York is at the center of all this trouble; the men of Tryon have the upper hand, and the scales will tip only when we, the patroons, decide where to put our support ... either with our King or with the rebel Congress that opposes him. I believe our hearts, not just our interests, should guide us in this matter, as it affects our honor."

Such beautiful eloquence, while being thoughtful, wasn't what I expected from this new cousin of mine—this outspoken young woman, who, like a colorful peach that's not ripe yet, wears the cheerful outfit of maturity, deceiving the eye with a fake ripeness.

"I've been thinking," she said, "that if the outcome of this war depends on us, we patroons shouldn't rush into battle too quickly—but we also shouldn't just sit around like house cats staring at this global fire. Instead, in the midst of this crisis, we should act!—making sure we know which side is right."

"Who taught you this?" I asked, surprised by the bluntness.

"Who taught me? What? To think?" She laughed. "Being alone is a rare motivator for thought. I listen to the men who talk with my dad, and I would happily join in and share my thoughts, but they treat me like an idiot, and I’m left with my questions for my trouble. Yet I swear I have more common sense than Sir John Johnson, with his pale eyes and thick, white skin, and his tarnished reputation following him like the shadow of a damned man sold to the devil—"

"Is he disgraced?"

"Is breaking parole a dishonor? The people of Boston took him and put him on his honor to stay at Johnson Hall and not cause any trouble. And now he’s run off to Fort Niagara to rally the Mohawks. Is that honorable?"

After a moment, I said, "But just a moment ago, you told me that Sir John is coming here."

She nodded. "He secretly meets with young Walter Butler—one of your Ormond-Butlers, cousin—and old John Butler, his father, the Colonel of the Rangers, who brag that they plan to scalp everyone in Tryon County before this blood feud is over. Oh, I've heard them talk and talk, drinking at night in the gun room, while the escort’s horses stomp at the porch with a man for each horse to hold the poor animals’ noses so they don’t neigh and wake the woods. They call these drinking sessions councils of war, but they always end the same way, with Sir John being carried off to bed too drunk to curse the slaves who carry his heavy body, and Walter Butler, sullen and dazed from the wine, a gloomy figure of malice carved in stone; and his father roaring the same old songs, keeping time with his long pipe until the stem breaks, and he hurls the glowing bowl at Cato—”

"Dorothy, Dorothy," I said, "are these the scenes you're already too familiar with?"

"Stale like last month's bread in a dusty cupboard."

"Don't they offend you?"

"Oh, I'm not a prude--"

"Are you saying that Sir Lupus approves of it?"

"What? My presence? Oh, I entertain them; they put me in Ruyven's clothes and invite me to drink—lacking a tenor voice for their songs—and at first, long ago, their wine made me foolish, and they found great fun in teasing me; but now they fall over, one by one, before the wine's heat reaches my face, and my father insists there's no man in County Tryon who can keep up with us at night and still walk straight to bed like I can."

After a moment of silence, I asked, "Are these your Northern customs?"

"They're ours—and the others like us. I hear the regular folks in the country talk badly about us for the easy life we live at home—I’m talking about the Palatines and the hypocritical Dutch, not our tenants, although I can only guess what they really think of the manor house and us, since Sir John says they’re all rebels at heart, and they develop blue noses at the first taste of the king's cider."

She laughed carelessly and crossed her knees, looking at me with half-closed eyes, smooth and innocent like a child's.

"Food for the devil, that's what they call us in the Palatine church," she added, yawning, so I could see all her small, white teeth against her rosy lips.

A nice group of relatives had I found in this tough, gray Northern forest! Honestly, we from the South don't do much penance for the joys a free life gives us under the Southern stars, but this kind of freedom isn't really our vibe, and I think a man is foolish to teach his kids to view with cold eyes home scenes that belong in a bar.

Yet I was a guest, having accepted shelter and shared a meal; and I couldn’t speak my mind, even though I felt entitled to criticize what I thought affected the family’s honor.

Staring through the dirty window, lost in thought about what I had learned, I impatiently watched the flight of those small, gray swallows from the North, colorless like shadows, spiraling above the cold chimneys, only to drop down like flakes of gray soot before drifting away again, blown by the wind, aimless, irrational, and senseless. And once more, that hatred consumed me for this pale Northern world, where even the birds twirled around like dazed spirits, and the ghostly image of virtue sat among parties where lifeless fools celebrated.

"Are you feeling homesick, cousin?" she asked.

"Ugh—if you really want to know the truth!" I blurted out, not planning to spill everything and relieve myself. "This isn’t the world; it’s a dull hell, where shadows scream without reason, where there’s no color, no peace, only emptiness and madness, and an atmosphere that shocks all living beings into fits of anxiety. Your sun is blazing, yet offers no comfort; your winds torment the skin and bones of a person; the forests are hostile; the waters rush by as if cursed! Streams are cold and bland like the fog; the tasteless, stale air chokes the throat and jolts the nerves until the very spirit in the body strains, desperate to break free! How can decent people stand to live here?"

I hesitated, then burst into a harsh laugh, because my cousin was sitting there staring at me, mouth slightly open, like a beautiful figure carved from marble by a touch of magic.

"Pardon me," I said. "Here I am, graciously invited to the meeting of a family whose interests are spread out from the West Indies to Canada, and I repay your hospitality with a rudeness I never thought I was capable of."

I apologized to her again for the minor outburst of a naive young person whose first experience in this Northern air-ocean had numbed his feelings and his politeness.

"There’s a place," I said, "where the gray walls of St. Augustine recently reflected the gold and red of Spanish flags, and the blue sea mirrors an even bluer sky. We Ormonds came from the West Indies, then drifted south, following the Matanzas to the sea islands on the Halifax, where I was born, an Englishman on Spanish land, and I have lived there, knowing no place but Florida, walking no city streets except those walled lanes of ancient Augustine. All of this vast North is unfamiliar to me, Dorothy; and, like our swamp-dwelling Seminoles, my rustic instinct feels hostility toward what is new and strange, and I forget my upbringing in this gray maze that both confuses and alarms me."

"I’m not offended," she said with a smile, "I just wonder what you find unappealing about this place. Is it the solitude?"

"No, because we have that too."

"Is it just us?"

"Not you, Dorothy, nor Ruyven, nor the others. Forget what I said. As the Spaniards say, 'Only a fool goes traveling,' and I’m not exactly known for my wisdom, even in Augustine. If it's the custom around here to go crazy, I won’t just sit in a corner saying, 'Repent and be wise!' If the Varicks and the Butlers set the trend, I promise to keep an eye on the trouble, Mistress Folly—maybe even get ahead of you all to Bedlam!... But, cousin, if you join this wild race with the group, I’ll run alongside you, ready to take action against anyone who tries to interfere."

"With me?" she asked again, smiling. "Am I just a kid to be pampered and shielded? You haven’t seen our hunting. I lead, my friend; you follow."

She uncrossed her arms, which had been cradling her bright head until now, and sat up, hands on her knees, serious like an Egyptian goddess watching over tombs.

"I bet I can outrun you, outshoot you, outride you, throw you in a wrestling match, toss the knife or hatchet better than you can, and catch more fish—bigger ones too!"

With an impatient gesture, oddly graceful, like the half-salute of a friendly swordsman before you draw your sword and get into position:

"Read the forest with me. I can outread you, sign for sign, track for track, trail in and trail out! The forest is like a sign-post to me. And when the confederacy speaks with five voices, each voice split into five different dialects, I don’t respond in hand signs, as you have to, my cousin from the land of shells. We speak to the Iroquois with our words, we People of the Morning. Our hands are for our rifles! I’ve spoken!"

She laughed, teasing me with her eyes and lips.

"And if you challenge me to a contest with a bowl or a bottle, I won’t back down, no way! I’ll drink with you and let my father decide whose legs take him to bed better! Come on! Answer me, my cousin, Tahoontowhe [the night hawk]."

We were laughing now, but I knew she had spoken seriously, so to tease her, I said, "You sound like a Seminole singing the war song."

"I challenge you to throw the hatchet!" she shouted, blushing.

"Dare me to a less rude challenge," I protested, laughing even harder.

"No, no! Come on!" she said, impatiently unbolting the heavy door; and whether I wanted to or not, I followed, encountering the group all sulking on the stairs, who stood up to grab me as I approached them.

"Leave him alone!" shouted Dorothy; "he says he can beat me with the war hatchet! Where's my hatchet? Sammy! Ruyven! grab hatchets and meet me at the painted post."

"Sport!" yelled Harry, jumping down the stairs in front of us. "Cecile, grab your hatchet—get mine, too! Come on, Cousin Ormond, I'll show you the way; it's the painted post by the spring—and hey, Cousin George, if you beat her, I'll give you my silver powder horn!"

Cecile and Sammy rushed up, carrying the slim war hatchets, sheathed in holsters made of brightly-beaded leather. We grabbed our weapons and began walking, led by Harry through the door and across the shady, messy lawn to the stockade gate.

Dorothy and I walked side by side, like two champions having a friendly chat before a good-natured battle, comfortably separate from the curious crowd that always surrounds true greatness.

Out across the deep green meadow we walked, with others flanking me on both sides, eagerly giving me advice or chatting about past competitions, like when Walter Butler and Brant—now the war chief of the loyal Mohawks—threw hatchets for a silver belt that Brant still wears. The patroon, Sir John, and all the important people from Guy Park were here betting on the Mohawk, which they say made Walter Butler so angry that he lost the competition. That day marked the beginning of the silent rivalry between Brant and Butler, which never mended.

This is what I picked up while they were chatting away as we stood under the willows by the spring, watching Ruyven walk back and forth from the post across the grass towards us.

Then, leaving his heel print in the grass, he took a green willow branch and stuck it, fully feathered, into the ground.

"Is it fair for Dorothy to throw her own hatchet?" asked Harry.

"Give me Ruyven's," she said, half annoyed. Anything that challenged her sense of fairness sparked a quick rush of anger to her cheeks, which I admired.

"Hold onto your own hatchet, cousin," I said; "you might need it."

"Give me Ruyven's hatchet," she said again, stamping her foot, which Ruyven quickly complied with. Then she turned to me, flushed with defiance:

"It’s always a stranger’s honor," she said; so I stepped forward, pulling my sharp, light weapon from its beaded sheath that I had strapped around me; and Ruyven took his position by the post, ten paces to the right.

The post was painted bright red, with a white ring at the top; below, there was the outline of a man—an Indian—with his arms crossed, also in white paint. The action was straightforward; the hatchet had to embed its blade close to the outlined figure, but without "wounding" or "drawing blood."

"Brant initially refused to act against that figure," Harry said, laughing. "He only agreed because the figure, even though it was Indian, was painted white."

I barely heard him as I stood calculating the distance with my eyes. Then, taking a step forward to the willow stick, I threw the hatchet, and it hit the shoulder of the figure outlined on the post, vibrating.

"A cut!"

She turned to me, a teasing smile on her lips, and I praised the cast and took my hatchet from Ruyven to give it another shot. Once again, I cut into the thigh of the depicted captive; and once more, the shining axe slipped from Dorothy's hand, whirling to a safe landing, just a grass-stem's width away from the Indian's head.

I realized that I had encountered my master, yet for the third time I tried; and my axe whistled correctly, standing point-bedded just a finger's width from his cheek.

"Can you fix that, Dorothy?" I asked, politely.

She stood there smiling, silent, with the axe ready, then nodded, launching the axe. Crack! went the handles of the two hatchets, and they rattled together. But the blade of her hatchet split the space between my blade and the painted face, not touching the outline by a hair's breadth.

Astonishment showed on my face, not embarrassment, but she misunderstood me, because the victory faded from her eyes, and she said, "Oh! I didn't mean to win—honestly, I didn't," extending her hands in a gesture of reconciliation.

But at my quick laugh, she lit up, still holding my hands, looking at me with curious eyes, sparkling like amethysts.

"I was worried that I had hurt your pride— in front of these silly kids—" she started.

"Kids!" shouted Ruyven. "I bet you ten shillings he can beat you at this!"

"Done!" she said with a bright smile, then in one breath, she shook her head charmingly. "No, I won’t bet. He could win if he wanted to. My cousin Ormond and I get each other," and she gave my hands a friendly shake with both of hers, then let go to quiet Ruyven's insistence on a wager.

"You little monster!" she said angrily. "Is it polite to pit your guests against each other like roosters for your enjoyment?"

"You did it yourself!" Ruyven shot back, angrily. "And you stepped into the pit by yourself."

"For a joke, come on! There were no bets. Now frown and huff and wag your finger—go ahead! What’s stopping you? I’ll wrestle you if you wait while I put on my buckskins. No? A foot race?—and I’ll bet you ten shillings on myself! Ten to five—to three—to one! No? Then shut your silly mouth!"

"Because," said Ruyven, grumpily approaching me, "she can outrun me with her long legs, she acts like she's superior to everyone. I can't stand being around her, I'm telling you. I wish I could go to war."

"You'll need to go when Dad makes his decision," Dorothy said, calmly cleaning her hatchet on its leather sheath.

"But he won't pledge loyalty to the King or Congress," the boy shot back.

"Just wait until they start to bother us," Dorothy whispered. "On some nice July day, cows will go missing, or a barn will burn down, or a shepherd will be found scalped. Then you'll see which way the coin flips!"

"Which way is it going to spin?" Ruyven asked, not believing it but excited.

"Ask that squirrel over there," she said, briefly.

"Thanks; I've heard enough from talkers," he replied sharply, and walked over to the tree where we were sitting in the shade on the cool, lush carpet of grass—grass like I had never seen in that beautiful Southern land that I loved.

The younger kids gathered around me shyly, their chatter abruptly stopping as if they had all been startled to see me there.

The feeling of exhaustion was washing over me—my journey had been a long one that day—and I leaned against the tree and yawned, raising my hand to cover it.

"I wonder," I said, "if anyone here knows whether my boxes and servant have arrived from Philadelphia."

"Your boxes are in the hallway by your bedroom," said Dorothy. "Your servant went to Johnstown for news about you—let me think—it was Saturday—"

"Friday," said Ruyven, looking up from the willow stick he was peeling.

"He never came back," Dorothy noted. "Some say he ran away to Albany, while others think the Boston folks caught him and made him work on the fort at Stanwix."

I felt my face getting warm.

"I'd like to know," I said, "who has had the audacity to interfere with my servant."

"So should I," Ruyven said confidently. "I’d knock his head off." The others stared. Dorothy, picking apart a meadow flower, smiled softly but didn’t look up.

"What do you think happened to my black?" I asked, watching her.

"I think Walter Butler's guys got him and sent him off to Fort Niagara," she said.

"Why do you think that?" I asked, angrily.

"Because Mr. Butler came here looking for boatmen, and I know he tried to bribe Cato to go. Cato told me." She turned sharply to the others. "But make sure you don’t say anything to Sir Lupus about this until I decide to tell him!"

"Do you have proof that Mr. Butler was involved in the disappearance of my servant?" I asked, my voice uncomfortably soft.

"No proof," Dorothy replied, also very softly.

"Then I might not even ask him," I said.

"No, you can’t do anything--right now."

I paused for a moment, frowning, then looked up to see them all watching me closely.

"I would like," I said, "to have a tub of clean water and fresh clothes, and to sleep for an hour before I get dressed to have dinner with Sir Lupus. But first, I want to check on my mare, to make sure she is well taken care of and--"

"I'll take care of her," said Dorothy, jumping up. "Ruyven, can you let Cato know to wait on Captain Ormond?" And to Harry and Cecile: "If you want to bowl, do it on the lawn, not in the hallway, while our cousin is sleeping." And to Benny: "If you trip or get into any trouble, make sure you don't make more noise than a kitten mewing. Our cousin plans to sleep for a whole hour."

As I got up, nodding at them seriously, all their shy respect seemed to come back; they were no longer a careless, chattering group, crowding around me pulling at my sleeves with, "Oh, Cousin Ormond," this and "Listen, cousin," that; instead, they stood together, a bit awed by my height, I guess; and Ruyven and Dorothy guided me with a new formality, each trying to outdo the other in politeness and manners, pointing out features of the scenery in overly formal phrases that nearly made me laugh, so much so that I could barely keep a straight face.

At the front door, everyone said their goodbyes except for Ruyven and Dorothy. One went to call Cato, while the other stood quietly, tilting her head slightly to the side, looking at a patch of sunlight on the dusty floor.

"About young Walter Butler," she started, distractedly; "don't be too curt and harsh with him, cousin."

"I hope I won't have to be too harsh with my own family," I said.

"You might have a reason—" She paused, then, with a charming confidence in her eyes, "For my sake, please ignore any provocation. No one will doubt your bravery if you just let it go and choose not to be offended."

"I can't ignore an insult," I said, plainly. "What do you mean? Who is this argumentative Mr. Butler?"

"An Ormond-Butler," she said earnestly; "but—he's had some serious trouble—a terrible heartbreak, they say. He can be pretty withdrawn at times—a gloomy, mistrustful guy, one of those who’s always looking for reasons to feel offended when there aren’t any; someone who’s quick to take offense and even quicker to react to a perceived slight—his unyielding gaze locks onto you like a hawk's, coldly sizing you up as a target. He’s harsh with his staff, unkind to his animals, and has a strong dislike for these Boston people. Nobody really knows why they made fun of him, but they did. That only adds more fuel to his anger—along with his constant dwelling on his own grievances—"

She moved closer to me and placed her hand on my sleeve. "Cousin, he's crazy; I just ask you to keep that in mind if you're ever provoked. It would really upset me if he were your enemy—I wouldn't be able to sleep thinking about it."

"Dorothy," I said, smiling, "I handle some weapons better than the war axe. Are you worried about me?"

She looked at me seriously. "In that small world I know, there's a lot that scares people, but I can honestly say, without bragging, that there isn't a single living creature, witch, or spirit that I fear—not even Catrine Montour!"

"And who is Catrine Montour?" I asked, finding her seriousness amusing.

Before she could respond, Ruyven shouted from the stairs that Cato had my tub of water all ready, and she left, giving a quick nod of goodbye, stopping at the door to give me one sweet, fleeting smile of friendly interest.

I had taken a bath and gone to sleep, and woke up again to the deep, resonant sound of a conch shell blowing; and I still lay in bed, squinting at the sunset through the dirty glass of my western window, when Cato scratched at the door to come in, bringing my sea boxes one by one.

Reaching behind me, I pulled the keys from under my pillow and tossed them to the serious black figure, lying still again to watch him unlock my boxes and spread out my clothes and linens to air.

"Company to eat, sir; gentlemen from the North and Guy Park, sir," he suggested, rolling his eyes at me and holding up my best wristbands, made from my mother's lace.

"I'll dress simply, Cato," I said, yawning. "Also, give me a narrow ribbon for my hair."

The old man grumbled and shuffled around the boxes until he found a complete silver-gray suit, silk stockings, and matching hound's-tongue shoes.

"These clothes sure are nice," he thought out loud. "One little golden vine crawling on the cuffs, another little golden vine creeping up the waistcoat, golden buckles on the tongue--Where's the hat? The hat's gone! Here’s the hat! Golden lace on the hat--Captain Ormond is definitely a classy guy. If he’s not, then how come there’s golden lace on the hat?"

"Come on, Cato," I said, "am I getting ready for a party at Augustine that you're standing there tugging at my clothes to fuss over them? I'm telling you to get me a plain outfit!" I grabbed a floral robe from the end of the bed, wrapped it around me, and stepped onto the floor.

Cato brought over a chair and a bowl, and after I washed up again, I sat down while the old man shook out my hair, dusting it back to its natural brown, then started combing and brushing. My hair, which stubbornly wanted to curl, didn’t need any straightening or styling products; so, after using my best French powder on it, he tied the short ponytail with a black ribbon and dusted my shoulders, looking me over carefully the whole time.

"A simple shirt," I said, briefly.

He brought a frilly one.

"I want a plain shirt," I insisted.

"Dishyere sho't am des de plaines' an' de--"

"You scoundrel, don't I know what I want?"

"No, sir!"

And honestly, I couldn't get that black mule to help me find the shirt I wanted to wear. Even more, he flat out refused to let me wear a certain mouse-colored suit without lace and actually pushed me into the silver-gray one, chatting the whole time; and I, half laughing and completely annoyed, almost thought about digging through my boxes and risking getting hair powder on my silk and velvet.

But he dressed me the way he liked, patting my silk shoes into shape, smoothing my coat skirt and flowered vest flap, shaking out the lace on my collar and wrist with all the grace and skill of a lady's maid.

"Idiot!" I said, "am I dressed up just to impress you?"

"You definitely are, Captain Ormond," he said, the first hint of a grin I'd seen on his wrinkled face. And with that, he hung my small sword, brushed the powder off my shoulders with a piece of fabric, picked out a fancy handkerchief for me, and before I could protest, put a tiny jeweled pin in my powdered hair, where it sparkled like a frost crystal.

"I'm not a macaroni!" I said, angrily. "Get it away!"

"Captain Ormond, sir, you really are the finest young gentleman in the province," he pleaded. "Just look at yourself in this mirror. What did I tell you? Take a look at yourself! Captain Butler is going to see how the quality gentlemen dress up! Sir, John Johnson is going to see too! That old Colonel Butler will see it as well! Here you are, sir, blooming like the pink-and-silver ghost flower with the golden heart."

"Cato," I asked, intrigued, "why do you take pride in showing off a stranger to impress your own crowd?"

The old man stood quietly for a moment, then looked up with the gentle eyes of an old dog enjoying its well-earned retirement.

"Are you really an Ormond, sir?"

"Yeah, Cato."

"Might you come from the Spanish grants, sir, along the Halifax?"

"Yeah, yeah; but we're English now. How did you know I was from Halifax?"

"I knew it, sir; I knew it had to be that way!"

"How do you know that, Cato?"

"I guess you take after your dad, sir, the old Colonel--"

"Dad!"

"Please, sir; I was raised near Matanzas, sir. A Spanish man caught me on the Tomoka and shipped me to Quebec. Old Sir William Johnsing bought me; Sir John sold me; Mars Varick bought me; and here I am, sir—my heart is just dead for the Halifax sands."

He lowered his frail head and rested his face in my hands, but no tears came.

After a moment, he stood up straight, sniffled, and smiled, parting his lips with a dry click.

"It's that way, sir. Old Cato claims he had to take care of the young master. Family pride, sir. What can I get for you now, Mr. Ormond? A little drop of musk on your handkerchief? Goodness, but you're looking quite dapper today! I bet Miss Dorry is going to catch the violets in her eyes. Yes, sir. Miss Dorry is the only one, sir; the only Ormond in this family. She seems to have really taken after our side, sir. Miss Dorry is not Varick; Miss Dorry is all Ormond, just like you and me! Yes, sir, it's that way; it surely is, Mr. Ormond."

I took a deep, shaky breath. Home felt so distant, and the old slave would never get to see it again. I felt like this icy North was holding me captive, too—forever.

"Cato," I said suddenly, "let's head home."

He understood; a spark of pure joy flashed in his eyes, then faded away, drowned in rising tears.

He cried for a bit, standing there in the middle of the room, wiping his tears with the flapping sleeves of his worn-out uniform, while, like a restless panther, I walked the walls, back and forth, back and forth, my heart longing for a way out.

The light in the west grew darker over the forests; a long, glowing split appeared between two stormy clouds, resembling a glimpse of hidden hell, lighting up the entire sky. And in the brightness, the crows flew in pairs, like witches heading back to the infernal pit, now fully lit and setting coal on coal along the shadowy edge of the dark sky.

Then the red bars on my wall faded to pink, then to gray; a tiny bit of rosy cloud at its peak shimmered and disappeared, and the round edges of the world were covered by the night.

Behind me, Cato struck a match and lit two tall candles; outside on the lawn, near the stockade, a stable boy raised a conch shell to his lips, producing a deep, beautiful call for the cattle, and in the distance, I heard them approaching—tin, ton! tin, ton! tinkle!—through the woods, slowly, slowly, until in the cooling dusk I caught the scent of their milk and heard them mooing at the hidden pasture gates.

I turned quickly; the candlelight blinded me. As I walked by Cato, the old man bowed until his coat cuffs dropped down, hiding his dark, wrinkled fingers.

"When we leave, we leave together, Cato," I said, quietly, and then walked through the brightly lit hallway and down the stairs.

Candlelight flickered on the dark paintings, the rusty round shapes of arms, the stags' heads with their dusty eyes. A servant in yellow uniform, lounging by the door, got up from the bench as I came in and swung open the door on the left, announcing, "Captain Ormond!" in a careless manner that deserved a reprimand from someone.

The room that the country guy led me into looked like a library, with a low ceiling and hazy from the stinky pipe smoke that curled and drifted sideways as the door shut behind me.

Through the fog, which nearly choked me with its mustiness, I saw a heavyset man lounging comfortably, puffing on a long clay pipe, his thick legs propped up on a card table, his small, bloodshot eyes glimmering red in the candlelight.

"YOU'RE MY COUSIN, GEORGE ORMOND, OR I'M THE BIGGEST LIAR SOUTH OF MONTREAL!".

"Captain Ormond?" he shouted. "Forget Captain; you’re my cousin, George Ormond, or I’m the biggest liar south of Montreal! Who the hell convinced you to take on this captain role—was it that troublemaker Dorothy? Damn it, I thought the old Colonel had come back to haunt me from his grave—your father, sir! And a damn good guy, even if he was second cousin to a Varick, which he couldn’t help—no way!—though I’ve heard him curse his luck right to my face, sir! Yes, sir, right under my very nose!"

He broke into a fit of deep coughing and grabbed a glass of whiskey and water that was sitting on the table near his feet. The drink eased his cough; he wiped his broad, purple face, chuckled, downed the rest of the liquor with a smacking sound, and extended a mottled, chubby hand, with no wristwatch. "Here’s my heart with it, George!" he exclaimed. "I’d stand up to greet you, but it takes me ten minutes to locate these feet of mine, so I won’t keep you waiting. There’s a chair; fill it with that lovely body of yours; put your feet up—here’s a pipe—here’s some snuff—here’s the best rum north of Norfolk, which that fool Dunmore destroyed just to get back at those who kicked him out!"

He squeezed my hand affectionately. "Pretty bird! Damn it, you're going to break a heart or two, you rascal! Oh, you're just like your father; it's how you Ormonds are—all the same, and as handsome as that young devil Lucifer; too proud to be proud of your dukes and admirals, and a thousand years of serving your King. When we were kids, your father used to grab me by the ear and give me a whack, shouting, 'Beast! Beast! You eat and drink too much! An Ormond's heart isn't in his stomach!' And I fought back, standing my ground for the bread he snatched from me. Damn it, why wouldn’t I? I've got more Dutch Varick than Irish Ormond in me. Remember that, George, and we’ll get along great, you and I. Forget it, and we’ll have a fight. Hey! Fill that tall Italian glass for a toast. I raise it to the family, George. May they hold on to what's theirs through all this cursed war nonsense. Here’s to the patroons, God bless them!"

Forced by politeness to drink before I'd even had a bite to eat, I did my best to handle the situation gracefully, tipping the beautiful glass downward with a nod to my host.

"The same graceful trick in her neck and wrist," he muttered thickly, wiping his lips. "All Ormond, all Ormond, George, just like that vixen of mine, Dorothy. Hey! It's not often that good blood shows up; the mongrel traits are more common; but that big kid of a girl is no Varick; she’s Ormond to the core. Ruyven's a redhead; the rest of them have some red too, along with that slow Dutch blood. But Dorothy's eyes are like those wild iris blooms that purple our meadows, and she has the Ormond hair—that thick, dull gold that the French Ormond, from King Stephen's time, got from his Saxon mother, Helen. Eh? You see, I read it in that book your father left us. If I'm not Ormond, I want to understand why, and I love to challenge the Ormond claim that Walter Butler makes—he with his dark face and hair, and those dusky, golden eyes of his, which turn so yellow when I tease him—the mad wildcat that he is."

Another fit of choking closed his throat, and once again he opened it up with his cold drink, rattling the stick to mix it well before he drained it in one big, greedy gulp.

A slight feeling of disgust washed over me as I sat there, suffocating in the fumes of smoke and alcohol, while my obnoxious relative drank heavily and chatted away, only to drink more.

"George," he gasped, wiping the blood from his face, "I need to tell you that we Varicks and you Ormonds have to stay neutral in this war. The Butlers are up to no good; they're eager to fight, and that could lead to our downfall. They'll be here tonight, damn them."

"Sir Lupus," I said, "we're all related—the Butlers, the Varicks, and the Ormonds. We're here to come together for protection during this rebellion. I believe that with this shared threat, there shouldn't be any family conflicts."

"Yes, there can!" he practically shouted. "Here I am risking my life and property to convince these Butlers that it’s in their best interest to stay neutral. If Schuyler in Albany knew they came to see me, his soldiers would ride into Varick Manor and hang me from my barn door! Here I am, doing my best to keep them quiet, and there's Sir John Johnson and all those loudmouths from Guy Park against me—can you believe their nerve?—trying to persuade me to arm my tenants for this King of England, who has done nothing for me except make me a knight to win over the Dutch landowners in New York province—or state, as they call it now! And now I have you to rely on for support, and we’ll play another tune for them tonight, I promise!"

He grabbed his empty glass, stared at it, and pushed it away from him annoyed.

"Dammy," he said, "I won't budge for them! I have thousands of acres, hundreds of tenants, farms, sugar bushes, factories for pearl ash, grist mills, saw mills, and I swear I won't draw my sword either way! Am I crazy to risk all this? Am I a complete fool to take any chances now? Do they think I’ve lost my mind? Honestly, if I drew my weapon, or even raised a finger, both sides would swarm over us—rebels looting and shooting, Indians stealing my cattle, burning my barns, scalping my tenants—rebels at heart every one of them, and I wouldn’t care at all who scalped them as long as they pay me rent!"

He tightened his fists and angrily punched the air.

"I'm the lord of this mansion!" he shouted. "I'm Patroon Varick, and I’ll do whatever I want!"

Amazed and embarrassed by his bluntness, I sat in silence, unsure of what to say. He was driven only by self-interest; the right and wrong of this argument meant nothing to him. He didn't even bother to pretend to care about principles before dismissing them; selfishness was his only guide, and he proudly acknowledged it, flailing his short, chubby arms in anger or trying to raise them to the sky in defiance of those who dared to urge him to make a stand and either support or reject the cause he might choose.

A slight sense of disgust quickened my pulse. We Ormonds had just as much to lose as he did, but we didn't shout it to the heavens or make a big deal out of gain and loss in such a rude way, ignoring a higher purpose.

"Sir Lupus," I said, "if we can stay neutral with honor, that must be the smartest choice. But can we?"

"Stay neutral! Of course we can!" he yelled.

"Seriously?"

"Eh? Where's the honor in this mob mentality that's spreading throughout Boston and ruining the entire country? Honor? Where is it in this disgusting situation that makes old neighbors eager to stab each other in the back? One person says, 'You’re a Tory! Take that!' and stabs him. The other one says, 'You’re a rebel!' Bang!—and blows his head off! Honor? Ugh!"

He took off his wig to wipe his sweaty and shiny head, then put the wig back on crooked and glared at me with his small, flushed eyes.

"I'm for peace," he said, "and I don’t care who knows it. So, whether the Tories or the rebels win, here I am, holding on to my own with both hands and not caring at all which flag is flying above, as long as it brings peace and prosperity to honest people. And, mark my words, we will live to see these showy glory-seekers sneaking around to beg for food at our back doors. Damn it, let them shout now! Let them call for war! I’ll keep my mills running and my agent working on collecting rent. If they can fill their stomachs with a bunch of glory, I won’t begrudge them what they can grab; but I’ll fill mine with food that's less fancy, and we’ll see which of us does better—the sons of Mars or the old landowner who stays home and enjoys nothing worse than some old Madeira!"

He gave me a sly look, adjusted his wig a bit, and leaned back, quietly puffing on his pipe.

I hesitated, carefully choosing my words before I spoke; and at first, he listened happily, nodding in agreement and packing fresh tobacco into his pipe with a thick finger.

I mentioned that I wanted to protect my land from destruction, damage, and eventual seizure by the winners; that’s why he called me, and I came to discuss with him and other members of our family on how to achieve this.

I reminded him that, based on his letters to me, I had gained a good understanding of the at-risk estates; that I knew Sir John Johnson owned large areas in Tryon County that had been passed down from his father, Sir William, when he died; that Colonel Claus, Guy Johnson, the Butlers, both father and son, and the Varicks all owned highly valuable estates; and that these estates were being threatened, first by loyalists and then by rebels, as the owners of these vast properties were constantly being both courted and intimidated by the warring factions caught up in such bloody conflict.

"We Ormonds understand your frustration, your worry, your uncertainties," I said. "Our indigo grows almost within range of the British outpost at New Smyrna; our oranges, our lemons, our sugarcane, our cotton could easily be destroyed by a cannon blast from Saint Augustine. The rebels in Georgia are a threat to us, the Tories in Pensacola are warning us, the Seminoles are gathering forces, the Minorcans are arming themselves, the Black communities in the Carolinas are watching us, and the British regiments in Augustine are all eager to destroy, loot, and drive us into the sea if we don't pledge loyalty to the King who pays them."

Sir Lupus nodded, winked, and began slicing tobacco with a small gold knife.

"We're all Quakers these days—right, George? We can’t fight—no, we really can’t! It’s wrong, George—oh, very wrong." And he burst out laughing, making his belly shake like jelly.

"I don’t think you understand me," I said.

He glanced up quickly.

"We Ormonds are just waiting to unsheathe our swords."

"Draw your sword!" he shouted. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that, once we're convinced our honor requires it, we have no choice but to fight."

"Don't be a jerk!" he yelled. "Haven't I told you that there's no honor in this damn fight? God help the kid, he's as crazy as Walter Butler!"

"Sir Lupus," I said angrily, "is a man a fool for defending his own land?"

"He is when it's not needed! Stay cozy; no one is going to hurt you. Stay cozy, with both arms wrapped around your own land."

"I was talking about my own homeland, not the sad fields my slaves tend to provide for my food and clothing."

He glared, twisting his long pipe until the stem snapped.

"Well, which land do you plan to defend, England or these colonies?" he asked, staring.

"That's what I want to learn, sir," I said respectfully. "That's why I came North. Down in Florida, everything is just factionalism and jealousy, selfish scheming and biased arguments. The truth, the real truth, is clouded; what's right is lost in a small storm where local tyrants fill the air with confusion, each one trying to blind the other."

I leaned in seriously. "There has to be a right and a wrong in this argument; truth is out there somewhere in the world. It's up to us to find it. Listen, Sir Lupus, we can't just sit by and ignore evil, nor can we look away from a fight to the finish. One side is right, the other is wrong. We need to figure out where things really stand."

"And what good will it do us to learn how things really are?" he said, still staring at me as if I were an annoying fool bothering him with pointless chatter. "Let’s say these rebels are right—and damn it, I think they are—and let’s say our King’s troops are really beating them—and I believe they are, too—are you saying you would grab a sword and go looking for an easy enemy just to get yourself killed or hanged as a rebel for your neighbor's apple tree?"

"Something like that," I said, cheerfully.

"Oh, it’s Don Quixote again, huh?" he mocked, too angry to lower his voice to the louder tone that seemed to calm him just as much as it annoyed his listener. "Well, you’ve got a complete fool in Sir George Covert, that annoying dandy! All you two need is a couple of Panzas and a few windmills. Ugh!" He became more furious. "Ugh, I tell you!" He exploded: "Damn it, man! Go to hell!"

I said, calmly: "Sir Lupus, I hear your comment with patience; I obviously accept your warning with respect, but I take issue with how you’re treating me. Please remember that I’m under your roof right now, but once I leave, I’m free to hold you responsible."

"What! You want to fight?"

"Hardly, sir; but I would expect someone to back up your words."

"Ugh! Who? Ruyven? He's just a kid! Dorothy is the only one who--" He burst into a rough laugh. "Oh, you Ormonds! I could have saved myself the trouble. And now you want to get into a fight, it doesn't matter who with—Tory, rebel, neutral folks, they're all the same to you, as long as you get to fight! George, don’t take it personally; I naturally curse at those I disagree with. I can care about them and still swear at them like a sailor! Get to know me better, George! Just bear with me; let me curse at you, buddy! It’s all I can do."

He spread out his large hands in a pleading gesture, crossing his huge legs on the card table. "I can't fight, George; I would gladly, but I'm too overweight. Don’t hold it against me for needing some kind words now and then. It's all I can do."

I was hit with an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Sir Lupus looked at me annoyingly, fiddling with his broken pipe, and I could tell he wanted to throw it at my head, which only made me laugh harder until his big, round, red face became grayer and foggier through the tears of laughter in my eyes.

"Am I really that funny?" he snapped.

"Oh yes, yes, Sir Lupus," I said softly. "Please don't deny me this laugh. It's all I have right now."

A grim smile appeared on his wide face.

"Touched!" he said. "I’ve got a real challenge on my hands now—both you and Sir George Covert—bugging me and poking at me with your clever remarks, like mosquitoes around a sleepy guy. We’re going to have a great family meeting, with Sir John Johnson and the Butlers shooting one way, you and Sir George Covert aiming the other, and me stuck in the middle, singing hymns and taking all your shots, front and back."

"Who is Sir George Covert?" I asked.

"One of the Calverts, Lord Baltimore's relative, a kind of cousin of the Ormond-Butlers, a snobby dandy, a laid-back macaroni; annoys me, damn his arrogance, but I can't hate him—no! Hate him? Honestly, I owe him more than any other man on earth... and I love him for it—which is strange!"

"Does he have an estate at risk?" I asked.

"Yes. He has a mansion in Albany, too, which he rents out. He bought a mile on the great Vlaic and lives there all alone, shooting, fishing, and playing the guitar on moonlit nights, which they say drives the wild cats crazier. Listen, George, it's just a small square mile and a hunting cabin, and this lazy guy says he’s going to fight for it. God help him! I told him I’d buy him out to keep us all from getting dragged into things, and what do you think? He looked at me through his glasses like I was some strange, new bird, and he said, 'Wow!' he said, 'there's a lot of harmless fun in you yet, Sir Lupus, but you don't spell your title correctly,' he said. 'Change the a to an o and add an l for good measure, and there you have it,' he said, dragging out the words. Then he walked away, dusting his nose with his lace handkerchief, and I still don’t get the joke about spelling patroon with an o instead of an a and adding an l for good measure!"

He paused, breathing heavily, to pour himself some liquor. "Joke?" he muttered. "Where the hell is it? I don't see any humor in that." Then he grabbed a new pipe from the rack on the table and dampened the clay with his thick tongue.

We sat in silence for a while. That Sir George Covert would call the patroon a coward upset me, since he was related to both of us; yet it seemed there might be some truth in the rude remark, as selfishness and cowardice often go hand in hand.

I looked up and glanced almost secretly at my cousin Varick. He had no neck; the area where his round head met his body was just a narrow and dirty collar. His eyes were the only thing that broke the dull expression on his face; the rest of him was just fat.

Sunk in my own thoughts, reclining in my armchair, I watched dreamily as the smoke from the patroon's pipe drifted upward, hanging unsteadily across the room, now rising, now curling downward, as if pulled by a hidden current toward the bare oak floor.

No, there was no Ormond in him; he was entirely Varick, fully Dutch, all patroon.

I had never seen any man like him except once, when a red-faced merchant from Albany came waddling to the sea islands looking for cotton and indigo, and we all looked down on him for how eagerly he saved his money at the Augustine taverns. Thrift is a word that's misused and often acts as a cover for greed.

As I sat there thinking up clever sayings and proverbs in my active mind, the hall door opened and the first guest was announced--Sir George Covert.

And in he came, a well-built, laid-back guy in his forties, confidently striding on a pair of legs that any man would be proud of; with ruffles on his cuffs and collar, hair scented, powdered, and styled in French puffs, and a dazzling ring on his hand that sparkled like pure fire. Under one arm, he carried his gold-edged hat, and as he walked forward, casually scanning his surroundings through his monocle, I thought I had never seen such graceful confidence, nor such strikingly handsome eyes, slightly dulled by the faint signs of a wild lifestyle.

Sir Lupus nodded in greeting and exhaled a large puff of smoke into the air.

"Ah," remarked Sir George, casually, "Is Vesuvius erupting?"

"How do you do?" said Sir Lupus, suspiciously.

"The mountain welcomes Mohammed," said Sir George. "Mohammed greets the mountain! How are you, Sir Lupus! Ah!" He turned gracefully toward me, bowing. "Please introduce me, Sir Lupus."

"My cousin, George Ormond," said Sir Lupus. "George first, George second," he added, with a sneer.

"No connection to George III, I hope, sir?" asked Sir George, anxiously extending his cool, well-groomed hand.

"No," I said, laughing at his serious face and shaking his hand firmly.

"That's good, that's good," murmured Sir George, looking quite relieved, and invited me to have some snuff with him.

We had barely said a polite word or two when the servant announced Captain Walter Butler. I turned to see a dark, graceful young man walk in and stand for a moment, staring haughtily at me. He wore a very stylish black-and-orange uniform without the neck piece, and a black military cloak draped over his shoulders, secured by his sword-knot.

With a swift motion, he lifted his hand and took off his officer's hat, revealing the Ormond coat of arms, richly embroidered on his fine leather gloves. Immediately, the pretentiousness annoyed me.

"Come to the mountain, brother prophet," Sir George said, gesturing toward the seated patroon. He approached gracefully, like a panther, his dark, well-defined features softening a bit; I found him attractive in his uniform, with his own dark hair unpowdered and tied in a short queue. But when he faced Sir George Covert, I was shocked to see the cruelty in his nearly perfect features, which were as smooth as a woman's and illuminated by a pair of clear, dark-golden eyes.

Ah, those amazing eyes of Walter Butler—always shifting, now almost black, sparkling with intense fire, now obscured and amber, suddenly turning a shallow yellow, round, staring, blank like the eyes of a trapped eagle; and then again, sharp, shining, narrowing to a slit. Terrifying, crazy eyes that I've never forgotten—never, ever can forget.

As Sir Lupus called me, Walter Butler let go of Sir George's hand and took mine, way too eagerly for my liking.

"Ormond and Ormond-Butler don’t need friends to introduce them to each other," he said. And he immediately started talking about the greatness of the Arrans and the Ormonds, and that duke who, being under suspicion, ran away to France to save himself.

I tried to be polite, but he humiliated me in front of everyone, going on about trivial things that only appealed to those who enjoy digging through parish records and musty books written by some sycophant to please his boss.

For me, I’m an Ormond, and I know it would be disgraceful if I acted like a fool and tarnished my name. As for everything else—the dukes, the glory, the greatness—I believe it matters to no one but the dead, and it’s ridiculous to annoy people by bragging about accomplishments achieved by those you never met, like a Seminole chanting before he hits the painted post.

Also, this Captain Walter Butler was loading his phrases with "Cousin Ormond," so that I was soon fed up and almost ready to curse the relationship to his face.

Sir Lupus, who had managed to get up by now, waddled into the drawing room across the hallway, signaling for us to follow him; and just in time, too, because shortly afterward, Sir John Johnson arrived with a group of ladies and gentlemen, all dressed up in their colorful damasks, brocades, and velvets, which were visible in the folds of their foot-mantles, capuchins, and cardinals.

The gentlemen arrived on horseback, all dressed in stylish uniforms under their simple cloaks, which were fastened with gold chains at the neck. The ladies, nicely powdered and with decorative patches, seemed a bit overly done up, and their necks and shoulders, free of frilly hairstyles, shone with a pearl tint above their colorful breast knots. They formed a dazzling group as they flitted up the staircase to their cloakroom, while Sir John went into the drawing room, followed by the other gentlemen, and casually chatted with the patroon, as old Cato helped him with his cloak and hat.

Sir John Johnson, the son of the great Sir William, was someone I first saw as a man who was just under middle age, soft, with cold eyes, and heavy in movement. He didn't wear powder on his light-colored hair; his somewhat long ponytail was tied with a green ribbon. The thick, pale folds of his double chin rested on a buckled collar.

For the rest, he wore a green-and-gold uniform that was very well-tailored—green being the color of his regiment, the Royal Greens, as I learned later—and his tan-topped boots and medals were bright and clearly new.

When the patroon called me over, he looked at me with his dull eyes and offered me a big, wet hand.

In turn, I got to know the various officers in his group—Colonel John Butler, the father of Captain Walter Butler, who was broad and stocky, a withered glimpse of what the son might one day become; Colonel Daniel Claus, a somewhat cheerful and weathered Indian fighter; Colonel Guy Johnson from Guy Park, dark and serious; and Captain Campbell, along with Captain McDonald from Perth.

All of them wore the green uniform except for the Butlers; everyone welcomed me with special politeness and acted like the respectable group they seemed to be, kindly chatting with me, asking for updates from Florida, or complimenting my politeness, which they insisted was the only reason I had traveled a thousand miles just to let my relatives enjoy the pleasure of welcoming me.

One by one, the gentlemen left to swap their spurred top-boots for white silk stockings and fancy pumps, fix their hair or put on a patch here and there, and wash their hands in rose water to get rid of the smell of the bridle.

They were still crowding in the gun room, and I stood alone in the living room with Sir George Covert when a lady came in and curtsied low as we both bowed.

And she really was a beauty, with her rose-ivory skin, her powdered hair shining with jewels, her eyes a vibrant violet, and a friendly smile lingering on her fresh, red lips.

"Well, sir," she said, "don't you recognize me?" And to Sir George: "I swear, he thinks I'm a guest in my own home!"

And then I met my cousin Dorothy Varick.

"SHE LET US GREET HER HAND".

She let us kiss her hand, looking around her without much interest; and as I let go of her delicate fingers and lifted my head, she, with her arm still outstretched as if she had forgotten it, snapped her thumb and forefinger together in annoyance, saying, "Darn it! There’s that awful Sir John!"

"Is Sir John Johnson really that bothersome to you?" Sir George asked, casually.

"How ridiculous! Haven't you heard how that guy drank wine from my shoe? Never mind! I can't stand him. Sir George, you have to sit next to me at the table—and you too, Cousin Ormond, or he'll start bothering us." She glanced at the open door of the gun-room, a frown on her pale forehead. "Oh, they're all here, I see. Sparks are going to fly before sunrise. There's Campbell, and McDonald, still angry over Glencoe; and there's Guy Johnson, with a price on his head—and plenty of people in County Tryon willing to pay for it, gentlemen! And there's young Walter Butler, yelling at poor Cato for touching his spur while taking off his boots—if he hits Cato, I'll hit him back! And where are their elegant ladies, Sir George? Still preening in front of the mirror? Oh my!" She stepped back, laughing, raising her beautiful arms a little. "Look at me. Am I laced up properly, with nobody to help me except Cecile, poor thing, and Benny to hold the candles—since he's young enough for that job?"

"Happy, happy Benny!" murmured Sir George, looking her over through his monocle from head to toe.

"If you think it’s a happy job, you can handle it yourself from now on, Sir George," she said. "I’ve never known an idiot who didn’t bray with delight at the mention of a pair of corsets."

Sir George stared and said, "Aha! Smart—really, really smart!" in such a condescending tone that Dorothy flushed and bit her lip in frustration.

"That's always how you are," she said, "when I push back and you get flustered. Look away from me, Sir George! Cousin Ormond, do you think my outfit is to your liking or not?"

She stood there in her fancy floral peach gown, delicate and confident, daring me to find a single flaw. But I couldn't, from the gold hairpins in her hair to the tips of her slim, stylish shoes peeking out from the lace of her petticoat, which she lifted just a bit to show off her silky, floral stockings.

And—"There!" she exclaimed, "I've dressed myself, and I don't wear any makeup. I wish you would let them know that when they laugh at me."

Now the ladies came down the stairs, and the gentlemen strolled in from their grooming and drinks in the gun-room. I noticed that everyone was wearing their service swords and placed their pistols on the table in the drawing room.

"Are they worried about a surprise?" I whispered to Sir George Covert.

"Oh yes; Jack Mount and the Stoners are out and about. But Sir John has a group of his ruthless horsemen stationed around us. You see, Sir John broke his promise, and Walter Butler is out of favor, and some of these guys could be in serious trouble if General Schuyler's dragoons find them here, plotting face to face."

"Who is this Jack Mount?" I asked, curious, recalling my companion from the Albany road.

"One of Cresap's riflemen," he drawled, "was sent back here from Boston to rally the locals against the invasion. They say he used to be a highwayman, but we Tories"—he laughed shamelessly—"say a lot of things these days that might not work in our favor come judgment day. Wait, there’s that little rosebud, Claire Putnam, Sir John’s love interest. Bring her to the table; she’s a cute little distraction. Lady Johnson, who was Polly Watts, is in Montreal, you know." He made a lazy gesture with outspread hands, smiling.

The girl he pointed out, Mistress Claire Putnam, was a delicate, slender figure—maybe a bit too thin, but incredibly attractive and pretty. Her face showed a lot of goodness, and there was a hint of sadness too, despite her bright energy.

"If Sir John Johnson cut her off when he married Miss Watts," said Sir George coolly, "I believe he did it out of self-interest and selfishness, not because he stopped loving her in his cold, detached way. And now that Lady Johnson has escaped to Canada, Sir John doesn’t even try to hide his affairs in the circles he frequents; nor does that society mind the scandalous connection he so openly resumed. We're a shameless bunch, Mr. Ormond."

At that moment, I heard Sir John Johnson, next to me, saying to Sir Lupus: "Do you know what these damn rebels have had the nerve to do? I can hardly believe it myself, but it’s said that their Congress has adopted a flag with thirteen stripes and thirteen stars on a blue background, and I swear I think they intend to wave that filthy rag right in front of us!"

Under the glow of yellow candlelight, we walked into the dining hall and took our seats at a table filled with flowers and silver, along with the most exquisite Flemish glass I've ever seen, although people say Sir William Johnson's collection was better.

The square windows of the hall were shut, the dusty curtains tightly drawn; the air, while fresh, was thick with perfume. Between each window, and higher up, small, square openings cut through the solid walls. The wooden flaps were open; through them flowed the cool night air, rustling the clustered flowers and the jeweled hair accessories in the ladies' hair.

The scene was quite lovely, even beautiful; at each lady's place setting was a gift from the patroon, a crystal glass shaped like a bosom, framed in silver filigree, filled with roses in fragrant water; and, upon seeing it, a wave of applause rippled around the table, like the sound of December winds rustling through dry palmettos.

In a far-off corner, slaves, dressed elaborately and wearing turbans like Barbary Africans, played on fiddles and guitars. The music was the kind I would have loved, as I enjoy all melody, yet I could barely hear it over the flutter and chatter rising around me as the ladies tucked their bosom bottles into their bodices and opened their Marlborough fans, making them wave like restless wings.

Yet, beneath this surface elegance and show, one couldn’t help but notice how a remarkable sense of neglect prevailed in the patroon's house. Cobwebs draped the ceiling beams like tattered silver banners floating in the candle's heat; dust, resembling a velvet blanket, covered the Dutch plates and teapots lined up on shelves against the paneled wall halfway between the ceiling and the unwaxed floor; the bright yellow uniforms of the black servants were dirty, worn out, and poorly fitted, and they all wore messy rolls tied to mimic scratch-wigs, creating quite a striking look. The Dutch have a passion for cleanliness that doesn't seem to extend to the men; a Dutch mistress of this manor house must have died of shame long ago—or from too much scrubbing.

I felt rude and ungrateful sitting there watching my host's table and tried to forget it, but I had to secretly wipe my spoon and fork on the napkin on my lap before I could use them. Others did the same, as I noticed, but they did it openly and without trying to hide it, and no one was offended.

Sir Lupus didn't care about table manners and mentioned it when he sat us down, which earned a smirk from Sir John Johnson and a frown from Walter Butler. But by the time the decanters had spilled over the tablecloth a couple of times, that provincial rudeness seemed to be forgotten. People were lively, cheeks were flushed, and the sound of silver clinking against china, along with the warm chime of glasses, turned into a constant, pleasant noise that made my cheeks flush.

We Ormonds love to have fun—I’ll use the least intense words I can. Still, even at our worst, being Irish, if there’s any hint of wildness in our celebrations, and if we raise a glass to our own downfall, the core spirit of our people stays pure, the strength and integrity of our nation are untouched, always protected by the virtue of our women.

Sipping my red wine, I looked sideways at my neighbors; on my left sat my cousin Dorothy Varick, completely focused on a roasted pigeon, but handling her knife and fork with great skill and elegance; on my right was Magdalen Brant, the step-cousin of Sir John, a beautiful girl with a gentle voice, velvety eyes, and a slight dusky tint that revealed her Indian heritage beneath the rosy color of her smooth, rounded cheeks.

I began to talk to her, but then someone at the other end of the table called out, and we raised our glasses to Sir Lupus, who thanked us for the gesture and offered us the ladies, which we toasted while standing and then turned our glasses upside down with a cheer.

Then Walter Butler gave us "The Ormonds and the Earls of Arran," an incredible display of vanity that embarrassed me so much that I sat there biting my lip, angry to see Sir John wink at Colonel Claus, and ready to throw my glass at the head of this young idiot whose mind seemed troubled by thoughts of his family lineage.

Meat was served before I was called, but later, when a delicious Burgundy was poured, everyone called for me with persistent shouting, so I had to ask for permission from Sir Lupus, then stand up, still buzzing from the memory of the silly toast given by Walter Butler.

"I present to you," I said, "a republic where self-respect balances the crown, where there is no king, no high priest, but only a pure altar, served by the parliament of a united people. Gentlemen, raise your glasses to the American colonies and their long-standing freedoms!"

And, surprised by what I'd just said, realizing that I hadn’t intended to say it, I raised my glass and finished it.

Astonishment changed every face. Walter Butler clumsily raised his glass, put it down, then picked it up again, staring blankly at me; and I noticed others pause, as if trying to remember the exact words of my toast. But after a brief moment of uncertainty, everyone drank while sitting. Then each person glanced at me, then at their neighbors, confused, yet already somewhat reassured.

"Gosh!" said Colonel Claus, straightforwardly, "I initially thought that Burgundy had a bit of a Boston tea vibe."

"The Burgundy's good enough," said Colonel John Butler, grimly.

"So is the toast," shouted Sir Lupus. "It's a peaceful toast, a calming sentiment, neither one thing nor the other. Damn it, it's a toast that no Quaker should refuse."

"Sir Lupus, may I have your permission?" Captain Campbell exclaimed. "Gentlemen, it's odd that not a single one of the King's officers has proposed a toast to the King!" He glanced my way and said, without looking away: "Everyone loyal at this table should join in. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you his Majesty the King!"

The toast ended with cheers. I emptied my glass and lowered it with a nod to Captain Campbell, who nodded back at me as if he was really relieved.

The violins, bassoons, and guitars were playing and the enslaved people were singing when the cheering noise faded; I heard Dorothy next to me humming the tune and tapping her silken shoe on the floor, while she soaked macaroons in a glass of Madeira and nibbled on them with calm contentment.

"You look happy," I whispered.

"Absolutely. I love sweets. Are you going to try a piece of cinnamon cake? Dip it in some Burgundy; they go together really well.... Look at Magdalen Brant, isn’t she lovely? Her cousin is Molly Brant, old Sir William's girl, who ran away to Canada.... She’s coming this week with Betty Austin, that little troublemaker with the dark eyes sitting next to Sir John, who got her diamonds from Guy Johnson. Wow, I’m becoming such a gossip! But it’s all county chatter, everyone knows it, and only the Albany elite and the Van Cortlandts care, who end up leaning back too much by trying to stand tall—"

"Dorothy," I said, sharply, "having some innocence is better than having none, but it's a shame you know so much!"

"How can I help it?" she asked calmly, dipping another macaroon into her glass.

"It's a shame, anyway," I said.

"Dew on a duck's back, my friend," she said calmly. "Cousin, if I were made for evil, I would have been corrupted a long time ago."

She sat up straight and scanned the table with a lazy, challenging look, her eyebrows raised. The cold clarity of her profile, her untouched innocence, the youthful beauty of her curved cheek, moved me deeply. Ah! the white flower thriving here amid open corruption, with flawless petals, its bloom still bright, and all its delicate fragrance still fresh and pure in an atmosphere thick with wine and the scent of wilting roses.

I looked around me. Guy Johnson, his face flushed, was leaning too close to his neighbor, Betty Austin. Colonel Claus was loudly chatting across the table with Captain McDonald, swearing with trendy curses that the thin captain echoed in a sycophantic way. Claire Putnam was playfully fanning herself, protecting her roses from Sir George Covert, while Sir John Johnson watched them with a cold disapproval; I noticed Magdalen Brant, resting her chin on her clasped hands, close her eyes and take deep breaths as the wine warmed her face, lighting up her cheeks. Later, when I talked to her, she laughed weakly, saying her ears buzzed like beehives. Then she said she intended to leave, but didn’t make any move; soon her dark eyes closed again, and I could see the fever pulse throbbing in her neck.

Someone had knocked over a silver bowl filled with flowers, and a servant, soaking up the water, accidentally bumped into Walter Butler, causing him to erupt in anger and throw a glass at the frightened black servant. This made Sir Lupus laugh until he choked, but it infuriated me that he would act this way in front of his host's daughter.

Yet if Sir Lupus could not only ignore it, but also laugh at it, I certainly had no right to criticize what seemed to me like a blatant insult.

Toasts were being raised quickly now, and there was a punch in a silver bowl as big as a bushel—and alcohol, too, which was unusual since the ladies were still at the table.

Then Captain Campbell would make everyone drink the Royal Greens, standing on chairs with one foot on the table, which seemed to be a custom of his regiment's mess. We complied, the ladies laughing and protesting, but eventually placing their delicate shoes on the edge of the table. Magdalen Brant nearly fell off her chair—due to lack of balance, as Sir George Covert remarked, one foot alone wasn’t enough to keep her steady.

"That Cinderella compliment at our expense!" yelled Betty Austin, but Sir Lupus shouted, "Everyone be quiet and keep one foot on the table!" Then a little black slave boy, barely more than a baby, showed up, dressed in a lynx-skin, carrying a basket of nice boxes made from fragrant grass and decorated with silk flowers.

At every corner, he placed a box, all of them exclaiming and wondering what the surprise could be, until the little black one, arched his back, let out a yowl like a lynx, and ran out on all fours.

"The guys will open the boxes! Ladies, keep one foot on the table!" shouted Sir Lupus. We leaned in to open the boxes; Magdalen Brant and Dorothy Varick, each placing a hand on my shoulder to balance themselves, peered down curiously to see. And, "Oh!" exclaimed everyone as the lifted box lids revealed snow-white pigeons sitting on big gold eggs.

The white pigeons flapped out, some to the table, where they stretched their necks and fluffed their white feathers; others flew up to the openings, where they perched and watched us.

"Break the eggs!" yelled the patroon.

I broke mine; inside was a pair of shoe roses, each adorned with a pearl and fastened with a gold pin.

Betty Austin clapped her hands in excitement; Dorothy bent over, ripped the silk roses off each shoe one by one, and I pinned on the new jeweled roses amid a burst of laughter.

"A toast to the patroon!" shouted Sir George Covert, and we responded enthusiastically, glasses clinking. Then everyone returned to their seats to listen to Sir George sing a song.

A servant handed him a guitar; he strummed the strings and sang a song that had questionable lyrics but was performed with style:

"Jeanneton takes her sickle."

A gentle melody, well crafted; but the verse--

"The second most skilled
Embracing him under the chin"--

made me blush, and the ending nearly set me on fire
with embarrassment, yet it was enthusiastically praised, and the
patroon was choking with his loud laughter.

Then Walter Butler would sing, and I admit he did
it well, although the song was sad and the words too
gloomy to be enjoyable.

"I know a rebel song," shouted Colonel Claus. "Here,
give me that fiddle and I'll play it, I swear I will--yes,
and sing it, too!"

In a shower of teasing and laughter the fiddle was
brought forward, and the Indian fighter took the bow and played
a very mournful tune, singing in a whiny voice:

"Come listen to a bloody tale,
  Of how the soldiers
Killed men in Boston,
  As you'll soon see.
It happened on March the fifth
  Of seventeen seventy,
A regiment, the twenty-ninth.
  Started a sad conflict!"

"Chorus!" yelled Captain Campbell, keeping the rhythm:

"Fol-de-rol-de-rol-de-ray--
Provoked a sad argument!"

"That's not in the song!" Colonel Claus protested, but everyone sang it in a whiny tone.

"Keep going!" shouted Captain Campbell, bursting into laughter. And Claus seriously drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle and began to sing:

"On King Street, near the Butcher's Hall,
  The soldiers attacked us,
Also in front of their barracks
  (This is the truth I swear).
And such a horrific slaughter
  Has never been seen in Boston;
They killed Samuel Maverick--
  He let out a heartbreaking groan."

And, "Fol-de-rol!" yelled Captain Campbell, "He let out a sad groan!"

“John Clark was wounded,
  They fired at him;
James Caldwell and Crispus Attucks
  Lay bleeding in the mud;
Their regiment, the twenty-ninth,
  Killed Monk and Sam I Gray,
While Patrick Carr lay dead
  And couldn't escape--

"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Sir John. "Are we really going to sit here and listen to this all night?"

More laughter, and Sir George Covert said he was worried that Sir John Johnson had no sense of humor.

"I've heard that before," said Sir John, turning his cold gaze on Sir George. "But if we have to sing while drinking, for Heaven's sake, let’s sing something sensible."

"No, no!" shouted Claus. "This is a place of nonsense tonight!" And he sang a tune from "Pills to Purge Melancholy," as crude a verse as I wanted to hear in this company.

"Cheer up, Sir John!" shouted Betty Austin; "there are other cups to drink from--"

Sir John stood up, frustrated, but couldn't handle the wave of laughter, nor could Dorothy, who was silent and pale with anger; she started to leave but thought better of it and sat back down, her contemptuous gaze sweeping over the table.

"Confront the idiots," I whispered. "Your confusion is what they want to win."

Captain McDonald, mixing the punch, filled all the glasses, shouting that we should toast to our sweethearts with full cups.

"Drink them in wine," protested Captain Campbell, slurring his words. "Who but a useless McDonald would drink to his lady in punch?"

"I said poonch!" McDonald shot back, firmly. "If you want wine, go ahead and drink it; but I think the Argyle Campbells are better at judging blood than red wine."

"Stop that family feud!" shouted the patroon, angrily.

But the old clan feud flared up again, sparked by the ever-smoldering embers of Glencoe, which the massacre of an entire clan hadn’t extinguished all these years.

"And why should an Argyle Campbell judge blood?" shouted Captain Campbell, in a threatening tone.

"And why not?" McDonald shot back. "Breadalbane spilled enough to teach you."

"Teach whom?"

"Teach you!—and the whole group of black Campbells from Perth to Galway and Fonda's Bush, which you call Broadalbin. I would rather be a Monteith and have the betrayal of Wallace thrown in my face than be a Campbell of Argyle with the memory of Glencoe haunting me to hell."

"Silence!" shouted the patroon, trying to get to his feet. Sir George Covert grabbed Captain Campbell's sleeve as he stood up; Sir John Johnson got to his feet, pale with rage.

"Let this end now!" he said firmly. "Do officers of the Royal Greens act like country bumpkins at a fair? Answer me, Captain Campbell! And you, Captain McDonald! Sit down, sir; and if I hear that damned word 'Glencoe' again, the first person who says it will face a court-martial!"

Partly sober, Campbell glared silently at McDonald; the latter also seemed to have regained some of his senses and sat back down in silence, scowling at the empty glasses in front of him.

"Now, let's be reasonable, gentlemen," said Colonel Claus, giving a friendly nod to the patroon; "let it go, let it go. This isn't the moment to stir up trouble in the hills. Honestly, there's a new tune to march to these days--

"Hirokôue's Pibroch!
Hirokônue's Pibroch!"

He hummed on purpose, but nobody laughed, and the serious, pale faces of the women exchanged questioning looks.

Enemies or allies, there was fear in the name "Iroquois." But Walter Butler looked up from his dark thoughts and raised his glass with a creepy laugh.

"I drink to our red allies," he said, slowly draining his glass until only a little color was left in it, then he dipped his finger in the remnants and drew a blood-red cross on the white tablecloth.

"There's your clan sign, you Campbells, you McDonalds," he said, with a scary smile that no one could misunderstand.

Then Sir George Covert said: "Sir William Johnson knew best. If he had lived, there would have been no discussion about the Iroquois as allies or enemies."

I said, looking directly at Walter Butler: "Is there any real discussion about letting these wild animals loose on the settlers of Tryon County?"

"Against rebels," Sir John Johnson noted coldly. "No loyal person has to worry about our Mohawks."

A complete silence followed. The servants, clearing the round table of silverware, flowers, and cloth—everything except the glasses and decanters—moved quietly, and I could sense that the fear of the Iroquois name had sharpened their dull senses. Then came old Cato, dressed in bright red plush, carrying the staff of the major-domo; the servants in their worn uniforms lined up behind him and filed out, leaving us sitting at a bare table, with only our glasses and bottles breaking the emptiness of the shiny mahogany and stained cloth.

Captain McDonald stood up, picked up the steaming kettle from the stove, and placed it on a large blue tile, while the gentlemen mixed their drinks thoughtfully or lit their long clay pipes.

The patroon, surrounded by smoke, relaxed in his large chair and tapped his drink stick to get attention—though it wasn’t needed, since everyone was already watching him. Even Walter Butler's dark, brooding stare frequently shifted back to that bloated, red face, nearly hidden in the dense tobacco smoke, like the head of a gluttonous and absurdly swollen Jupiter wrapped in clouds.

The patroon's request for neutrality in the war that is now heading toward the Mohawk Valley was something I had heard before. I'm sure those present had heard it too.

He lamented the threat to his large estate; he highlighted the cautious stance of the prominent landowners and lords of the manors of Livingston, Cosby, Phillipse, Van Rensselaer, and Van Cortlandt.

"What about Schuyler?" I asked.

"Schuyler's an idiot!" he shot back, angrily. "Any landowner here can turn into a rebel general in exchange for his property! What a great deal! A clever negotiation! Let Philip Schuyler enjoy his short time in power in Albany. What’s the market value of the glory he traded for his vast land? Can you put a price on that, Sir John?"

Then Sir John Johnson stood up, and for the one moment in his life, he stood on a principle—a misguided one, but still a principle; and because of that, I respected him and have never quite forgotten it, even through the awful years when he destroyed, burned, and killed among a people who can never forget the brutal horrors of his destruction.

Glancing slowly around the table, with his pale, cold eyes narrowing in the candle's glare, he spoke in a voice completely devoid of emotion, yet one that conveyed to everyone that what he said was hopelessly final:

"Sir Lupus complains that he risks everything if he teams up with his King. But I've already done that. Today, I’m a marked man with a price on my head from these rebels in my own country. My lands are either already taken by rebel officials or occupied by them; my manor-houses, forts, mills, and my tenants' farms are all in their hands, and I’m being denied my income. I was under parole, confined to Johnson Hall. They claim I broke my parole, but that’s a lie. I only left when I got word that the Boston rebels were coming to capture me and break a solemn agreement."

He paused. The explanation didn’t satisfy me, and I wanted him to justify why Johnson Hall was armed and his dealings with the Mohawks that prompted the rebels to come after him. He didn’t offer anything, and quietly continued:

"I have risked a huge estate, bigger than yours, Sir Lupus, greater than the estates of all these gentlemen put together. I do this because I owe loyalty to the King who has honored me, and for no other reason. Yet I do this fully confident and believing that my lands will be returned to me once this rebellion is crushed and completely wiped out."

He paused, wiped his thin lips with his embroidered handkerchief, and faced the patroon directly.

"You’re asking me to stay neutral. You assure me that, even now, if I surrender and swear to be neutral, I’ll get back my properties and have a peaceful, productive life between two storms. That might be true, Sir Lupus. I believe it could be true. But, my friend, I cannot betray my King when he needs me; that would be a dishonor I can't accept. His Majesty’s fortunes are mine; I rise or fall with him. That’s how I see my duty. And, gentlemen, I will uphold it for as long as I live."

He sat back down in complete silence. Soon, the patroon looked up and faced Colonel John Butler.

"Can we hear from you, sir?" he asked seriously.

"I hope that everyone will, someday, hear from Butler's Rangers," he said.

"And I swear they will," interrupted Walter Butler, his dark eyes burning like golden coals.

"I believe the Royal Greens might cause a bit of a stir in the world," said Captain Campbell, swearing.

Guy Johnson waved his thin, brown hand toward the patroon: "I have my King's commission as the director of Indian affairs for North America. That’s enough for me. Even if they take away Guy Park and every single acre, I will reclaim my lands in a way that no one will ever forget!"

"Gentlemen," Colonel Claus said in his straightforward manner, "you all take great pride in risking your property and lives in this ridiculous little storm; you all claim credit for freeing the Mohawks. But you give them no recognition. What do the Iroquois have to gain by helping us? Why do they pick up the fight, risking the only thing they have—their lives? It’s because they are led by a man who told the rebel Congress that the covenant chain given to the Mohawks by the King is still pure, untainted by dishonor, unbroken, intact, with not a single link missing! Gentlemen, I present to you Joseph Brant, war chief of the Mohawk nation! Hiro!"

All of us were filled and had drinks—except for three: Sir George Covert, Dorothy Varick, and me.

I could feel Walter Butler's intense gaze on me, and it seemed to drain away the last bit of my patience.

"Don’t get up! Don’t say anything now!" whispered Dorothy, gripping my arm.

"I have to say something," I said out loud, and everyone looked at me with their intense eyes.

"Speak up, in God's name!" said Sir George Covert, and I stood, repeating, "In God's name, then!"

"Please don't upset Walter Butler, I'm begging you," whispered Dorothy.

I barely heard her; in the candlelight, I saw the ring of eyes shining, all staring at me.

"I appreciate the loyal sentiments expressed by Sir John Johnson," I said, slowly. "Commitment to principle is respected by all honorable people. They tell me that our King has taxed the people against their will. You acknowledge his Majesty's right to do so. That puts you on one side. Gentlemen," I said, deliberately, "I refuse to accept that Englishmen have the right to take away the liberties of other Englishmen. That puts me on the other side."

A deep silence followed. The circle of eyes shone.

"And now," I said seriously, "as we stand here, each on our side, honestly and loyally differing from one another, let’s try to avoid having to fight if we can. And if we can’t, let’s at least face each other honorably, and trust in God and a clean blade!"

I focused my gaze on Walter Butler; he responded with a blank stare.

"Captain Butler," I said, "if our swords are clean today, anyone who first dares to use a brutal person to do their dirty work gives up the right to call themselves a soldier."

"Mr. Ormond! Mr. Ormond!" interrupted Colonel Claus. "Are you accusing Lord George Germaine?"

"I don't care who I accuse!" I said passionately. "If Lord George Germaine suggests using Indians against Englishmen, even if they're rebels, he's a huge villain and an idiot!"

"Idiot!" shouted Colonel Campbell, choking with anger. "He'd be an idiot to let these rebels win over the Iroquois before we do!"

"What rebel has tried to use the Indians?" I asked. "If anyone in power has even thought of such a horrific idea, they are guilty as if they have already been judged and condemned!"

"Mr. Ormond," interrupted Guy Johnson, shaking with anger, "you talk about damnation way too casually. Do you think you have some divine right that you deny to your King?"

"And do you see any value in blatant treason, sir?" McDonald exclaimed, hitting the table with his clenched fist.

"Treason," interrupted Sir John Johnson, "led to the downfall of a certain noble duke during Queen Anne's reign."

"You’re wrong," I said, calmly.

"Wasn't James, Duke of Ormond, impeached by Mr. Stanhope in open Parliament?" shouted Captain McDonald.

"The House of Commons," I replied, calmly, "dishonored itself and its traditions by bringing a bill of attainder against the Duke of Ormond. That didn't make him a traitor."

"He wasn't a traitor," Walter Butler exclaimed, his lips pale, "but you are!"

"A lie," I said.

With the terrible look of death on his face, Walter Butler stood up and faced me; and even though they pulled us to our seats, yelling and shouting in the chaos created by falling chairs and rushing feet, he still kept his gaze on me, shallow, yellow, endless, and frightening eyes.

"A nice scene to witness in the presence of women!" shouted the patroon. "Damn it, Captain Butler, the blame lies with you first! Take back that word 'traitor,' which affects us all!"

"He has named himself that," said Walter Butler. "Take it back! You're ruining your own reputation, sir!"

A moment went by. "I take it back," Butler gestured, with dry lips.

"Then I take back the lie," I said, watching him.

"That’s good," the patroon shouted. "That’s how it should be. Should family members argue at a time like this? Shake hands, Captain Butler. You too, George."

"No," I said, and looked calmly at the patroon.

Sir George Covert got up and walked over to my chair. With the background noise still going, he said, "I think you’re going to need a trustworthy friend soon."

"Not at all, sir," I said out loud. "If the war spares Mr. Butler and me, then I'll come visit you. I've another argument to settle first." Everyone turned to look at me, and I added, "An argument about the freedoms of Englishmen." Sir John Johnson sneered, which was hard to take, especially since I'm the sword-master.

But the patroon exploded with anger. "Mr. Ormond is just trying to make himself look good. If anyone here even hints at the word 'coward,' they’ll have to deal with me—old and overweight as I am! I don’t have any prior commitments; I don’t care who wins, the King or Congress. I only want to keep what’s mine! I’m free to react to a word, a look, a breath—yes, even the flutter of an eyelid, Sir John!"

"Thanks, uncle," I said, genuinely moved. "These guys aren't idiots, and only an idiot would think an Ormond coward exists."

"Ay, a fool!" shouted Walter Butler. "I am an Ormond! There’s no cowardice in my blood. He will have his own time; he is an Ormond!"

Dorothy Varick raised her bare, white arm and pointed directly at Walter Butler. "Make sure your sword stays clean, sir," she said clearly. "If you hire the Iroquois to do your fighting for you, you’ll be dishonored, and no real man will face you on the battlefield you give up!"

"What's that?" shouted Sir John, shocked, and Sir George Covert exclaimed:

"Awesome! So impressive! That's the Ormond speaking through the Varick!"

Walter Butler leaned forward, staring at me. "So, you won’t meet with me if I use our Mohawks?"

And Dorothy, her voice shaking a bit, caught the word from his grinning teeth. "Mohawks understand the word 'honor' better than you do, Captain Butler, if you're found fighting with them!"

She placed her hand on my arm, still looking at him.

"My cousin won't fight with a dirty blade! He can't--if only for my own honor!"

Then Colonel Claus stood up, banging loudly on the table, and said, "What a mess this is! With right and wrong all mixed up, and no one to put out the raging fire, while everyone just keeps throwing in fuel that we might all regret! My God! Aren't we all family here, gathered to figure out the best way to save ourselves from this boiling pot? If Mr. Ormond and Captain Butler have to clash with swords one day, that doesn't justify gloomy faces or heated words—no! It’s just a family tradition, a good old-fashioned game that all boys play, and it’s harmless. Haven’t I played it too? Has any gentleman here not fought or been fought on that questionable ground we call the field of honor? Come on, family, we’ve all had too much wine—or not enough."

"Too little!" protested Captain Campbell, laughing awkwardly; and Betty Austin finally spoke up, exclaiming that her throat was dry from swallowing so many heated words. At this, a couple of people chuckled, and Colonel John Butler said:

Neither Mr. Ormond nor Sir George Covert are rebels. They see things differently from us regarding the Iroquois. If they believe we dirty our hands with war paint, they can keep their own wristbands clean but will fight for their King as fiercely as we will this time next month.

"That’s a really nice perspective to have," Sir George remarked with a smile.

"A reasonable perspective," suggested Campbell.

"Amiable," said Sir George, casually.

"Oh, let's drink to the family!" interrupted McDonald, impatiently. "It's tiring work cursing your friends! Fill up, Campbell, and I'll forget Glencoe... while I'm drinking."

"Mr. Ormond," Walter Butler said quietly, "I can't believe anything bad about someone with your name. You're young and passionate, and maybe you haven't quite learned to reflect yet. I'll be looking for you with us when the time comes. No Ormond can abandon his King."

"Just leave it at that, Captain Butler," I said seriously. "I’ll say this: when I stood up, I didn’t mean to say everything I said. But I believe it’s the truth, even if I picked the wrong time to say it. If I change my mind about this belief, I’ll let you know."

And so the burst of passion faded away; and if the fire wasn’t completely put out, it at least lay hidden, like the heart of a Seminole council fire after the leaders have stood up and left with their heads covered.

Drinking started up again. The women formed a circle, whispering and laughing, relieved by how things were going—everyone except Dorothy, who sat calmly next to me, picking the nuts out of walnut shells and sipping a glass of port.

Sir John Johnson found a piece of coal in the embers on the hearth, and, leaning halfway over the table, started to sketch a rough map of Tryon County on the tablecloth.

"Everyone knows," he said, "that New York is the key to the rebel strength. As long as they control West Point, Albany, and Stanwix, they have Tryon County in a chokehold. Let them take Philadelphia. So what? We can grab it whenever we want. Let them keep their dirty Boston; let rebel Washington sneak around New Jersey. Who cares? There will be better opportunities for us later. Gentlemen, as you know, the invasion of New York is about to happen—it's already started. And that's not a secret to the rebels either; they can twist and turn all they want in New York, but they can't escape the trap, even if they saw it coming a long time ago."

He lifted his head and looked at me.

"Here’s a triangle," he said; "that triangle represents New York province. Here’s Albany, the target of our three armies, the gateway to Tryon County, the spot we need to clear of trouble, and the military center. Now pay attention! Burgoyne is moving south through the lakes, conquering Ticonderoga and Edward, driving the troublemakers out of Saratoga, and getting closer to Albany—like this. Clinton is moving north along the Hudson to meet him—right here—either forcing his way through the Highlands at Peekskill, taking West Point, or leaving it for later punishment. Nothing can stop him; he’ll meet Burgoyne here, in Albany."

Again he looked at me. "You see, sir, that from two angles of the triangle, converging armies set out towards a common goal."

"I get it," I said.

"Now," he continued, "the third force, led by Colonel Barry St. Leger—which my regiment and Colonel Butler's regiment are proud to be a part of—will set out from Canada, sail up the St. Lawrence, land at Oswego on Lake Erie, march directly to Fort Stanwix, capture it, and then join the armies of Clinton and Burgoyne in Albany."

He stood up, tossing his piece of charcoal onto the cloth in front of him.

"That, sir," he said to me, "is the campaign plan that the rebels are aware of and can't stop. It means invading New York, cleaning out every trouble spot, and capturing or destroying every rebel between Albany and New Jersey."

He turned with a cold smile to Colonel Butler. "I don't think my estates will stay in rebel hands for long," he said.

"Don't you get it, Mr. Ormond?" shouted Captain Campbell, tugging at my sleeve, something I brushed off since he seemed tipsy. "Don't you see how hopeless this rebellion is now?"

"How hopeless?" Sir George drawled, looking over my shoulder and, as if by accident, sliding Campbell's presumptuous hand through his own arm.

"How hopeless?" Campbell repeated. "Well, there are three armies of the King’s troops gathering right in the center of Tryon County. What can the rebels possibly do?"

"The patroons are with us, or they’ve stepped back from the fight," said Sir John; "the important people, military leaders, and we, the landowners, support the King. What’s left to challenge his authority?"

"What's the deal with these Tryon County guys?" I asked softly. Sir John Johnson took my question the wrong way.

"Mr. Ormond," said Sir John, "Tryon County is home to four different groups. First, we have the Scotch-Irish, many of whom are rebels, I admit, but plenty are also loyal. If you balance those against my Highlanders, they cancel each other out. Second, there are the Palatines—those people whose ancestors came here to escape the armies of Louis XIV when they destroyed the Palatinate. I’ll acknowledge that these are also rebels. Third, we have those of Dutch descent, coming from strong ancestors, like our esteemed patroon here. Again, I’ll admit that many of them are also influenced by rebel ideas. Fourth, there are the English, three-quarters of whom are Tories. So I ask you, can these separate groups of mixed heritage come together? And if they could, would they be able to stand for even a day, or an hour, against the trained troops of England?"

"God knows," I said.

I had walked from the dining hall out to the gun room. The clocks in the house were striking midnight. In the dining room, the group had begun drinking seriously, cheering and singing patriotic songs, and through the open door, I could hear bursts of women's laughter and the strumming of guitar strings echoing the cheerful lyrics.

All was cool and dark inside the house as I walked to the front door and opened it to feel the refreshing night air on my face. I heard the whippoorwill in the bushes, the drumming of dew on the porch roof, and far away, a sound like the ocean stirring—the wind in the pines.

The Creator of everything has instilled in me a love for all that He has made, whether it's a furry animal, a beautiful bird, a sprig of willow in April, or a tiny insect that moves blindly through our shared world. That's how I came to love the sounds of the night, the sight of the stars, the whispers of growing plants, and the fragrance in the air where, unseen, a million tiny flowers hold up white cups for dew or for the misty-winged creatures that seek their honey.

Now, with this dark, calming truce we call night, acting as a shield between the attacks of two angry suns, I found myself reflecting on war and its injustices. All around me in the darkness, insects chirped, and delicate, gauzy creatures buzzed and throbbed in rhythm, while the stars' light gently illuminated the still trees, and the distant sounds of the forest created a steady, rushing noise like the retreating tide of shallow seas. I had no doubt that I was committed in my conscience. I needed to take up my sword, and do so quickly—not for loyalists or rebels, not for the King or Congress, not for my possessions or my family, but for the ancient rights of Englishmen, which England threatened to obliterate.

That meant losing time on the way back home; but why? Here in Tryon County, a person could stand for freedom of thought and action just as firmly as they could at home. There was a community with no bonds or shared interests except for that common love of liberty—a mixed group of races, without leaders, without resources, threatened by three armies and the five nations of the great confederacy—the Iroquois.

To go back to the islands near Halifax and fight for my own land was pointless if the British armies were entering through New York and driving right into the heart of the rebellion, dividing the thirteen colonies with a blazing wedge.

At home, I had no family to defend; my older brother had gone to England, my supervisor, my managers, and my clerks were all loyalists; my slaves would team up with the Minorcans or the black people in Georgia, and I, all alone, couldn't do anything to stop them.

But here, in the urgent situation of Tryon County, I could be helpful. This was the very front line of battle where, beyond the horizon, invasion, with its many heads, was already raising three terrifying, threatening peaks.

Ugh! The butcher's work that was promised if the Iroquois were unleashed! It made me shudder because I knew what that kind of war was like, having had some experience fighting the Seminoles when I was seventeen, and then the Chehaws and Tallassies a few months later. In November of 1775, I went with Governor Tonyn to Picolata, but when I found out our mission was the disgraceful task of securing the Indians as British allies, I quit my position as captain in the Royal Rangers and went back to Halifax to wait and see what would happen.

And now, feeling thoughtful and a bit sad, wondering how it would all end, I walked back and forth on the porch. The steady sound of the dew falling was like a distant drumbeat—soft, constant, commanding—and my heart raced in response to it until I found myself standing still, gazing into the darkness with anxious eyes.

The muffled, steady rhythm of a guitar from the far-off party reached my ears, along with a fresh, sweet voice singing:

"As I was at my door, spinning,
               Spinning,
                   Spinning,
A grenadier winked at me,
               Grinning,
                   Grinning!
As I was at my door, a grenadier winked at me.
And now my song has begun, you see!

"My grenadier said to me,
               So jolly,
                   Jolly,
'We tax the tea, but love is free,
               Sweet Molly,
                   Molly!'
My grenadier said to me,
'We tax the tea, but love is free!'
And that's how my song ends, you see,
               In folly,
                   Folly!"

I listened with anger; the voice was Dorothy Varick's, and I wondered how she could have the heart to sing such nonsense for men whose hold was already on her people's throats.

In the dining hall, someone sounded the hunt call on a hunting horn, and I heard cheers and the muffled roar of a chorus:

"--Gather your men!
Campbell and Cameron,
Fox-hunting gentlemen,
Chase the Jacobite back to his hideout!
Run with the fugitive rogue to his escape route,
     Stole-away!
     Stole-away!
     Gallop to Galway,
Back to Broadalbin and rush to Perth;
Ride! because the rebel is retreating!"

And the loud, intense Highland shout, "Gralloch him!" repeated the infamous catch, until the night air resonated softly in the starlight.

"Cruachan!" shouted Captain Campbell; "the wild myrtle for clan Campbell, the heather for the McDonalds! Arms, children!"

And a loud shout responded to him: "The army! Sons of the army!"

Sullen, troubled, and restless, I paced the porch and finally sat down on the steps to cool my hot forehead in my hands.

And as I sat there, my cousin Dorothy came to the porch to look for me, fanning her flushed face with a big, feathery fan, the warm scent of roses still clinging to her silky skirts.

"Did they finish?" I asked, not very politely.

"They're starting," she said with a laugh, then took a deep breath and waved her fan slowly. "Ah, the lovely May night!" she murmured, her eyes on the north star. "Can you believe that men could dream of war in this peaceful paradise of silence?"

I didn’t reply, and she continued, fanning her flushed cheeks: "They're leaving for Oswego by dawn, the entire group, brave and loaded with baggage." She laughed mischievously. "I don't mean their wives, cousin."

"How could you?" I exclaimed, frustrated.

"Their wagons," she said, "left today at sunset from Tribes Hill; Sir John, the Butlers, and the Glencoe gentlemen are coming at dawn. There are carriages for the ladies out there, and an escort as well. But no one would stop them; they're as safe as Catrine Montour."

"Dorothy, who is Catrine Montour?" I asked.

"A woman, cousin; a dreadful witch who runs through the woods, and no one dares to stop her."

"A real witch? You mean a spirit?"

"No, no; a true witch, with black hair hanging down and long arms that could strangle an ox."

"Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, finding it funny.

"Why? Who knows? She's always seen running."

"Where is she running to?"

"I don't know. Once Henry Stoner, the hunter, chased her, and they say no one but Jack Mount can outrun him; but she kept running while he chased her, until the day faded, and he collapsed, panting like a worn-out horse. But she kept going."

"Oh, really," I said; "do you believe that?"

"Of course, I know it's true," she said, stopping her fanning to look at me with calm, wide eyes. "Do you not believe it?"

"How can I?" I asked, laughing. "Who is this busybody, Catrine Montour?"

"They say," said Dorothy, waving her fan thoughtfully, "that her father was Count Frontenac, who long ago ruled the Canadas, and that her mother was a Huron woman. Many believe she’s a witch. I’m not sure. Milk curdles in the pans when she runs through the forest ... or so they say. Once, it rained blood on our front porch."

"Those red drops are falling from groups of butterflies," I said, laughing. "I've seen red showers in Florida."

"I want to be sure about that," said Dorothy, thinking. Then, looking up with her sparkling eyes, she saw me laughing.

"Tease me," she smiled. "I don’t mind. You can even make love to me if you want."

"Make love to you!" I said again, blushing.

"Why not? It's entertaining--and you're just a cousin."

Astonishment turned into annoyance as she casually dismissed me with a flick of her fan, sending the word "cousin" right into my face.

"Imagine if I pursued you and won your heart?" I said.

"You have them," she said calmly.

"I mean your feelings?"

"You got it."

"I mean your love, Dorothy?"

"Ah," she said, with a slight smile, "I wish you could—I wish someone could."

I was quiet.

"And I will never love; I know it, I feel it—right here!" She pressed her side with a weary sigh that almost made me burst out laughing, but I held back my amusement until it nearly overwhelmed me, and I looked up at the stars.

"Maybe," I said, "the kind feelings could be stirred up with patience ... and practice."

"Uh, no," she said.

"Can I hold your hand?"

Indifferently waving, she reached out her fingers. I held them in my hands.

"I’m about to start," I said.

"Start," she said.

So, with her hand in mine, I told her that she had stolen the skies and placed two stars in her violet eyes; that nature's only miracle happened when roses bloomed in her cheeks under the snow; that the frosted gold she called her hair had been woven from December sunbeams, and that her voice was just the music taken from the breeze, the brook, and the sweet-singing birds.

"For all those sweet words," she said, "love is still asleep."

"Maybe my arm around your waist--"

"Maybe."

"So what?"

Yes.

And after a pause:

"Is love awakened?"

"Love sleeps deeper."

"And what if I touched your lips?"

"Better not."

"Why?"

"I'm sure that love would be boring."

Chilled, because I had unknowingly started to find an unexpected interest in this child’s play, I let go of her unresisting fingers.

"Honestly," I said, a bit annoyed, "I can believe you when you say you never plan to get married."

"But I don't say it," she said.

"What? You plan to get married?"

"That’s not what I said, either," she replied, laughing.

"Then what the heck do you say?"

"Nothing, unless I'm asked nicely."

"I kindly ask you, cousin," I said.

"Then I should tell you that, even though I don’t really think much about marriage, I am engaged."

"Engaged!" I repeated, feeling angry and disappointed, but I couldn't figure out why.

"Yes, I pledge."

"Who to?"

"To a man, ridiculous."

"A guy!"

"With two legs, two arms, and a head, cousin."

"You ... love him?"

"No," she said calmly. "It's just to get married and settle down someday."

"You don't love him?"

"No," she said again, a bit impatiently.

"And you plan to marry him?"

"Listen to the boy!" she said. "I've told him ten times that I'm engaged, which means a wedding. I'm not one of those who break promises."

"Oh ... you’re now free on parole."

"Prisoner on parole," she said casually. "I have to set the date for punishment, and I promise you it won’t be anytime soon."

"Dorothy," I said, "what if you fell in love in the meantime?"

"I'd like to," she said earnestly.

"But what would you do?"

"Love you, silly!"

"And... get married?"

"Marry the one I’ve promised you."

"But you'd be miserable!"

"Why? I can't imagine marrying someone I love. I should feel embarrassed, I think. I--if I loved, I wouldn’t want the man I love to even touch me--not even with gloves."

"You little fool!" I said. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do!" she exclaimed passionately. "There was a captain from Boston; I was in love with him. And once he kissed my hand, and I couldn't stand him!"

"I wish I had been there," I mumbled.

She waved her fan back and forth and continued, "I often think about amazing men, and while dreaming in the sun, sometimes I admire them. But these daydream heroes always stay at a distance; we talk and talk, and plan to do great things in the world, until I end up falling asleep... Heigho! I’m yawning now." She covered her face with her fan and leaned back against a pillar, crossing her feet. "Tell me about London," she said. But I knew no more than she did.

"I'd be popular there," she remarked. "I'd have a line of admirers and fashionable guys around me, I promise! The more stylish, the better! Just imagine, cousin—lines of them all flirting, gazing at me through a hundred fancy glasses! Sigh! There’s definitely some mischief in me, just like Sir Lupus says."

She yawned again, looked up at the stars, then began to twist her fan with her fingers out of boredom.

"I guess," she said, more to herself than to me, "that Sir John is now right at the edge of the table, and Colonel Claus is underneath it.... Listen to their out-of-tune song! But who cares?... as long as they don’t start fighting.... Like those two brawlers from Glencoe, ... dwelling on feuds nearly a hundred years old.... I have no patience for someone who broods, who holds onto grievances, ... like Walter Butler." She looked up at me.

"I told you," she said.

"It’s not easy to avoid insulting him," I replied.

"I warned you about that, too. Now you have a conflict and a confrontation ahead."

"The reckoning is a long way off," I shot back, feeling frustrated.

"Far away—yes. Further than you realize. You will never face off against Walter Butler."

"Why not?"

"He plans to use the Iroquois."

I stayed quiet.

"For the sake of your women’s honor, you can’t fight a man like that," she added softly.

"I wish I could defend your honor," I said, so unexpectedly and so harshly that I surprised myself.

"Have you not?" she asked seriously. "I am your relative."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," I mumbled, and started fiddling with the lace on my wristbands.

The morning air was chilly, and so was the silence. I could see the calm morning star on the horizon, observing the dark world—the dark, sad world, lying so still, so patiently, beneath the ancient sky.

That sadness— which is a sign, too—left me numb, floating in a kind of painful contentment that alternately calmed and disturbed me, so that at times I almost dozed off, and at other times I could feel my heart stirring, as if in dull anticipation of unimaginable joys.

Dorothy also sat there, feeling dull and thoughtful, with a sad look in her eyes that sometimes comes over kids, making their parents quiet.

Once in the early light before dawn, a rooster crowed, and the sharp, distant sound made the chilly air feel even emptier and the silence even deeper. I glanced longingly at the maid next to me, hesitant to interrupt her quiet. Soon, her distant eyes met mine, and as if I had said something, she asked, "What is it?"

"Just this: I’m sorry you’re committed."

"Why, cousin?"

"That's not fair."

"Who to?"

"Tell him to fix it and let you go."

"What does it matter?" she said, flatly.

"To get married, you should love," I murmured.

"I can’t," she replied, remaining still. "I wish I could. This night has made me wish for love—to want it; and I’m just sitting here, thinking, thinking.... If love ever showed up for me, I think it would come now—before dawn; here, where everything is so dark and quiet and close to God.... Cousin, tonight, for the first time in my life, I’ve wanted love."

"To be loved?"

"No, ... to love."

I don't know how long we were silent; the slightest shimmer of silver appeared in the sky above the eastern woods; a bird woke up, lazily chirping; another sung out bright and clear, another, another; and, as the pale color spread in the east, all the forests erupted into song.

In the house, a door opened and a raspy voice spoke thickly. Dorothy ignored it, but I got up and walked into the hallway, where servants were helping the patroon to bed. A man was leaning against the bronze-cannon post, swaying and mumbling threats—Colonel Claus, his wig askew, his stock unbuckled, and one shoe missing. Ugh! The stale, sour air made me feel sick.

Then a group of men came out of the dining hall, and as I stepped back to the porch to make space for them, their gray faces looked at me with empty smiles or blank curiosity.

"Where's my assistant?" hiccuped Sir John Johnson. "Hey, you, get my guys to call! Bring the carriages up! Damn it, I want my post-chaise, do you hear?"

Captain Campbell stumbled out onto the lawn and fiddled with his whistle, which he finally managed to blow. Once that was done, he seriously looked up at the sky.

"There they are," Dorothy said quietly; and I saw, in the dim morning light, a dozen horsemen moving in the shadows of the stockade. Soon, the horses were brought up, followed by two post chaises, with tired postboys in their saddles and men on foot carrying rifles.

Colonel Butler stepped out of the door with Magdalen Brant, who was half asleep, and helped her into a carriage. Guy Johnson followed with Betty Austin, his arm around her, and climbed in after her. Then Sir John brought Claire Putnam to the other carriage, getting in himself right behind her. The post-boys led their horses out through the stockade, followed at a gallop by the shadowy riders.

And now the Butlers, father and son, positioned themselves to ride; and I saw Walter Butler kick the servant who was holding his stirrup—I'm not sure why, unless the poor, exhausted guy's hands were shaking.

Up into their saddles jumped the Glencoe captains; then Campbell swore an oath and got off his horse to look for Colonel Claus; soon after, two guys carried him out and put him back in his saddle, which he held onto, swaying like a ship in trouble, his riding boots hanging around his neck, with his bare feet gripping the stirrups.

Away they went, followed at a trot by the armed men on foot; the sound of the horses' hooves went from clear to barely audible, and then it faded away.

In the quiet, the east turned a fiery red. I looked toward the open doorway; Dorothy was gone, but old Cato stood there, his frail hands clasped, his calm eyes on me.

"Good morning, sir," he said pleasantly. "Yes, sir, the night is over and the sun is almost up. It’s just naturally that way in this world—day, night, more day. What does the Bible say? Life, definitely more life, sir. When we’re gone, we’ll surely find it that way."

Cato was at my bedside with a basin, towel, and razor, a tub of water on the floor, and the sun shining on my bedroom wall. These, along with a bad taste in my mouth, welcomed me as I woke up.

First, I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth with orris, then took a bath, still half asleep; and once more, I settled back in my armchair, wearing a robe, my cheeks all lathered and my nose enjoying the fragrance of the water in the basin I was holding unsteadily. I said, irritably, "What a fool a man is to act like an idiot! Do you hear me, Cato?"

He said that he noted what I said, and I told him to be quiet and tell me the time.

"Nine, sir."

"Then I'll sleep again," I mumbled, but I couldn't, and after the morning drink, I felt better. Chocolate and bread, fresh butter and fresh eggs, put me in a better mood. Cato, rummaging through my boxes, pulled out a soft, new suit made of doeskin, complete with new points, a new belt, and new moccasins.

"Oh," I said, watching him, "am I going forest running today?"

"Mars' Varick is going to ride the bounds," he announced, cheerfully.

"Ride to hounds?" I repeated, shocked. "In May?"

"No, sir! Ride the bounds, sir."

"Oh, push the boundaries?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, fine. What time does he start?"

"About noon, sir."

The old man tried to fix my short ponytail, but he found it impossible, so he tied it tight and sprinkled on some French powder.

"Curly head, curly head," he muttered to himself. "Just like your dad's!... and Miss Dorry's. Goodness, this hair is worth more than eight dollars."

"You think my hair is worth more than eight dollars?" I asked, amused.

"It surely is, sir."

"But why eight bucks, Cato?"

"That's what the redcoats say; eight dollars for one rebel scalp, sir."

I sat up, shocked. "Who told you that?" I asked.

"All the folks say so—Mars' Varick, Mars' Johnsing, Cap'in Butler."

"Ugh! They said it to annoy you, Cato," I muttered; but as I said it, I saw the old slave's eyes and realized that he had spoken the truth.

Sobered, I put on my forest outfit, absentmindedly lacing up the hunting shirt and tying the knee points, while the old man polished the hatchet and knife and slipped them into the beaded sheaths hanging on either hip.

Then I went out, quietly going down the stairs, and unexpectedly came across the young people and the kids gathered on the sunny porch, absorbed in their morning activities.

They didn’t see or hear me; I leaned against the doorway to enjoy the nice scene at my leisure. The kids, Sam and Benny, sat all hunched over, frowning at their books.

Close to a fluted pillar, Dorothy Varick lounged in a chair, stitching her initials on a pair of white silk stockings using the Rosemary stitch. As her nimble fingers moved quickly, her gold thimble sparkled like a firefly in the sunlight.

At her feet, sitting cross-legged, was Cecile Butler, her velvet eyes focused on a silken petticoat that she was embroidering with delicate sprays of flowers.

Ruyven and Harry, nearby, dipped their brushes into pans of vibrant French colors, one painting beautiful birds on a silk fan, the other decorating a pair of white satin shoes with tiny pink blossoms swaying on a vine.

Loath to disturb them, I stood smiling, silent; and soon Dorothy, without looking up, asked Samuel to read his morning lesson, and he began, breathing heavily:

"I know that God is angry with me
  Because I was born in sin;
My heart is really wicked
  Damnation lives within;
I sin when I'm awake, I sin when I'm asleep,
  I sin with every breath,
When Adam fell, he went to hell
  And condemned us all to death!"

He suddenly stopped, frowning, probably out of fear, I think.

"That teaches us to follow God's will," said Ruyven sternly, dipping his brush into the pink paint.

"What's the point of following God's rules if we're all going to end up in hell?" asked Cecile.

"We're not all going to hell," Dorothy said calmly. "God saves His chosen ones."

"Who are the elect?" Samuel asked, feeling a flicker of hope.

"Nobody knows," Cecile said darkly; "but I think--"

"Benny," interrupted Dorothy, "read your lesson! Cecile, quit your chatting!" And Benny, upbeat and doubtful, read his lines:

"When I see myself through the eyes of the spectators,
  What beauty surrounds me,
Or in a glass when I look
  How sweetly God has created me.
Has God bestowed such beauty
  And allowed it to dwell in me?--
What a shame for such a lovely girl
  If I were to go to hell!"

And Benny laughed.

"Benjamin," Cecile said in a dreadful voice, "aren't you scared by what you're reading?"

"Huh!" said Benny, "I'm not a 'pretty maid'; I'm a guy."

"It's all the same, you little fool!" insisted Cecile.

"Does God say that little boys are born to be damned?" he asked, uneasily.

"No, no," interrupted Dorothy; "God saves His chosen ones, I'm telling you. Don’t you remember what He says?

'You sinners are, and you can expect
  A share just like this;
This is what you’ll get, for I only save
  Those who are my chosen.'

"And you see," she added confidently, "I think we all are chosen, and there's nothing to be afraid of. Benny, stop sniffing!"

"Are you sure?" Cecile asked, sounding downcast.

Dorothy, sewing peacefully, replied, "I'm sure God is fair."

"Oh, everyone knows that," Cecile said. "What we want to know is, what does He plan to do with us."

"If we're good," Samuel added passionately.

"He'll probably curse us," said Ruyven, sucking on his paintbrush and inspecting his work critically.

“Damn us? Why?” Dorothy asked, looking up.

"Oh, for all that sin we were born into," Ruyven said, absentmindedly.

"But that's not fair," Dorothy said.

"Are you smarter than a priest?" Ruyven mocked.

Dorothy put the white silk stocking over one knee. "I don’t know," she sighed, "sometimes I think I am."

"Pride," Cecile said, satisfied with herself. "Pride is a sin, so there you have it, Dorothy."

"There you are, Dorothy!" I said, laughing from the doorway; and, "Oh, Cousin Ormond!" they all chimed in, rushing over to greet me.

"Watch out!" shouted Dorothy. "That’s my wedding petticoat! Oh, he got water on it! Benny, you awful jerk!"

"No, he hasn't," I said, stepping out to greet her and Cecile, with Samuel and Benny clinging to my belt and Harry tightly holding one arm. "And what's all this about wedding attire? Is there a bride around here?"

Dorothy held out a stocking. "A bride's white silk stockings," she said, pleased with herself.

"Embroidered on the knee with the bride's initials," Cecile added proudly.

"Yours, Dorothy?" I demanded.

"Yeah, but I'm not going to wear them for a long time. I said that to you last night."

"But I thought Dorothy should get ready," Cecile said. "Dorothy is going to carry that fan and wear those slippers and this petticoat and the white silk stockings when she marries Sir George."

"Sir George who?" I asked, straightforwardly.

"Why, Sir George Covert. Didn't you know?"

I looked at Dorothy, furious for no reason.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, without any tact.

"Why didn't you ask me?" she replied, a bit hurt.

I stayed quiet.

Cecile said: "I hope Dorothy will marry him soon. I want to see how she looks in this petticoat."

"Ha!" scoffed Harry, "you just want to wear one like it and be a bridesmaid, fuss over yourself, and act all high and mighty. I know you!"

"Sir George Covert is a great guy," Ruyven said, giving Dorothy a condescending nod; "but I always thought he was too old for you. You should see how gray his temples are when he doesn’t wear any powder."

"He has beautiful eyes," Cecile said softly.

"He's too old; he's forty," Ruyven repeated.

"His legs are really nice," Cecile added, with a hint of emotion.

Dorothy looked up at me in despair. "Aren't these kids just ridiculous?" she said, giving a slight shrug.

"We might be kids, and we might be foolish," Ruyven said, "but if we were in your shoes, we’d marry our cousin Ormond."

"All of you together?" Dorothy asked.

"You know what I mean," he said sharply.

"Why not?" asked Harry, somewhat hesitantly, tugging at Dorothy's apron.

"Do what now?"

"Marry our cousin Ormond."

"But he hasn't asked me," she said, smiling.

Harry turned to me and wrapped his arm around mine in a caring way.

"You will ask her, right?" he said softly. "She can be really nice when she wants to."

"She didn't want me," I said, laughing.

"Oh yes, she would; and then you’d never have to leave us, which I think would be nice for everyone. Will you ask her, cousin?"

"Ask her," I said.

"Dorothy," he said eagerly. "You will marry him, right? Our cousin Ormond said he would if you would. And I'll let Sir George know that it's just a family thing, and, anyway, he's too old--"

"Yeah, tell Sir George that," Ruyven sneered, having listened in an embarrassment that Dorothy certainly hadn’t shown. "You're such a fool, Harry. Don't you know that when people want to get married, they ask each other's permission to ask their fathers, and then their fathers talk to each other, and then they ask each--"

"Other!" Dorothy exclaimed, laughing joyfully. "Oh, Ruyven, Ruyven, you really are going to be the end of me!"

"Even so," said Harry, moodily, "our cousin wants to marry you."

"Do you?" Dorothy asked, looking at me with amused eyes.

"I’m afraid I’m too late," I said, trying to force a smile that I didn't really feel.

"Ah, yeah; too late," she sighed, putting on a sad face.

"Why?" Harry demanded, blankly.

Dorothy shook her head. "Sir George would never allow me that kind of freedom. If he did, our cousin Ormond and I could get married right away; you see I have my wedding stockings here; Cecile could do my hair, Sammy could carry my prayer book, Benny could hold my train, Ruyven could read the service--"

Harry, blushing at the loud laugh, shot Dorothy a dirty look, turned to face me, then frowned again at Dorothy.

"Still," he said slowly, "you're being really foolish not to marry him... And you'll regret it... when he's gone!"

At this hidden hint of my impending end, everyone was quiet except for Dorothy and Ruyven, whose bright laughter echoed louder and louder.

"Laugh," Harry said, gloomily; "but you won't be laughing when he's killed in the war... and scalped, too."

Ruyven, now suddenly clear-headed, looked up at me. Dorothy leaned over her sewing and studied it closely.

"Are you going to war?" Cecile asked, sounding sad.

"Of course he's going; so am I," replied Ruyven, casually leaning against a pillar.

"Which side, Ruyven?" Dorothy asked, sorting her silks.

"On my cousin's side, of course," he said, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

"Which side is that?" Cecile asked.

Confused and blushing deeply, the boy looked at me, and I helped him out by saying, "We'll discuss it when we ride the borders this afternoon. Ruyven and I are on the same page, right, Ruyven?"

He gave me a thankful look. "Yeah," he said, nervously.

Sir George Covert, a bit pale but charming and sophisticated, walked out to the porch, greeting us with a polite nod. He stopped next to Dorothy, who paused her sewing and extended her hand for him to kiss.

"Are you also going to the wars?" she asked with a friendly smile.

"Where are they?" he asked, pretending to be really eager. "Show me some wars, and I'll be there ASAP!"

"They're all over the place," Sammy said seriously.

"Then we should get on our horses and not waste any time, Mr. Ormond," he said, linking his arm with mine. In a quieter voice, he added: "Got a headache?"

"Oh no," I said quickly.

"Lucky dog. Sir Lupus lies there as if he's been struck by lightning. I'm all shaky, too. A guy my age is an idiot for doing things like this. But I do, Ormond, I really do; what a fool I am. Are you riding out with Sir Lupus?"

"If he wants it," I said.

"Then I'll see you when you pass my villa on the Vlaie, where a glass of wine will be waiting for you. Do you ride, Miss Dorothy?"

"Yeah," she said.

A stable boy brought his horse up to the porch. He said goodbye to Dorothy with a grace that even impressed me; however, in the way he acted around her, I sensed the tender pride he felt for her, and that left me feeling distant and reflective.

Everyone liked him, but no one really saw him as family, nor did they give him that subtle sense of closeness that comes with being related, something they already extended towards me.

Dorothy walked with him to the stockade gate, the stable boy following with his horse; and I saw them standing there having a quiet conversation, him leaning back and flicking at the weeds with his riding crop; she, head down, repeatedly turning the gold thimble between her fingers. And I wondered what they were talking about.

Right now, he got on his horse and rode away, a confident, strong figure in the saddle, not turning like a show-off to blow a kiss at his fiancée, nor kicking his horse to show off his riding skills—which I respected him for, even if I didn't show it.

Harry, Cecile, and the kids grabbed their paints and books and went into the house, insisting that I come along.

"Dorothy is calling us," Ruyven noted, packing up his paints.

I looked at her and she raised her hand, signaling us to come over.

"About Dad's watch," she said. "I just talked to Sir George, and he said that neither Ruyven nor I have won, since Ruyven used the coin he did—"

"Alright," shouted Ruyven, feeling victorious. "Then let's compare dates again. Do you have a shilling, Cousin Ormond?"

"I'll throw hunting knives for it," suggested Dorothy.

"Oh no, you won't," her brother replied cautiously.

"Then I'll race you to the porch."

He shook his head.

She laughed mockingly.

"I'm not afraid," Ruyven said, blushing and looking at me.

"Then I'll take you on."

Stung by the bitterness in her smile, Ruyven grabbed her.

"No, no! Not in these clothes!" she said, struggling to get free. "Wait until I put on my buckskin outfit. Don't be so rough; you're ripping my laced apron. Oh! you big oaf!" With a quick shout of annoyance, she bent down, grabbed her brother, and hoisted him right off his feet, tossing him over her left shoulder and onto the grass.

"Silly!" she said, her cheeks flushed. "I have no patience for being manhandled." Then she laughed nervously at the sight of him lying there, too shocked to move.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

"Who taught you that hold?" he asked angrily, getting to his feet. "I thought I was the only one who knew that."

"Well, Captain Campbell taught you last week and ... I was at the window ... sewing," she said, shyly.

Ruyven looked at me, disgusted, mumbling, "If I could learn things the way she does, I wouldn't waste my time at King's College, believe me."

"You're not going to King's College anyway," his sister said. "York is full of loyal rebels and Tory patriots, and Dad says he’ll be damned if you can learn logic where everyone lacks it."

She extended her hand, smiling. "No hard feelings, Ruyven, and we can forgive each other."

Her brother met the clasp; then, with his hands in his pockets, he followed us back through the stockade toward the porch. I was glad to see that his pride had taken no more damage than his body from the fall he had, which boded well for him becoming a fair-minded man.

As we got closer to the house, I heard hollow sounds inside, like moans; and I paused, listening carefully.

"It’s Sir Lupus snoring," Ruyven noted. "He’ll wake up soon; I should probably call Tulip," he said, exchanging a glance with his sister. He then went into the house, shouting, "Cato! Cato! Tulip! Tulip! Hello!"

"Who is Tulip?" I asked Dorothy, who was standing at the door folding her embroidery into a bundle.

"Tulip? Oh, Tulip cooks for us—dark as a June crow, cousin. She's into voodoo."

"Evil-eye and all?" I asked, smiling.

Dorothy looked up timidly. "Don’t you believe in the evil eye?"

I wasn't completely sure whether I did or not, but I said, "No."

"Believing doesn't always mean being afraid," she added quickly.

Now, if I had believed in voodoo or the power of an evil eye, I would have been scared. Anyone who has seen a witch dance on a sea island can back me up, and I believe a guy can fear a witch and still not be a coward. But distance and time mellow the memories of those strange happenings. I couldn’t remember if I was scared or not. So I said, "There are no witches, Dorothy."

She looked at me, lost in thought. "There’s nothing ... that I’m afraid of."

"Not even Catrine Montour?" I asked, to annoy her.

"No; it makes me uneasy to imagine her running in the forest, but I'm not scared."

She stood thoughtful in the doorway, rolling and unrolling her embroidery. Harry and Cecile came out, waving alder poles from which lines and hooks hung. Samuel and Benny carried birch baskets and shallow nets.

"If we're going to catch Mohawk chubbs," Cecile said, "you should come with us, Dorothy. Ruyven has a book and has locked himself in the playroom."

But Dorothy shook her head, saying that she wanted to ride the boundary with us; and the kids, after unsuccessfully asking me to join them, headed off towards that same grist-mill in the ravine below the bridge that I had seen when I first arrived at Varick Manor.

"I’m curious," said Dorothy, "how you plan to spend the morning. You should definitely avoid Sir Lupus until he’s had his breakfast."

"I feel like sleeping," I said, feeling a bit guilty.

"I think it would be nice to ride together. Will you?" she asked; then, laughing, she added, honestly, "Ever since you arrived, I've just been following you... It's been a while since I had a young friend... and when I think about you leaving us, it makes me want to enjoy every moment so I won't regret anything when you're gone."

No shyness affected her charming declaration of friendship, and it moved me more deeply, maybe. The trust in her eyes, shining so sweetly, brought out the best in me; and even if my reply was awkward, it was enthusiastic and warm, which seemed to make her happy.

"Tulip! Tulip!" she shouted, "I want my dinner! Now!" And to me, "We'll eat what they serve us; I’ll put on my buckskins and we’ll ride the border to mark the signs, and Sir Lupus and the others can meet us at Sir George Covert's pleasure house on the Vlaie. Does that sound good to you, Cousin George?"

I looked into her bright eyes and said that it made me happier than I could express, and she laughed and ran upstairs, calling back to me to order our horses and tell Cato to have Tulip bring meat and claret to the gun room.

I whistled for a young stable boy and asked him to bring our horses to the porch. Then I aimlessly wandered down the hallway, following the smell from the kitchen, until I reached a closed door.

Behind that door, meat was cooking—I swear it—I opened the door and peeked inside.

"Tulip," I said, "come here!"

An ample Black woman, wearing an apron and a turban, looked at me through the steam of many kettles, turned and smacked the boy at the spit, gave a few hits to the kitchen helpers, and waddled over to me, bobbing and curtsying.

"Aunt Tulip," I said seriously, "are you into voodoo?"

"People say I am, Mars' Ormon'," she said, in her soft Georgian accent.

"Oh, really? Look at me, Aunt Tulip. What do my eyes say about me?"

Her dark eyes, locked onto mine, seemed to transform, and I noticed little flashes of pure gold in the iris, like those amazing shifting colors in a beautiful bubble. Definitely, her eyes were unusual, almost magnetic, because I felt a slight tightness in my cheeks, and my eyes kept going back to hers as if by an unspoken command.

"Can you hear me, Auntie?" I asked, trying to sound relaxed, but I could feel my cheeks tightening.

"Yeah, I definitely can," she said, stepping closer.

"What's my fate, then?"

"Ah, you're really going to find yourself in love," she said softly; and I tried to smile with increasingly stiff lips.

A little tingling numbness spread over me; it felt nice; I didn’t want to look away. Soon, the tension in my face eased, and I moved my lips, smiling faintly.

"In love," I said again.

"Yes, Mars' Ormon'."

"When?"

"Before you know it, honey."

"Tell me more."

"'Spec' I might have told you too much, honey." She looked at me steadily. "Poor Mars' George," she murmured, "I might have told you too much. But it’s definitely coming, honey, and it’s going to come really suddenly, and it’s going to make you really sick."

"Am I supposed to win her?"

"No, babe."

"Is there no hope, Aunt Tulip?"

She paused like she had done something wrong; I could feel the tightness in my face again; then, for a moment, I lost track of time; soon I realized I was standing in the hallway, watching Sir Lupus through the open door of the gun-room, and Sir Lupus looked really angry.

"Dammy!" he shouted, "am I supposed to eat my plate? Cato! I want my porridge!"

Confused, I stood blinking at him, and he at the table, wearing a bib like a baby, furious as can be, banging on the cloth with a big silver spoon and shouting that they were trying to starve him.

"I don't remember how I got here," I started, then blushed intensely at my own foolishness.

"Remember!" he yelled. "I don't remember anything! I don't want to remember anything! I want my porridge! I want it now! Damn it!"

Cato rushed past me with the steaming dish and was met with a yelp. Finally, Sir Lupus managed to get his spoon into the mix and a bite into his mouth, starting to gobble and growl, ignoring me completely. So, I closed the door of the gun-room on the big patroon and walked to the bottom of the staircase.

A person in soft buckskin was coming down— a blue-eyed, graceful young man who greeted me with a wave.

"Dorothy!" I said, captivated.

Her fringed hunting shirt reached her knees, with a short shoulder cape that covered her throat to her chest; colorful fringe waved from her shoulders to her wrists and from her thighs to her ankles. Her tiny scarlet-quilled moccasins made a pat-patter-pat sound as she danced down the stairs and stood in front of me, dramatically sweeping her cap off her golden head in a playful salute.

She looked smaller in her boy's dress, fuller as well, with a rounder neck and limbs; and the enchantment of her beauty left me speechless—a tribute she clearly enjoyed, as she blushed beautifully and bowed again in silent acknowledgment of the admiration that was too obvious in my eyes.

Cato brought a plate of meat and a bottle of red wine; we sat down on the steps, finishing off the bottle and the dish until nothing was left.

"Don't leave these dishes for Sir Lupus to trip over!" she yelled at Cato, then jumped to her feet and was out the door before I could react, whistling for our horses.

As I came out, the horses arrived, and I rushed over to help her into her saddle, but she was already up and sitting there by the time I reached the ground, calmly taking the reins and using her soft leather toes to find the stirrups.

Astonished, since I had never seen a girl ride like that, I got on my saddle and turned my mare, following her out across the lawn, through the stockade, and onto the road, where I urged my horse forward and caught up next to her at a gallop, just as she reached the bridge.

"Look!" she exclaimed, gesturing with her arm, "the kids are down there fishing by the mill." She waved her small silver fox cap, calling out in a clear, sweet voice the Indian shout of victory, "Kôue!"

For the first half-mile, our road stretched over the same golden, hilly landscape and through the same beautiful forests that I had crossed on my way to the manor. Then we raced past farmland, where clusters of corn rose above the reddish golden soil, and sheep grazed in rocky pastures.

Around the cabins of the tenants, fields of oats and barley shone, thin blades poking through the soil, bright like shattered emeralds.

A few fallen blossoms still dotted the apple trees, pears appeared in small clusters, and I spotted a late peach tree in full pink bloom with an old man hoeing the soil around it. He looked up as we rode by, gave a gloomy nod, and leaned on his hoe, watching us go.

Dorothy said he was a Palatine refugee and a rebel, just like most of Sir Lupus's tenants; and I looked curiously at these fields and cabins where thin men and even thinner women, working among their growing vegetables, turned sun-dazzled eyes to watch us as we clattered by; where ragged children, climbing on the fences, shouted to us in high-pitched voices; where grazing cattle lifted their sober heads to stare; where lean, scruffy dogs rushed out barking and snapping until a quick whip crack sent them scurrying back.

Once, a woman came to her gate and called out to us, asking if it was true that the troops had been pulled back from Johnstown and Kingsborough.

"Which troops?" I asked.

"Ours," the woman started, then paused and gave me a suspicious look.

"The Provincials are still at Johnstown and Kingsborough," Dorothy said softly.

A glimmer of relief softened the woman’s tired face. Then her expression darkened again as she pointed at two barefoot children huddled against the fence.

"If my guy and I were alone, we wouldn't be afraid of the Mohawks; but these--"

She made a desperate gesture and stood staring at the blue Mayfield hills where, perhaps at that moment, painted Mohawk scouts were watching the Sacandaga.

"If your men stay quiet, Mrs. Schell, you don’t need to worry about rebels, savages, or Tories," said Dorothy. "The patroon will make sure you have plenty of protection."

Mrs. Schell gave her a helpless look. "Didn't you know that the district scout call has gone out?" she asked.

"Yes, but if Sir Lupus's tenants follow it, they do so at their own risk," Dorothy replied seriously. "The militia scouts in this area need to be careful. Your husband would be crazy to respond to a call and leave you here by yourself."

"What do you want him to do?" muttered the woman.

"Do?" Dorothy echoed. "He can either join his regiment and take his family to the fort, or stay home to look after you and the farm. All this worry is misguided—your men are either soldiers or farmers; they can't be both unless they live near the forts. Let Mr. Schell know that Francy McCraw and his riders are in the forest, and that the Brandt-Meester of Balston saw a Mohawk smoke signal on the mountain behind Mayfield."

The woman crossed her thin arms in her apron, shot a pained look at her kids, then turned to us once more, her eyes empty but still determined.

"My guy is with Stoner's scout," she said, with a lackluster pride.

"Then you need to go to the block-house," Dorothy started, but the woman pointed to the fields, shaking her head.

"We're going to build a blockhouse here," she said, stubbornly. "We can't leave our corn. We need to eat, Mistress Varick. My husband is too poor to be a Provincial soldier and too brave to turn down a militia call--"

She gasped, rubbed her eyes, and fixed her intense gaze on the hills again. Soon, we continued riding, and as I turned in my saddle, I saw her standing just as we had left her, thin, stiff, staring intently at the intimidating peaks in the northwest.

As we rode, farmland and orchards became less common; it’s true that we saw a few cabins on partially cleared hills, and we even passed one or two decent houses on the flat ridge to the east, but there were long stretches of dense forest in between. Eventually, we left the main road and turned onto a cool dirt path surrounded by trees on both sides.

"Here we find our first landmark," said Dorothy, pulling back on the reins.

A white triangle sparkled, carved into the bark of a huge pine tree; and my cousin rode up to the tree and gently touched the bark with her small hand. Someone had carved a V into the triangle and painted it black.

"This is a boundary mark," Dorothy said. "The Mohawks claim the forest to the east; ride around and you'll see their sign."

I led my horse around the massive, straight trunk. An oval mark scarred it, and a red wolf was painted on the wood.

"It's the wolf clan, Brant's own clan from the Mohawk nation," she shouted to me. "Follow me, cousin." And she took off down the wooded path, with me running behind, jumping over fallen logs, ditches, and the shallow streams in our way. The road narrowed to a worn trail; the trail gradually disappeared, first marked by trimmed underbrush, then just by the white marks on the tree trunks.

My cousin rode ahead, her horse at a canter, and I followed her, stopping now and then to check the white triangle on the sturdy flank of some massive tree, passing a sugar-bush with the shack still standing and the black ashes of the fire scattered around, until we reached a logging road and turned onto it, riding side by side. A clearly defined path crossed this road at a right angle, and Dorothy pointed it out. "The Iroquois trail," she said. "Look how deeply it's worn—almost ten inches deep—where the Five Nations have walked it for centuries. Their hunting parties, scouts, and war parties pass over it. It stretches from the Kennyetto to the Sacandaga and continues north over the hills to Canada."

We stopped and looked down the empty, worn path that stretched through the forest. Thousands of light, moccasin-clad feet had dug it deep and packed it hard like a sheep trail. What mission would the next Mohawk feet be rushing down that path for?

"Those folks at Fonda's Bush should probably move to Johnstown," said Dorothy. "If the Mohawks decide to attack, they'll come through here at Balston or Saratoga, or at the few families still at Fonda's Bush, which some refer to as Broadalbin."

"Don't these poor people have anyone to warn them?" I asked.

"Oh, they’ve been warned time and time again, but they hold onto their cabins like cats hold onto soft cushions. The Palatines seem frozen with fear, the Dutch are too lazy to move around the forts, and the Scots and English are too stubborn. No one can help them—you heard what that Schell woman said when I urged her to be cautious."

I fixed my gaze on the eerie path; its emptiness intrigued me, so I got off my horse and knelt to check it out, where, near a dry, decaying log, I noticed some fresh tracks.

Behind me, I heard Dorothy get off her mount, landing softly like a tree lynx. The next moment, she put her hand on my shoulder and leaned over while I was kneeling.

"Can you read that sign to me?" she asked, playfully.

"Something has rolled and settled in the dry wood dust—some bird, I think."

"A good guess," she said, "a male partridge has dusted here; see those bits of down? I say male bird because I know that log to be a drumming log."

She lifted herself up and led her horse along the path, her bright eyes eagerly scanning the ground and the surrounding bushes.

"Deer passed through here—one—two—three—the third one was a buck—a three-year-old," she said, lowering her voice instinctively. "Over there, a tree cat dug for a wood mouse; your lynx is always lurking around a drumming log."

I placed my hand on her arm and pointed to a fresh, green maple leaf lying next to the trail.

"Yeah," she whispered, "but it fell off naturally, cousin. Look; it separated from the stem, smooth like a poplar twig, leaving the shiny cup unharmed. And nothing has come by here--this spider's web shows that, with a dead moth hanging from it, dead for three days, from its fragile shell."

"I hear water," I said, and soon we reached it, where it rushed darkly across the path.

There were no signs of people there; here a woodcock had dotted the mud with small holes, searching for worms; there a raccoon had made its way; over there a lynx had left the large, padded print of its foot, surely keeping an eye on that mink peeking at us from the bank of the calm pool below.

Silently, we got on our horses and rode out of the quiet Mohawk country. I wasn't sad to leave, as it felt like there was something unfriendly in the intense stillness—something ominous in the silence. I was relieved when I finally saw an open road and a large tree marked with Sir Lupus's symbol, the sun shining on the white triangle and the painted V.

Entering a clearing where the logging road went through, we continued on, side by side, speaking quietly. My cousin showed me how to recognize these Northern trees by their bark and leaves; how to identify the shrubs I had never seen before, like that unusual plant whose root resembles a human body and which the Chinese consider worth its weight in gold; and the aromatic root used in beer, along with the bark of the sweet birch, whose twigs are golden-black.

Now, even though I recognized many of the birds, animals, and trees in this Northern forest, I was constantly confused, as I mentioned before. The colors of the feathers, leaves, and fur puzzled me; our gray rice bird here sported a fancy black and white coat and sang beautifully, while back home he’s as silent as can be; many squirrels had black and white stripes; there were no rosy lichens sparkling on the tree trunks; no pink-stemmed pines softened the dark depths of the forest; no large tiger-striped butterflies indicated that wild oranges were nearby; and no buzzing, olive-tinted moth signaled the hidden presence of the oleander. But I saw unfamiliar winged creatures everywhere, and I heard unknown bird songs; new colors baffled me, new shapes, and even the soil smelled strange, while the water tasted bland like the mist of pine barrens in February.

Still, my Creator had given me eyes to see and a nose to smell; and I was learning something new every moment, tasting, smelling, touching, listening, and asking questions without shame; and my cousin Dorothy never seemed to get tired of helping me, nor did her enthusiasm and support lessen at all.

Dressed in complete deer-skin like me, she rode her horse with a natural grace that was flawless and effortless. She didn’t imitate the lazy style of the Southern saddle riders or the stiff posture of the dragoons; instead, she sat comfortably, with a relaxed back, loose thighs, and reins and stirrups that allowed her to move freely.

Her hair, pulled into a golden knot at the back of her neck, sparkled in the sun, and her eyes were as deep as the purple skies above. The sun had already given her a delicate, creamy glow, golden on her temples where the hair was lighter; and I thought I had never seen such pure sweetness and beauty in anyone alive.

We now rode through a wide, flat area filled with willows, heading straight north again, and I saw a small river that twisted a hundred times like an injured snake, winding its sparkling shape in and out through the woods, the willow area, and the marsh filled with reeds.

"The Kennyetto," Dorothy said, "flows out of the great Vlaie to empty its waters near its source after a loop of about fifty miles. Over there is the Vlaie—it’s that vast flat expanse of lakes, marshes, and forests nestled just south of the mountain gap where the last of the Adirondacks break into the Mayfield hills and the long, low ridges stretching southeast. Sir William Johnson had a lodge there at Summer-house Point. Since he passed away, Sir George Covert has rented it from Sir John. That’s our meeting place."

To hear Sir George's name now unsettled me, but I couldn't figure out why, since I admired and liked him. However, just mentioning his name made me feel uneasy, and I turned to my cousin impatiently, as if the irritation originated from her and she needed to explain it.

"What is it?" she asked, giving a faint smile.

"I didn’t ask any questions," I mumbled.

"I thought you were going to speak, cousin."

I intended to say something. I just didn't know what.

"You seem to know when I’m about to speak," I said; "you’ve responded to my unasked questions twice now."

"I know it," she said, surprised and a bit confused. "I feel like I can hear you even when you’re silent, and I look over to find you staring at me, as if you were asking me something."

We rode on, thinking and quiet, feeling a new and unspoken closeness.

"It’s nice to be with you," she finally said. "I’ve never found real contentment except when I’m alone…. Everything you see and think about on this ride, I feel and think about too, and I know you’re enjoying it just as much as I am…. Nothing in the world interrupts my happiness. You don’t annoy me with silence when I want you to talk; nor do you talk when I’m lost in thought—as I am, cousin, for hours and hours—not sadly, but in the sweetest peace—"

Her voice faded away like a June breeze; our horses, side by side, moved slowly in the sweet silence.

"To ride ... forever ... together," she thought, "looking with perfect happiness at the whole world.... Me teaching you, or you teaching me; ... it’s all the same for the joy it brings to be alive and young.... And no problems waiting for us, ... nothing bad that could hurt any living being.... I could give up Heaven for that.... Could you?"

"Yes... for less."

"I know I ask a lot; grief makes us more genuine, preparing us for the company of blessed souls. They say that even war can be a holy thing—though we are told the opposite.... Cousin, sometimes a demon awakens in me and I crave something forbidden so intensely, so passionately, that it feels like I could carve a path through paradise itself to get what I want.... Do you feel the same?"

"Yep."

"Isn’t it exhausting—terrible to feel so shaken? ... Yet I never get what I want, because there in my way, my own self confronts me, blocking my path. And I can never get past it—never.... Once, in winter, our agent, Mr. Fonda, arrived with a trained caribou pulling a sled. A sweet, gentle creature, with dark, soft eyes, and I was desperate to drive it—desperate, cousin! But Sir Lupus found out that it had trampled and gored a man, and he insisted I not drive it. And all day Sir Lupus was away at Kingsborough for his rent collections while I was free to drive the sled, ... and I was desperate to do it—but couldn't. And the beautiful animal stayed in the stable with our horses, and every day I could have driven it.... I never did.... It still hurts, cousin.... How strange it is that for us, the single word 'honor' blocks the path and turn the King's own highway into a dead end forever!"

She nervously gathered the reins, and we took off on our horses through a willow fringe and across a soft, sandy stretch, riding side by side until the wind whistled in our ears and the sand flew up high with every leap of our galloping horses.

"Ah!" she sighed, pulling back the reins. "That really lifts the weight of silly worries. Wasn't it amazing? Like jumping into an icy pool!"

Her face, glowing and transformed, was facing north, where, shimmering under the setting sun, the bright waters of the Vlaie sparkled between lush green reeds and rushes. Beyond that, hazy blue mountains spilled into two uneven ridges, stretching southeast and southwest, flanking the flat valley of the Vlaie.

Thousands of blackbirds chattered, croaked, trilled, and whistled in the reeds, fluttering upward, showing off flashes of red on their wings; hovering and then dropping again amid a constant chorus from the hidden flock. Over the marshes, slow hawks glided, rose, spun, and swooped; the gray ducks, with their wings featuring purple diamond patterns, quacked in the tussock ponds, watched over by their sentinels, the tall blue herons. Everywhere, the ground was covered in marsh marigolds and violets.

Across the far grassy field, two deer grazed. We rode east, avoiding the marshes and following a trail made by cattle, until we spotted the green roof of the pleasure house that Sir William Johnson had built for himself beyond the flats. Our ride together was almost over.

As we had the same thought, we tightened the reins and looked at each other seriously.

"All rides eventually end," I said.

"Yeah, like happiness."

"Both can be renewed."

"Until they end once more."

"Until they end for good."

She held her bare hands on her horse's neck, sitting with her head bowed as if she were lost in deep thoughts.

"What ends forever might last forever," I said.

"Not our trips together," she whispered. "You have to come back to the South one day. I have to get married... Where will we be a year from today?"

"Really far apart, cousin."

"Will you remember this trip?"

"Yeah," I said, troubled.

"I will, too... And I’ll wonder what you’re up to."

"And I will think of you," I said seriously.

"Are you going to write?"

"Sure. Will you?"

Yes.

Silence settled between us like a shadow; then:

"Over there rides Sir George Covert," she said, lacking enthusiasm.

I watched him get off his horse in front of his door, but didn’t say anything.

"Shall we move forward?" she asked, but didn’t make a move to grab the bridle resting on her horse's neck.

Another silence; and, impatiently:

"I can’t stand the thought of you leaving," she said. "We’re so happy together, and I want you to know all my thoughts about the world and people. I can’t share them with my dad or Ruyven, and Cecile is too young—"

"There's Sir George," I said.

"Hey! I would never even consider sharing these thoughts that either bring me joy or stress me out!" she said, genuinely surprised. "He couldn't care less about the things that matter to you or even think about them at all."

"Maybe he does. Ask him."

"I have." He smiles and remains silent. I'm hesitant to burden him with chatter about animals, plants, and why some people are wealthy while others are not; whether it’s right for some men to own slaves; and why our Lord allows evil to exist when He could stop it forever. "I wish I could know all these things," she said earnestly.

"But I don't know them, Dorothy."

"Still, you think about them, and so do I. Sir Lupus says you’ve freed your Greeks and sent them back. I want to know why. Also, although neither you nor I can understand our Lord's reasons for allowing the evil that Satan intends, I think it’s nice to ask each other."

"To think together," I said, feeling sad.

"Yes, that's it. Isn't it a pleasure?"

"Yeah, Dorothy."

"It doesn't matter if we don't learn; it's the joy in knowing that the other person cares to learn too, the pleasure in searching for understanding together. Cousin, I've really wanted to say this to someone; and until you arrived, I never thought it could happen.... I wish we were brother and sister! I wish you were Cecile, and I could be with you all day and all night.... At night, half-awake, I think of amazing things to discuss, but by morning, I forget them. Do you?"

"Yeah, cousin."

"It’s odd how similar we are!" she said, looking at me thoughtfully.

After a brief silence, we headed toward the pleasure house, and we had barely started when the patroon came down the road from the north, riding a strong black horse. He was accompanied by old Cato, who was on a lean horse, and Peter Van Horn, the district fire warden. When they stopped at Sir George Covert's door, we rode up to join them quickly, and the patroon, spotting us from a distance, waved his hat at us in obvious good spirits.

"Not a single landmark is missing!" he shouted, "and all my signs are recorded by Peter and Cato! How are the southwest landmarks looking?"

"The tenth pine got struck by lightning," said Dorothy, leading her beautiful gray horse over to Sir Lupus's side.

"Pooh! We've got twelve years to change trees," said Sir Lupus, feeling very pleased. "Everything is good everywhere, except at the Fish-House near the Sacandaga ford, where some cheeky guy claims he saw smoke in the hills. He's probably lying. Where's Sir George?"

Sir George strolled out from the doorway where he had been standing and asked us to get off our horses, but the patroon refused, saying we had a long way to go before sunset and one of us should take the route through Broadalbin. However, Dorothy and I hopped down from our saddles to stretch our legs while a servant brought over stirrup-cups, and Sir George picked a sprig of late lilac that my cousin tied to her leather belt.

"Tory lilacs," said Sir George with a smirk; "these bushes came from cuttings of the ones Sir William planted at Johnson Hall."

"If Sir William planted them, a rebel might as well wear them," replied Dorothy cheerfully.

"Ay, it's that brat, Sir John, who has ruined what the great baronet left as his legacy," grumbled old Peter Van Horn.

"That's treason!" the patroon snapped. "Cut it out. I won't have politics discussed in front of me, no! Damn it, Peter, keep quiet, sir!"

Dorothy, wearing the lilac flowers, gracefully hopped onto her saddle, and I got on my mare. They filled and passed around drinks for us, and we enjoyed a chilled glass of spiced claret in honor of the host, who toasted us back kindly. He then stood by Dorothy's horse, chatting and laughing until, at a signal from Sir Lupus, Cato blew the horn to signify "Afoot!" and the patroon turned his large horse out onto the road, giving a salute with his whip to our host.

"Dine with us tonight!" he shouted, not bothering to turn his bulky head or wait for a response, and continued to stir up a cloud of dust. Sir George looked at Dorothy with a sense of longing.

"There's a call from the district officer," he said. "Some of the Palatine officers want me there. I can't say no. So ... it's goodbye for a week."

"Are you a militia officer?" I asked, curious.

"Yeah," he said, making a funny face. "Can I say that you’re also a contender?"

Dorothy turned directly in her saddle and looked me in the eyes.

"At your service, Sir George," I said casually.

"Ha! Well done, Ormond!" he said. "Nothing to bother you yet, but our Governor Clinton might send you a sweet note from Albany before May wraps up and June kicks off—if this fancy-dressed guy, St. Leger, steps out to check out Stanwix—"

Dorothy turned her horse quickly, waved to Sir George, and galloped off toward her father, who had stopped at the crossroads to wait for us.

"Goodbye, Sir George," I said, extending my hand. He took it with a firm, steady grip.

"A safe trip, Ormond. I hope luck brings us together in this upcoming campaign."

I bowed, turned around, and cantered away, leaving him standing in the road in front of his brightly painted getaway, an empty wine glass in his hand.

"Damn it, George!" shouted Sir Lupus as I rode up, "are we going to stand around here all day sniffing each other and gossiping? Some of us need to ride by Fonda's Bush, or Broadalbin, whatever the Scots call it; and I'll be honest, I'm not up for it; I just want my dinner!"

"It will be a pleasure for me to go," I said, "but I need a guide."

"Peter will ride with you," started Sir Lupus; but Dorothy interrupted, impatiently:

"He doesn't need to. I'll take Mr. Ormond to Broadalbin."

"Oh no, you won't!" snapped the patroon; "you've run around in the forest enough for today. Peter, take Mr. Ormond to the Bush."

And he rode ahead quickly, with Cato and Peter following; because of the dust they kicked up, which we didn’t want to breathe in, Dorothy and I slowed down and lagged behind.

"Do you know why you need to go past Broadalbin?" she asked after a moment.

I said I didn't.

"People at the Fish-House saw smoke on the Mayfield hills an hour ago. That's twice in three days!"

"Well," I said, "what about that?"

"It’s better for the Broadalbin community to hear about it."

"Are you saying it might have been a signal from an Indian?"

"It might have been. I didn't see it—the trees blocked our view."

The setting sun, shining over the Mayfield hills, turned the dust into a golden haze. Through it, Cato's red coat shimmered, and the hunting horn, arching over his hunched back, sent out bursts of blinding sparks. The brass buttons on the patroon's wide coat tails sparkled like yellow stars, and the spurs glinted on his quarter gaiters as he moved along at a steady gallop, hat pushed down over his ears, pig-tail sticking out, with his blue coat white with dust.

In the refreshed melody of the songbirds, there was a suggestion of evening coming; shadows stretched out; the sunlight became redder on the dusty road.

"The Broadalbin trail turns into the forest just up ahead," Dorothy said, pointing with her whip. "Look, there where they're pulling up. But I'm still going to ride with you, no matter what.... And I will do it!"

The patroon was waiting for us when we arrived at the worn-out signpost:

"FONDA'S BUSH
4 MILES."

And Peter Van Horn had already ridden into the wide, soft forest road when Dorothy, guiding her horse past him at full speed, shouted, "I want to go with them! Please let me!" And she was off like a deer, zooming down the leafy path.

"Come back!" shouted Sir Lupus, standing tall in his heavy stirrups. "Come back, you little vixen! Am I to be obeyed, or not? Useless! Disobedient tree-cat! Damn it, she's gone!"

He looked at me and slapped his thick thigh with his open hand.

"Have you ever seen anyone like her?" he laughed, feeling proud. "She's as stubborn as a Dutch Varick, but the rest is all Ormond. Keep going, George, and tell those fool rebels at Fonda's Bush that they should be looking for shelter in the forts if the people at the Fish-House are reading that smoke correctly. Follow the Brandt-Meester if Dorothy leaves you behind, and let her know I’ll punish her, no matter how big she is, if she’s not back by the new moon rise."

Then he pulled his hat down over his speckled ears, took hold of the bridle, and rode off at a gallop, followed by old Cato in his red coat and curly horn.

I had carefully traveled a mile on the dark, leafy trail before I picked up Van Horn, only to leave him behind. I had ridden a full three miles before I spotted Dorothy, sitting on her gray horse, looking in my direction.

"What on earth made you run through the forest like that?" I asked, laughing.

She turned her horse, and we walked on, side by side.

"I wanted to come," she said, plainly. "The enjoyment of this day should only wrap up when the night arrives. Plus, I was eager to ask you if it’s true that you plan to stick around and serve with our militia?"

"I intend to stay," I said, slowly.

"And serve?"

"If they want it."

"Why?" she asked, lifting her bright eyes.

I paused for a moment, then said:

"I’ve decided to stand up against our King’s soldiers."

"But why here?" she repeated, her clear eyes still on mine. "Tell me the truth."

"I think it’s because you’re here," I said seriously.

The sweetest smile spread across her lips.

"I was hoping you’d say that.... Do I make you happy? Listen, cousin: I have this crazy urge to follow you—being held back drives me absolutely mad—just like when Sir Lupus called me back. Because, in the last hour, I’ve had this bizarre feeling that we don’t have much time left together; that I shouldn’t let a single moment pass without enjoying you."

"Foolish prophetess," I said, trying to laugh.

"A prophetess?" she repeated quietly. As we continued through the dim forest, her head fell in thought, partly hidden by her loose hair. Finally, she glanced up with a dreamy expression, speaking her thoughts out loud:

"No prophetess, cousin; just a child, anxious and overwhelmed by too much fun, exhausted from all the excitement after playing too hard. I'm not sure how I should behave. I'm not used to friends like you, cousin; and in the new pleasures of this kind of company, I've gotten carried away until my head is spinning with the buzzing thoughts you inspire in me. I crave a quiet, dark room and a bed to lie down on, to think about today's joys."

After a moment of silence, broken only by our horses walking on the damp ground: "I've been craving this companionship... I was so thirsty!... Cousin, have I drunk too much? Have you been too generous? Why am I suddenly terrified that you--that you might get tired of me and my silly chatter? Oh, I know I've kept my thoughts bottled up for too long! I could talk to you endlessly! I could ride with you until I drop! I'm like a caged animal set free, I tell you--can I tell you this, cousin?"

"Share everything that's on your mind, Dorothy."

"I could tell you everything! I've never had a thought that I don't want you to know, ... except for one.... And I really want to tell you ... but I can't.... Cousin, why did you name your mare Isene?"

"An Indian girl in Florida had that name; the Seminoles referred to her as Issena."

"And so you named your mare after her?"

Yes.

"Was she your friend—that you named your mare after her?"

"She lived a hundred years ago—a princess. She married a Huguenot."

"Oh," said Dorothy, "I thought she might be your girlfriend."

"I don't have any."

"You've never had one?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

I turned in my seat.

"Why have you never had a boyfriend?"

"Oh, that's not the same. Guys fall in love—or at least pretend to. And after a few drinks, they brag about their good luck, each claiming that his girl is the most beautiful, and they go on and on until I’m bored of hearing it... And yet you say you’ve never had a girlfriend?"

"Neither titled nor untitled, cousin. And, if I had, we never talk about it at home, thinking it's a matter of honor."

"Why?"

"How embarrassing, I guess."

"Is it shameless to speak like I do?" she asked.

"Not for me, Dorothy. I wish you could be saved from all that unfiltered gossip you hear at the table—not that it could hurt someone as innocent as you! Because, honestly, I've never known a woman like you, or a girl so beautifully made!"

I paused, locking eyes with her.

"Say it," she whispered. "It makes me happy to hear you."

"Then listen to me," I said slowly. "Loyalty, devotion, tenderness—all of these are what you deserve; not just for the beautiful body that holds your soul captive, but for the pure spirit that lives so wonderfully behind the blue windows of your eyes! Dorothy! Dorothy! Have I said too much? Still, I ask that you remember it, so you don’t forget me when I’m gone... And tell Sir George that I said this... Let him know after you’re married, and tell him that all men envy him but still wish him the best. Because on the day he marries, he’s marrying the noblest woman in the whole world!"

Dazed, she looked at me through the fading light; and I saw her eyes glistening in the shadow of her messy hair and the pulse throbbing in her throat.

"You’re so kind—almost too much," she said; "and I can’t even find the words to express the deep feelings you bring up in me—to say how gently you treat me—"

"Don't say anything else," I stammered, trembling at her voice. She flinched as if I had struck her, and I, feeling dizzy, scared, and sorry, took her small hand in mine and pulled her closer; I couldn't speak because my heart was pounding so loudly.

"What is it?" she whispered. "Have I upset you so much that you're trembling? Look at me, cousin. I can barely see you in the twilight. Have I hurt you? I love you so much."

Her horse moved closer, our knees brushed. In the dark forest, I realized I had my arms around her waist, and her arms were heavy on my shoulders. Then her lips softened, and her arms tightened around my neck, and that quick embrace in the enveloping darkness ignited a flame in me that has never gone out—that will continue to live even when this body turns to dust, guiding my soul through its final journey.

As for her, she sat up in her saddle with a quirky little laugh, still holding my hand. "Oh, you’re amazing in everything you lead me to," she whispered. "Never, ever have I felt so much joy in a kiss; and I’ve been kissed, too, willingly and unwillingly. But you leave me breathless and all shaky with a softness for you—no, not again, cousin, not yet."

Then slowly the complete misery of guilt consumed me, body and soul, and what I had done felt like a terrible wrong to a woman who was promised to another, and to the man whose wine had satisfied my thirst just an hour before.

Something in my thoughts she might have seen in my lowered head and turned face, because she leaned forward in her saddle, grabbed my arm, and turned me partly towards her.

"What’s bothering you?" she asked, anxiously.

"My betrayal of Sir George."

"What treason?" she asked, amazed.

"That I touched you."

She burst out laughing.

"Am I not free until I get married? Do you think I should give up my freedom just to make Sir George happy? Honestly, cousin, if I can’t be with whoever I want and enjoy how you treat me, then I’m no better than the winter log he buys to warm his feet!"

Then she got angry in her impatience, pulling her reins to bring her horse closer to mine.

"Am I really not going to marry him?" she said. "Isn’t that enough? And I told him straight up, you can be sure of that, when Captain Campbell kissed me on the porch—which drove me crazy, because he wasn’t my type—but Sir George saw it and there was almost a silly scene until I made it clear that I wouldn’t be tied down before I had a wedding ring!" She laughed deliciously. "I think he gets it now that I’m not tied down until I choose to be. And until I make that choice, I'm free. So if you want to, kiss me... but give me a little room to breathe, cousin... and something to hold on to.... Now let me go—because the forest is ending!"

"NOW LET ME GO--BECAUSE THE FOREST IS ENDING!".

A faint red light emerged in the dark woods; a rushing sound like fast-flowing water filled my ears—or was it the blood rushing and singing through my heart?

"Broadalbin Bush," she whispered, brushing her hair out of her eyes and reaching for her stirrups with her small, moccasined toes. "Listen! We can hear the Kennyetto rushing down the hill. Look, cousin, it’s sunset, the west is on fire, the whole sky is lit up! Oh! What magic has transformed the world into paradise—riding with you today?"

She turned in her saddle with a graceful motion, pressed her outstretched hand against my lips, then, gathering the reins, urged her horse through the underbrush and into a pasture where, across a bare hill, a few log cabins glowed in the sunset.

There was a scent of sweetbriar in the air as we stopped in front of a cabin down the hill. I leaned over and picked a handful of the leaves, crushing them in my hand to enjoy the spicy fragrance.

A man showed up at the cabin door and stared at us; a lazy guy lounging on the west fence rail chewed on his food seriously and watched us with watery eyes.

"Andrew Bowman, have you seen anything to scare people on the mountain?" asked Dorothy seriously.

The man in the doorway shook his head. A few men and women from the nearby cabins came out into the road and hurried towards us. One of the houses had a bush, and I noticed two men staring at us through the open window, holding pewter mugs.

"Good people," Dorothy said softly, "the patroon sent you a message about a strange smoke spotted in the hills today."

"There's smoke over there now," I said, pointing towards the sunset.

At that moment, Peter Van Horn rode up, stopped, and turned his head, looking where I pointed. Others arrived, squinting in the warm evening light, stretching their necks to see, and from the rundown tavern, a tall, skinny guy staggered out, rifle slung over his shoulder, drink spilling, eager to hear the news that brought us here at this hour.

"It’s mist," said a woman, but her voice shook as she said it.

"It’s smoke," growled Van Horn. "Read it, if you can."

Where the guy in the tavern window burst into laughter and called down to his friend: "Francy McCraw! Francy McCraw! The Brandt-Meester says a Mohawk fire is burning in the north!"

"I hear him," McCraw shouted, finishing his drink.

Dorothy turned quickly. "Oh, is that you, McCraw? What brings you to the Bush?"

The skinny guy turned his wild, blue eyes on her, then looked at the smoke. Some of the men frowned at him.

"Is that smoke?" I asked sharply. "Answer me, McCraw!"

"A can't deny it," he said with a crazy laugh.

"Is it Indian smoke?" asked Van Horn.

"A well," he replied, stretching his thin neck and tilting his head cheekily--"a well, I’ll admit that, too. It’s Indian smoke; I can’t deny it, no."

"Is it a Mohawk signal?" I asked directly.

At that, he let out a loud, triumphant laugh.

"What does he say?" shouted the man from the pub. "What does he say, Francy McCraw?"

"He says it must be Mohawk smoke, Danny Redstock."

"And what if it is?" shouted Redstock, pushing his way over to McCraw with his rifle in hand. "Save your dark looks for your neighbors, Andrew Bowman. What do we care about your Mohawk fires?"

"Herman Salisbury!" Bowman shouted to a neighbor, "do you hear what this Tory traitor is saying?"

"Shh! Everyone be quiet," said Redstock, striding out into the road. "Francy McCraw, our good neighbors are really confused by that wisp of birch smoke over there."

"Then tell those useless idiots to watch it!" shouted McCraw, grabbing his rifle and threatening the small group of men and women who had rushed in on him. "Get your hands off me, Johnny Putnam—back off for your life, Charley Cady! Yeah, stare at the smoke until your eyes fall out! But no; some people just won't take a warning!"

He backed off down the road, followed by Redstock, guns ready.

"And you'll back me up," he shouted, "that those who hear these words now will face their fate before the hunter's moon is gone!"

He let out his wild laugh and, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, stopped to face us.

"Haven't you heard of Catrine Montour?" he mocked. "She'll come in the night, Andrew Bowman! Wow, man, she's a creepy old lady, with her witchy hair hanging down to her neck and her two eyes blazing!"

"You’re kicking us out tonight!" shouted Redstock. "We’ll remember this when Brant is in the hills!"

"The wolf howl! Clan of the wolf!" shouted McCraw. "Oh no! Oh no to Broadalbane! It's the pibroch of Glencoe that will wake you to the woods on fire! Be careful! Be careful, for you stand knee-deep in your shrouds!"

In the reddish dusk, their dark figures faded into shadows and disappeared.

Van Horn shifted in his saddle and then shook his shoulders, as if releasing them from a burden.

"Now you have it, you guys from Broadalbin," he said, grimly. "Head to the forts while there's still time."

In the darkness around us, kids started to cry quietly; a woman lost it and began to sob.

"Quiet!" shouted Bowman, firmly. And to Dorothy, who was sitting quietly on her horse next to him, "Tell the patroon that we know who our enemies are. And you, Peter Van Horn, no matter which side you're on, we men of the Bush appreciate you and this young lady for being here."

And that was it. In silence, we turned our horses northward, with Van Horn leading the way, and rode out of that dim village that was already falling under the shadows of an unknown fear.

Behind us, as we turned around, one or two candles flickered in cabin windows, sad, dim lights in the vast, dark ocean of the forest. Above us, the stars became clearer. A evening sparrow sang its thoughtful song. Calm and sweet, the serene notes floated into endless silver echoes, until it felt like the starlight surrounding us was vibrating into song.

I touched Dorothy, riding next to me, white as a ghost in the soft light, and she turned her lovely, fearless face towards mine.

"There’s a sound," I whispered, "really far away."

She placed her hand in mine and pulled back, listening. Van Horn had stopped too.

Far in the forest, the sound broke the silence; soft and sneaky, getting closer and closer until it turned into a patter. Suddenly, Van Horn's horse reared up.

"It's there! It's there!" he shouted, hoarsely, as our horses spun around in fear.

"Check it out!" muttered Dorothy.

Then something happened that took my breath away. A dark figure came running through the forest, a wild thing that zoomed past us before we could even scream; I couldn't tell if it was an animal, a person, or a spirit, but it kept going, thuddy-thud, thuddy-thud! Meanwhile, we were struggling with our panicked horses, trying to control them before they crashed us against the trees.

"Jesus!" gasped Van Horn, pulling his strong horse back onto the road. "Can you make anything of that terrifying thing, like a wart-covered toad crawling on two legs?"

Dorothy gritted her teeth, dug her heels into her gray's ribs, and urged him toward my mare, who was trembling with excitement.

"It's a thing from hell," gasped Van Horn, struggling with his roan horse's knees and wrists. "My mare doesn't shy away from bears or wolves! Just look at him now!"

"Not mine at anything except a wild animal," I said, nervously looking back while my horse shook beneath me.

"I think we've encountered a wild person, that’s all," Dorothy's calm voice remarked. "I think we've seen Catrine Montour."

At the mention of the name, Van Horn cursed quietly.

"If that's the witch Montour, she runs like a clansman with the fiery cross," I said, shuddering.

"And that is going to be her job," muttered Van Horn. "The painted forest men are in the hills, and if the Senecas, Cayugas, and Onondagas don't know it tonight, it won't be Catrine Montour's fault."

"Go ahead, Peter," said Dorothy, and pulled up her horse until my mare was alongside.

"Are you scared?" I whispered.

"Afraid? No!" she said, shocked. "What should I be afraid of?"

"Your common sense!" I said, impatiently, annoyed to the point of rudeness by the shocking and otherworldly scene that had almost shaken me. But she replied very sweetly:

"If I fear nothing, it's because there's nothing I know of in the world that can scare me. I remember," she added seriously, "'A thousand will fall at my side and ten thousand at my right hand. But it won't come near me.' How can I be afraid, believing that?"

She leaned forward from her saddle, and I saw her eyes scanning my face in the dark.

"Silly," she said gently, "I only fear that you might be unkind."

"Then give yourself to me, Dorothy," I said, holding her captive.

"How can I? You've got me."

"I mean for life."

"But I do."

"I mean in marriage!" I whispered, intensely.

"I'm engaged, silly!"

"Can't I make you love me?" I said.

"To love you? ... Better than I do? ... Go ahead and try."

"Then marry me!"

"If I were married to you, would I love you more than I do?" she asked.

"Dorothy, Dorothy," I pleaded, holding her tightly, "marry me; I love you."

She leaned back into her saddle, breaking my grip.

"You know I can't," she said... Then, almost softly: "Do you really want it? It means so much to hear you say it—and I've heard those words plenty of times, but never like you say them... If you had asked me back in December, before I was committed... But I'm promised; ... just a word, yet it binds me like a chain... Dear boy, forget it... Treat me kindly... Teach me to love, ... like an eager student, ... because life is too short for me to learn everything in, ... alas!... May God protect us both from love's sorrows and grant us only its joys—which you've shown me; to which I am—I'm awakening, ... after all these years, ... after all these years without you.

Perhaps it would be kinder to let me sleep... I'm only half awake to love.

Is it really best to wake me, then? Is it too late?... Pull back the reins in the starlight. Look at me.... It’s too late, because I’ll never sleep again.

For two full days, I didn't see my cousin Dorothy. She was in bed with a hot, throbbing headache, and the blinds were closed to block out all the light. This gave me time to think about what we had said and done, and what we were committed to.

Yet, with plenty of time on my hands and the freedom to think, I couldn't make sense of those quick, intense hours we spent together, or why our last moments found us in each other's arms, her tear-streaked eyes closed, her lips pressed against mine. Because, during that same hour, at the table, she told Sir Lupus right in front of me that she wanted to marry Sir George as soon as possible and would settle for nothing less than for Sir Lupus to send a messenger to the pleasure house, instructing Sir George to arrange his affairs so that the wedding would take place within the first three days of June.

I couldn't doubt what I was hearing, yet I could hardly believe it; I sat there, feeling a mix of anger and cold shock, barely touching my food, and forcing myself to eat with all the self-control I could muster.

As for Sir Lupus, his surprise and happiness repulsed me, because he started crying tears of joy, showering his daughter with affection and praising her endlessly. He went on and on about her gratitude and loyalty to Sir George, whom he also piled on with compliments until his overly sweet words made me feel queasy, forcing me to leave the table and walk around the dark porch, trying to make sense of all the conflicting memories battling in my dizzy head.

What made her throw away time, when time was our most valuable ally, our only hope? With time—if she truly loved me—what couldn’t be accomplished? And here, too, was another ally quickly coming to our aid on Time's own wings—the war! Its distant impact was already stirring the Mohawk smoke on the northern hills! And yet another helpful ally stood ready to support us—absence! With Sir George away, involved in new experiences, new hopes, and new ambitions, he might easily change in his affections. As an officer, and a successful one at that, gaining recognition among his fellow countrymen every day, he should find all paths open, all doors unlocked, and a warm welcome among the elite of New York City, whose extravagant lifestyle might not only be justified but even celebrated under a new regime and a new monarchy.

These were the half-formed, crazed thoughts racing through my mind as I walked the porch that night; and I think they were, maybe, the most unworthy thoughts that ever tempted me. Because I hated Sir George and wished for his quick departure to immortality unless he changed his desire to marry my cousin.

Gnawing my lips in growing anger, I watched the messenger for the pleasure house ride out of the stockade, and I wished him bad luck and a fall to knock some sense into him before he delivered his annoying message to Sir George's door.

Passion blinded and drowned out all hints of decency; my conscience was paralyzed inside me, and I believe I now understand what dark obsession pushes people to commit murder and leads their souls to endless punishment.

Quivering from head to toe, alternating between hot and cold, and suffocating with the intense longing for her whom I was losing more hopelessly by the second, I wandered aimlessly through the starlight, pacing the barrier like a trapped animal, and I thought my aching heart would suffocate me if it didn't break to ease my breath.

So this was love! A terrible thing, I swear, to turn a good man into someone who twists right and wrong until the threads of decency and duty were tangled beyond recognition. The only thing I could see or understand was that I wanted the woman I loved and was now about to lose forever.

Chance and circumstance had tangled me up; I struggled in the grip of fate, hurt, dazed, and overwhelmed with sadness and this new fire of passion that had erupted around me until I had taken in the flames and must carry their scars inside me as long as my burned heart could still beat.

As I stood there under the dim trees, silent and miserable, straining my ears for the messenger's return, my cousin Dorothy came along in the pale, flowered dress she wore at dinner. Before she noticed me, I saw her looking for me, walking on the new grass quietly, one hand pressed to her parted lips.

When she saw me, she froze, and her hands dropped loosely to her sides.

"Cousin," she said, in a weak voice.

And, since I didn’t respond, she moved closer until I could see her blue eyes searching my own.

"What have you done?!" I said, sharply.

"I don't know," she said.

"I know," I shot back, angrily. "Time was all we had—a few short hours—a day or two together. And with time came opportunity, and with opportunity, hope. You’ve taken all three away!"

"No; ... there was no chance; there is no longer any time; there never was any hope."

"There was hope!" I said, with bitterness.

"No, there wasn't any," she said softly.

"Then why did you tell me that you were free until the moment you were tied to him? Why did you want to love? Why did you ask me to teach you? Why did you let me kiss you and hold you? Why did you wake me up?"

"God knows," she said softly.

"Is that your defense?" I asked. "Do you have no defense?"

"None... I had never loved... I found you to be kind and I had never met a man like you... Every moment with you captivated me until, ... I don’t know why, ... that sweet madness came over ... us ... which can never happen again--which must never happen.... Forgive me. I didn't understand. Love was just a word to me."

"Dorothy, Dorothy, what have I done?" I stammered.

"Not you, but I, ... and now it’s clear to me why, unmarried, I’m tied to my honor, while you remain detached, bound to yours.... We've shaken our chains in fun, the links still hold strong and bright; but if we break them, then as they snap, our honor is lost forever. For what I did in foolish ignorance, forgive me, and let me face my punishment, ... which must last my entire life, cousin.... And you will forget.... Hush! dear one, and let me speak. Well, then I’ll say that I hope you can forget! Well, then I won’t say that to upset you.... I want you to remember—yet not feel the pain that I—"

"Dorothy, Dorothy, do you still love me?"

"Oh, I really love you!... No, no! I'm asking you to spare me even the touch of your hand! I'm asking, I'm begging you to spare me! I'm pleading—Be my shield! Help me, cousin. I'm asking this for the Ormond honor and for the honor of the roof that shelters us both!... Now do you understand?... Oh, I always knew you were everything I adore and worship!

Our mistake was in our ignorance. How could we have known about that hidden fire inside us, stirring its cold embers in complete innocence until the flames burst forth and wrapped us both in glory, cousin? Listen to me, before it turns into hellfire!

And now, dear friend, before you think I'm crazy for cutting short the happy time we anticipated, I need to share something I've never revealed before. Everything we have in this world is thanks to Sir George's generosity. He stood up when the Cosby heirs were about to foreclose on my father; he kept the Van Rensselaers at bay; he appeased Billy Livingston and that terrible villain, Klock. Today, the loans he gave my father, which are still unpaid, have almost left him broke. And the little he has, he’s about to risk in this war that's creeping up on us tonight.

And when he honored me by proposing, I, knowing all this, aware of his goodness and generosity—though he didn’t know I knew—was grateful to say yes, thinking it was a small enough thing to make him happy, even though I had no idea what love really meant.

Her soft voice cracked; she covered her eyes with her hands and spoke without seeing. "What can I do, cousin? What can I do? Please tell me! I love you. Just tell me, be kind to me; help me do the right thing and keep my honor as bright as you would want it to be if I were going to be your wife!"

It was that allure, I believe, that pulled me back through the twisted shadows of my emotions; through the deep pit of jealousy, past the traps of envy and spite, and the snares set by negativity, safely back to the shaky foundation of honor once more.

Like a blind person healed by a miracle, but still struggling to adjust to the bright light that dazzled them, I searched with aching eyes for those threads to guide me through my stunned confusion. But when I finally felt their touch, I realized I already had one—the thread of hope—and whether it was for good or bad, I didn't let go of it; instead, I gathered everything together and wove them into a rope to hold onto.

"What do I have to swear?" I asked, feeling cold to the bone.

"Never kiss me again."

"Not again."

"Nor to touch me."

"Nor to hug you."

"Don't talk about love."

"Don't talk about love."

"And ... that's it," she hesitated.

"No, not at all. I promise to love you forever, to never forget you, to never disappoint you in your eyes, and to never get married; while I live, I'll honor you; and when I die, your name will be on my lips."

She stretched her arms out towards me, almost like she was trying to warn me to stop; but as I spoke slowly, carefully choosing each word, her hands shook and moved to grasp each other, leaving her standing there, fingers locked together, with her sweet face pale as death.

And after a long time, she came to me, raised my hands, kissed them; I touched her hair with silent lips; and she slipped away through the starlight like a white ghost going back to its grave.

And a long time later, as I stood there, I heard the distant sound of horses' hooves getting closer and closer, until the dark figure of the rider emerged in the night and Sir Lupus arrived at the porch.

"Eh! What?" he shouted. "Sir George has gone off with the Palatine rebels? Where? Off to Stanwix? God have mercy on him for being a fool who gets involved in this mess! And he'll drag me down with him, too! Damn it, they'll think I'm in on it. But I'm not! I swear I'm not. I'm neutral—neither rebel nor Tory—and I’ll make sure they know it; all I want is some peace and a fair deal for everyone. Damnation!"

And so that unforgettable day and night came to an end; and now for two entire miserable days I hadn’t seen Dorothy, nor heard about her except through Ruyven, who told us she was lying in her bed in the dark with no desire for company.

"There’s a doctor in Johnstown," he said, "but Dorothy won’t see him. She says she’s just tired and needs peace and rest. I don’t like this, Cousin George. I’ve never seen her sick, and neither has anyone else. Could you please check on her?"

"If she’ll allow me," I said, slowly. "Ask her, Ruyven."

But he came back, shaking his head, and I sat down again on the porch to think about her and everything I loved about her; and how I needed to work on shaping my life so that I wouldn’t do anything that might embarrass me if she found out.

Now that people thought the ongoing arguments among the residents of Tryon County could escalate into something more serious than just town fights and bar disputes; and, especially since the unrest with the Iroquois had already caused most of the Mohawk nation to retreat to Fort Niagara—for what troubling reason was easy to guess—Sir Lupus ordered the children not to wander outside his own territory.

Further, he had warned his servants and tenants not to wander outside the property, to stay away from places like the "Turtle-dove and Olive," and to avoid getting involved in things that didn't concern them.

Yet that very day, despite the patroon's orders, when General Schuyler's militia call went out, half of his tenants vanished overnight, leaving behind everything except their livestock and a rough cart piled with household furniture. They traveled with women and children, belongings and goods, towards the closest blockhouse or fort, where they intended to leave everything except their powder horn, flint, and rifle, and join the local regiment that was currently working with pick and shovel on the fortifications at Fort Stanwix.

As I sat on the porch, feeling miserable and uneasy, trying to decide what to do about the increasing chaos that, as I mentioned, had already spread among our tenants, in came Sir Lupus, waddling along with his pipe, while Cato carried his big chair so he could sit in the warm sunlight on the porch.

"You heard what my troublesome tenants have been up to?" he grunted, getting comfortable in his chair and stretching his chubby legs.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"What do you think of it? Huh? What do you think?"

"I think it's really sad and unfortunate to see these poor beings leaving their small farms to face the British soldiers—and starvation."

"Face the devil!" he scoffed. "No one makes them!"

"The greater honor they deserve," I replied.

"Honor! What a joke! If it were anyone else but me, they'd turn their big house into a courthouse, arrest people, put them on trial, and hang a few just for fun! Back in the day, I bet the Cosbys wouldn’t have put up with this nonsense—no way, nor would the Livingstons or the Van Cortlandts. A hundred lashes here and there, a debtor’s prison, a hanging or two would have made things a lot more lively. But me, I swear I can’t even use my simplest rights; I can’t whip anyone, no way! I can’t hang anyone for anything—even a sheep thief gets a chance with me—like that terrible guy, Billy Bones, who turned traitor and teamed up with Danny Redstock and the McCraw."

He scoffed at himself and angrily puffed on his clay pipe.

"La patroon? Damn it, I'm an old woman! Get me my knitting! I want my knitting and a sunny spot to chatter and wait for noon and a bowl of porridge!... George, my rents have been cut in half, and half my farms have been left to the briars and wolves in just one day because his Majesty, General Schuyler, ordered his Highness, Colonel Dayton, to call out half the militia to build a fort for his Eminence, Colonel Gansevoort!"

"At Stanwix?"

"They call it Fort Schuyler now—after the prince in Albany."

"Sir Lupus," I said, "if it's true that the British plan to invade us here with Brant's Mohawks, there's only one barrier between Tryon County and the enemy, and that's Fort Stanwix. Why on Earth shouldn't it be defended? If this British officer and his renegades, regulars, and Indians take Stanwix and fortify Johnstown, the entire area will be overrun with savages, criminals, and a brutal army already hardened and desensitized by a year of frontier fighting!

"Can you not understand this, sir? Do you really think it's possible for these bloodthirsty thugs to roam the Mohawk and Sacandaga valleys and respect you and your people just because you claim to be neutral? Let loose a pack of hungry panthers in a shared pasture and mark your sheep with your brand and see how many are still alive at dawn!"

"Dammy, sir!" shouted Sir Lupus, "the enemy is led by British gentlemen."

"Who will definitely keep their own cuffs clean; it would be a shame to doubt it! But if the Mohawks march with them, there will be a bloody chapter in Tryon County history."

"The Mohawks aren’t joining!" he said, angrily. "Hasn’t Schuyler held a council and communicated with belts to the whole confederacy?"

"The confederacy didn't return any belts," I said, "and the Mohawks weren't there."

"Kirkland saw Brant," he insisted stubbornly.

"Yes, and sent a secret report to Albany. If there had been good news in that report, you Tryon County guys would have heard it long ago, Sir Lupus."