Just over a week later, ranging farther afield than usual to inform the supply bases about the army's move out of winter quarters and their new location, Jim and Blair were in Connecticut and making their way from one depot near the coast to another. Their path along the high ground took them along the coastline and Blair stopped at one point to look out across the sea. The wind was fresh off the water, the day warm with the promise of spring and the coming summer. He brushed hair out of his eyes and smiled to himself. Standing beside him, Jim asked, "Whatcha thinking, Chief?"

Blair's eyes were bright and his smile wide as he looked up at his friend. "Oh, just that someday, I hope I'll be able to cross that water and see more of the world. There's so much out there, Jim. So, so much to see."

Chuckling, Jim looped an arm around his shoulders and turned him back to the path. "Tell you what, Sandburg, when this war is over, you and me, we'll go check out the world. See the places you've been telling me about, like Greece and Jerusalem."

"You mean it?" Blair exclaimed, excited by the idea. "Man, that would be so great."

"I mean it," Jim laughed. "But first we've got a war to win."

Later that morning, they were jogging across a farm, when Jim stopped in mid-stride and half-turned toward the south, his head cocked.

"What is it?" Blair asked, his gaze searching the horizon and the forest nearby, but unable to discern anything wrong.

"Gunfire, and lots of it," Jim told him as he fully turned to squint in the direction of the fighting. "But it's too far away. I can't see ...."

"S'okay," Blair assured him. "You want to check it out?"

Nodding, Jim led off in the new direction and, a good hour later, they encountered panicked militia men who were running flat out as if the Devil himself was on their tail. The British had struck again, this time in Danbury. According to the barely coherent militiaman, a frightened kid who looked no more than fifteen years old, two thousand redcoats had sailed from Long Island and then marched inland to destroy the stores in Danbury: 4,000 to 5,000 barrels of preserved and pickled meat and flour, 5,000 pairs of shoes, 2,000 bushels of grain, and 1,600 virtually irreplaceable tents among other supplies were lost. As a further punitive gesture, the British burned nineteen homes in the area before marching westward, intent upon raiding more of the American logistics bases. The Americans in the depot had barely escaped with their lives ... or at least, some had escaped. All the kid knew was that quite a few had been killed.

"Two thousand," Blair echoed, swallowing hard. There weren't two thousand Continental Army soldiers in the whole of Connecticut. Hell, there weren't that many militiamen.

Jim licked his lips as he frowned and thought about what they could do. "General Arnold is probably the closest," he finally decided, and they set off to brief him. Brigadier General Benedict Arnold had been in the northern reaches for two years, but had last fall gone south to aid the efforts there; he had recently come north from the Carolinas with a regiment, and wasted no time upon hearing the report. Quickly mustering his men, they set off in a forced march to stop the British advance. En route, they met up with five hundred militia and one hundred regular colonial soldiers led by Brigadier General Silliman. After a hasty discussion about tactics, Arnold and his men continued at full speed to confront the British head-on, while Silliman skirted around to harass the British from the rear.

When they encountered the enemy, though outnumbered five to one, Arnold and his men held the line boldly and bravely for three hours, despite punishing cannon fire and repeated British charges. At one point, the fighting was so close and fierce that Arnold's horse was shot out from under him and he was pinned underneath when the animal dropped and rolled on his leg. He had to fight off and kill a British soldier who ran forward to finish him before he was able to struggle free. Finally, the overwhelming numbers of the enemy pushed him back, but he wasn't giving up. Leaving snipers behind him to slow the British advance, he led the rest of his men away at a fast clip, toward a bridge fifteen miles away where he planned to again try to stop the British advance.

Jim and Blair were amongst those snipers. With grim and icy calm, time and again, Jim clapped one hand around Blair's arm, leading him and the handful of others to places of adequate cover that also provided a sheltered means of escape. They crouched in the shadows behind bushes or up in tall branches, and fought the sense of being awash in a tide of red serge, a handful of men trying to slow thousands. Their aim was deadly and there was time, in the confusion they engendered, to shoot, reload, and shoot again, before they had to turn and race to another forward position, while the British regrouped in frustration and marched on toward them, Silliman's men still annoyingly chewing on their heels.

While the marksmen were hastening ahead to find another place to ambush the British, one of the men muttered disgustedly, "Hidin' in the trees, shootin' 'em like they was no better than animals. T'ain't decent." With a slanting look at Sandburg, he muttered, "Might as well be Injuns."

Blair stiffened but didn't respond. Jim, the only officer in the group, turned on the man and snarled, "They burned out nineteen families back in Danbury. An' they'd kill us all, given the chance. There're two thousand of them, maybe more, and half a dozen of us. You want to stand in a line in front of them like good honourable soldiers, and let them cut us down? Or you just want to run? Huh? You got a better idea of how to slow them down?"

Affronted, the man griped, "I'm just sayin' this ain't the way whitemen fight."

"And I'm saying we're not Europeans, we're Americans," Jim retorted coldly. "This is our land and we can make the rules. We don't have to play the game their way and lose, because we will lose if we don't use every surprise and strategy we've got to keep them off guard." Glancing at Blair, he added, "Just 'cause we might have learned something from the Indians, doesn't make it wrong. We've got to keep learning, keep adapting, or we're going to lose ... and we're going to die."

When the soldier flushed and looked away, Jim turned from him, again taking the lead. "C'mon. We're wasting time here." Over his shoulder, he grated, "It's a free country - or at least, that's what we're fighting for. You can either fight with us, or you can go home. Up to you."

But they couldn't stop the British column, only slow it down, and it eventually reached the bridge Arnold had barricaded. Three times the redcoats rushed his position, but the Americans held them off. Finally, forsaking the bridge that Arnold held, the British line swung away, but he once again hastened across country to block them at yet another bridge. Silliman persisted in chasing along behind, while the snipers moved alongside. Attacking with no warning from the shadows, they aimed to wound rather than kill, because the wounded slowed advances more than the dead.

Finally, though they vastly outnumbered the Americans, the British circled back to their longships, fighting a rearguard action all the way. Though the British claimed the victory for the destruction they'd wrought in Danbury, they hadn't succeeded in wiping out the full line of supply bases. Arnold, led by Jim and Blair, rode to Washington to report the attack. The General was quick to capitalize on the time Arnold and Silliman had bought for him by ordering his remaining supply depots to relocate more than a day's march from all coast lines, rendering them less vulnerable to a surprise attack from the sea.

Alone in his tent that night, thinking about the coming campaign he felt ill-prepared to wage, Washington fretted about his inadequate supplies and the fact that the pay for the soldiers was once again months in arrears. Having caught his personal aide in a plot with Lee to undermine his command, he was unsure who he could trust, but he needed to get a confidential report to Congress very soon, which would essentially be a demand for more timely and substantial support in terms of getting him the supplies he needed and the troops paid on time - or risk losing the war. He couldn't afford the rate of desertion he'd suffered the year before, not and have a hope of holding the British, let alone triumph over them. But the situation was not yet desperate, and he was loathe to cry wolf. Sighing, he told himself he had to be patient and allow Congress to do their part.

But when nothing was any better by the end of May, and the men were grumbling bitterly about the lack of pay, Washington's patience was at an end. With the summer campaign looming ever closer, he needed relief and he needed it soon or he might as well surrender and be done with it. But there was still the issue of who could be trusted absolutely to carry such sensitive information and not have it fall into the wrong hands. He pondered his options and then nodded, having decided upon his couriers. Sitting down at the table in his tent, by the lantern's wavering light, he wrote his short, pithy, and to the point message to Congress.

********************

The weather was balmy, the ground firm underfoot, and they made good time on the sturdy horses Washington assigned them for the journey. An accomplished horseman, Jim found the rare opportunity to ride across the countryside a pleasant change from hoofing it, but Blair wasn't as sanguine. He'd learned to ride during the time he'd spent living with Washington, and had the skills to sustain the pace, but was he was uncomfortable being so far from the ground. Every time he mounted, he'd grit his teeth and, once in the saddle, refuse to look down lest dizziness swamp him.

"Looking a little green there, Chief," Jim teased him gently their third morning on the trail.

Breathing shallowly, Blair shot him a withering look. Swallowing carefully, he grated, "I told you, I hate heights."

"You're not that far from the ground," Jim reassured him, laughter in his voice. "Trust me, if you fall off, it won't kill you."

Blair ventured a sideways look to the earth that seemed miles below and quickly closed his eyes. Shuddering, he muttered to himself, "I can do this. I can do this."

"Seems to me you can do anything you set your mind to," Jim said staunchly. "Eventually," he added, as he kicked his mount forward, "you'll get used to it."

"If you say so," he replied, his tone clipped, not sounding at all convinced. Nevertheless, he gamely dug his heel into his horse's flanks and followed at the moderate galloping pace his partner set.

When they finally rode into Philadelphia early in the afternoon, Blair looked around curiously. In a lot of ways, it reminded him of Manhattan - loud, crowded, busy, and foul-smelling. Buildings loomed up on either side as they made their way to the center of town, giving him the feeling that he was riding through a narrow, hazard-strewn canyon. Skirting around heavily loaded wagons and wary of people who dashed into the street without first looking to see if the way was clear, he concentrated on keeping his mount under control, and only belatedly thought to call to Jim, "How're you doing? Need to adjust a telescope or anything?"

"I'm okay," he replied, but his lip curled against the rotten stench emanating from the alley they were passing, and his eyes were narrowed against the noise and confusion.

"Better turn it down a bit," Blair counseled, a slight frown of concern puckering his brow, his own fears forgotten for the moment. Jim grimaced but nodded.

A few minutes later, while they waited for a large cumbersome and heavy wagon stacked precariously with boxes and pulled by four horses to clear the intersection, Jim looked around and said, "Did you know that the largest community of Jews in the colonies lives here in Philadelphia? Their synagogue is just down the next street, I think."

Blair's brow quirked and he looked ahead. "Really?" he replied. "I didn't know that."

"We could ask around, see if there are any Sandburgs living here," Jim offered.

His expression guarded and his manner reflecting his nervousness about the idea, Blair flicked his friend a quick look, and then nodded. "Thanks. I'd, uh, I'd like to do that."

"Right after we deliver the General's missive to Congress," Jim assured him, winning a small, tight smile.

Less than half an hour later, they found themselves being shown into a large assembly hall that was strewn with spare wooden tables around which solemn men crowded, several of them muttering to one another while two shouted back and forth at each other. But when they entered the room, all eyes turned to them, some curious, others irritated by the interruption. Few seemed impressed by their less than pristine clothing and stubbled beards.

Jim straightened to something approximating attention and said briskly, "Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I'm Captain James Ellison of the Continental Army, and this is Corporal Blair Sandburg." Holding out the sealed scroll, he told them, "General Washington tasked us to bring this to you safely."

"Come in, come in," one of the younger delegates, a tall, handsome man called as he stood to move toward them. "Good to see you again, Blair," he added, holding out his arm to warmly shake Blair's hand. "You men look like you've seen hard action."

Smiling, Sandburg nodded deferentially. "It's a pleasure to see you again, too, Tom," he replied, adding under his breath for Jim, "Jefferson."

Jefferson took the missive from Jim, broke the seal and waved them to stand by the wall, as there were no empty chairs, while he read aloud. "My most esteemed and respected colleagues, Once again, I find myself having to beg your earliest attention to the matter of Army's needs for more substantial and timely support. The spring campaign is beginning and, I regret to say, the men have once again not been paid for months, food supplies are inadequate to our needs, many are ill-clothed and we have insufficient ammunition or armament to present a credible challenge to the enemy. The States are not fulfilling their obligations and our mission is at risk, not for lack of bravery or fortitude, but because of pecuniary issues that should not still be plaguing us. I need not remind you that these men serve voluntarily and their families suffer their absence. If they cannot rely upon their pay, many have no choice but to recant their commitment to return home to feed their families. Attached to this letter is a detailed accounting of what is required and I urge you to resolve these matters as your highest priority. General Howe has again taken the field and we are hard-pressed to meet the challenge you have set for us. Your most humble servant, George Washington, Commander in Chief, Continental Army."

Jim and Blair watched the others as the message was read, seeing some respond with concern, some with irritation, and still others looked impatient. Several called out when Jefferson finished the recital, shouting that it was a disgrace that Washington had to plead like a beggar in the streets for food, let alone munitions, and shot pointed looks at some of their colleagues, who grimaced or smirked as if the army's woes were the least of their concerns. One muttered that the army was nothing but a lazy rabble of drunken sots, and another sneered back, "Maybe so, but they're our rabble, and if they fail, it's our necks that will be stretched."

Reminded of the dire consequences of failure and being tried as traitors to the Crown, the crowd sobered and fell silent.

Thomas Jefferson looked toward the two warriors standing just inside the doorway, men who faced the enemy and didn't just talk about the challenges. "Would you tell us, in your own words, what the situation is like in the field? Tell us about Trenton and Princeton, and about what's happening or is rumored to be happening now."

"Sir, the General doesn't exaggerate the dire nature of our situation," Jim replied soberly, his voice ringing out in the quiet room. "Many, even most, of the men marched to Trenton all night in a raging blizzard, naked, with bare feet on frozen ground. The new recruits pouring in since our victories are willing but untrained. They have inadequate clothing as they are required to clothe themselves and they are not wealthy men. Their weapons are often inadequate, old and cumbersome, and we are forever short of munitions. The winter was hard and ... and starvation was a real threat. Many of the men are weak and sick as a result. The British outnumber us and are far better equipped. But, even so, just a couple of weeks ago, outnumbered five to one, we held the line and forced them out of Connecticut. We don't lack fortitude, sir. We lack food and armament." Looking at the Congressman who had described the army as drunken rabble, he added darkly, "We are a rabble, sir ... a conglomeration of untrained free men doing our best to secure this nation's freedom on behalf of everyone. We don't in the least respect resemble an army - as you can see," he gestured at Blair and himself, "we don't even share a common uniform. And, yes, many of the men do drink, to fill bellies empty of food, to warm bodies frozen by the cold. We'll give our lives to fight for this country, for the beliefs we all share, for freedom - but we could use a little better support from the rest of you, so that none of us die in vain."

Humbled, some seeming ashamed, many men averted their eyes and shook their heads sorrowfully.

"Thank you for your candor, Captain," Jefferson said, bowing formally in respect. Waving at the room at large, he said, "We'll need to talk about what you've told us, and about the General's needs for our support. It may be a few days before we have an answer for him that addresses the specifics of the matter. If you've not yet found accommodation, may I offer you a room where I lodge? I'd be honoured to have the opportunity to talk with you further this evening, over dinner."

"Thank you, sir," Jim replied with quiet dignity. "We're pleased and grateful to accept your hospitality."

After they exchanged information about where to meet later, Jim and Blair saluted the Congress and retired to the street. Behind them, when Jim heard angry shouting erupt behind the closed door, he feared Jefferson had underestimated the task and the time it would take to get all those men to agree to what was needed.

Glad to be outside, they stood a moment to enjoy the warmth of the sun on their faces.

"You did good in there, Jim," Blair murmured admiringly. "Said it straight. Like it is."

Shrugging, he replied, "I just hope they were all listening, Chief. But there are some in that mob that I wouldn't trust with a tadpole, let alone the effort to secure this nation's freedom."

"Divided loyalties, huh," Blair observed thoughtfully.

Snorting, Jim shook his head. "Loyalists, plain and simple, Sandburg. With lines of communication straight into General Howe's office, I've no doubt," he retorted pithily.

"So that's why you didn't say anything about the rumours we've been hearing about Gentleman Johnny up in Quebec, bragging that he's going to win this war before summer's end? Or anything else specific about the General's thoughts about this year's campaign?"

"Yep. That's exactly why."

Blair sniffed as he looked up and down the street, and scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "Maybe we need to do some scouting. Put our ears to the ground or," he grinned, looking up at his friend, "whatever works for you, to see what rumours we can pick up while we're here."

Looping an arm around his shoulders, Jim grinned down at him. "My thoughts exactly, Chief," he agreed. But, before he could say more, a syrupy Southern drawl hailed from across the street, "Why, if it isn't Jimmy Ellison, as I live and breathe!"

Startled, they both turned toward the voice and saw a tall, pretty woman richly dressed in black satin, with a narrow brimmed black hat and lace half covering her elaborately coiffed blond curls. She was waving demurely, and beckoning Jim to join her. When she knew she'd caught his attention, she turned to another woman by her side and seemed to be urging the woman to be on her way.

"Ah," Jim sighed, though he kept the smile on his face. "The lovely and very treacherous Alexandra."

"She looks very glad to see you," Blair teased, laughter in his voice. "An old flame?"

"Hmm. I think she sees my father's fortune more than she ever saw me - probably hoped that if we married, I'd pitch over in one of my fits and die, living her a wealthy widow," Jim countered wryly with an amused glance at his partner. "But, in the interests of the nation's security, and with full knowledge that we'll be fraternizing with the enemy, we'd best pay our respects."

"Oh, no," Blair declined definitively, waving him on. "There's no 'we' about this mission. I'm sure you'll find out a good deal more on your own." He paused and then added, "I, uh, I think I'll look for that synagogue you mentioned."

Gesturing at Alexandra to wait for him, Jim frowned in concern. "You sure you want to do that on your own? I mean ... I'd be glad to go with you."

"Nah, that's alright," Blair assured him with a blithe confidence Jim didn't quite buy. "I'll meet you back here in an hour or so, when Tom's ready to show us to his boarding house."

Jim searched his eyes and then nodded. Clapping him on the shoulder, he said gently, "Good luck, Chief," and then he was loping across the wide street.

"You, too," Blair replied softly, for sentinel ears only, before he resolutely squared his shoulders and retraced their path to the corner that Jim had told him was near the synagogue. He only looked back once, and saw Jim bending to kiss the fair lady's cheek when Alexandra looped her arm in his, as if taking possession of him. "Careful, buddy," he whispered, teasingly. "Looks like she's loaded for bear."

Jim looked up over her head to meet his eyes with a half-smile and a wink. But when Blair turned to continue on his way, Jim's eyes darkened with concern. He wasn't entirely sure it was a good idea to leave his partner to seek out answers to his past on his own. So he scanned the street further ahead, and spotted a tea room not far from the corner where Blair would be turning off. Smoothly, he whirled Alexandra around, all the while chatting gallantly about how good it was to see her again and insisting he buy her a cup of tea to celebrate - and he knew just the place. Flattered, she allowed as that sounded like a wonderful idea.

A few minutes later, he assisted her into a plush, padded little seat at an elegantly draped small round table, and was ordering for the both of them. He then asked after her family, how her father's business interests were going, her mother's health, discovered she'd been recently widowed and showed appropriate sympathy.

And all the while, he was listening to the steady drum of his partner's heartbeat and Blair's dry, tight voice as he asked directions to the synagogue.

********************

Following the directions he'd been given, Blair soon found the synagogue down a narrow, winding street. It was an impressive building, but not ostentatious. Uncertainly, he stood across the lane and just looked at it, wondering if he could simply enter or if only members were allowed. When a diminutive, elderly, conservatively but well dressed man with long curls and a small black cap on his head hurried down the street and into the door, he gathered up his courage, pulled off his cap and crossed to go inside. At least he knew the building was open and there was someone there.

He found himself in an entry hall that had a quiet elegance and, beyond, he heard the deep voices of men chanting in a language he didn't understand. 'Hebrew,' he thought, and smiled nervously, filled both with a sense of anticipation and a kind of homecoming, and a profound fear that he didn't belong there. Taking a breath, he moved further into the building and around a corner into a hallway, where he encountered the old man he'd seen from the street. The fellow was still hurrying as he darted out of what looked like a kind of antechamber or office or meeting room, Blair wasn't sure which, and back along the hall toward the voices that were emanating from an open doorway at the far end.

Startled by his presence, the man pulled up short and blinked up at him. "Oh!" he exclaimed softly, his voice deep and resonant. "You've not been here before. Was there something you wanted?"

"Um, yes, sir," Blair stammered, and then swallowed to pull himself together. He was too conscious that his hands were trembling and his throat was dry as dust. "I'm looking for relatives," he said simply. "My name is Blair Sandburg and, uh, well, I wondered if there are Sandburgs who, um, worship here."

"I see," the old man replied, studying him. "You're not wearing a yarmulke."

"A ... what?" Blair stumbled, unfamiliar with the term.

Touching the small black cap on his head, the man repeated, "Yarmulke. It's a sign of respect to cover our heads in God's presence."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know," Blair replied, flushing in embarrassed apology as he awkwardly tugged his coonskin cap over his curls.

The man frowned at him. "Your name is Sandburg and you didn't know something so ...." But he couldn't seem to find a word to express how intrinsic, how basic, the tradition was.

"My mother died when I was very young," Blair hastened to explain. "And I wasn't raised by people who practiced the Jewish faith."

"It's taken you long enough to try to resume contact with your heritage, hasn't it?" the man challenged dryly, eying his frontier garb.

"This is my first time visiting Philadelphia - I only just arrived today," Blair offered in excuse, feeling as if he was undergoing some kind of inquisition without knowing any of the right answers. "I'm sorry if I'm intruding or ... or if I shouldn't be here."

"Hmm," the elderly fellow ruminated. "Well, you're here now, and you've come with a reasonable request. As it happens, my friend, Bartholomew Sandburg is just down the hall with a few others. We meet here each day at this time to study and discuss the Talmud. You know what that is?"

"I ... the holy book, the scrolls, er, the rules, sort of," Blair hastened to reply, though his tone was uncertain. He'd only read about the general precepts of the Jewish traditions.

"Close enough," the old man sighed, apparently saddened by the depth of his ignorance. Taking Blair's arm, he drew him down the hall. When they reached the open doorway, Blair saw a room richly appointed with crimson curtains and gold fixtures. At the far end was a simple table with an ornate closed box standing upright upon it and candelabra on either side. Benches arranged across the width of the room were divided along the middle aisle by a shoulder-high, intricately-made wrought iron screen. A small group of elderly men were in one corner, facing one another in a rough circle of sorts. They looked up at the intrusion, some nodding respectfully at Blair's companion, others looking at him with some consternation.

"Bartholomew," the fellow called gently, waving his friend to join them. "I've someone here who wishes to speak with you." One of the men frowned and then stood, evidently reluctant to be pulled away from the group and their study. He was tall and spare in build, his clothing reflecting a degree of considerable wealth. His face was long, and he had a hooked nose, vivid blue eyes the colour of Blair's, and his bearing was almost regal. He crossed the room with long strides, and the little guy made the introductions. "Bartholomew, this young man is Blair Sandburg and he's looking for relatives. He's been long away from our traditions and seems to have little knowledge of his heritage. I leave him in your capable hands." With that, the old man bustled into the chamber and took his place with the group.

Bartholomew studied Blair with little favour before waving him back into the hall and along to a small sitting room. When they were settled, he set his piercing gaze upon Blair's face and said with cool courtesy, "Tell me your story, young man, and we'll see if I can be of assistance to you."

"Thank you," Blair sighed gratefully. His gaze skittered around the room and then back to the man's stern visage. "My mother's name was Naomi Sandburg and all I really know is that I was born somewhere here in the North, maybe in New York, but I'm not sure. She never said very much about her family or her background. I grew up in Virginia, on the frontier, and ... and she died when I was seven years old. She would have left home about nineteen years ago. I ... I'd like to find out if I have any family. I'd like to know more about my roots."

"I see," Bartholomew murmured as he rubbed his mouth and chin, his gaze dropping away. "What happened to you after her death?" he asked, but he didn't look up. Nor did he ask about the presence of a father in Blair's life, a fact that Blair found intriguing, even hopeful. As if the man recognized Naomi's name and knew something about her.

"I never knew my father," Blair replied carefully, supplying the unasked for information, just in case it might be helpful. "I was raised by the Cherokee."

Surprised, the older man's eyes jumped to meet his, and then darted away again. He frowned heavily and there was a long moment of silence between them before he sighed. His lips tightened, as if he was debating saying anything further, and then he began to speak, his voice low and his tone distant. "My cousin, Joshua, had a daughter, Naomi, who he cast out nineteen or so years ago because she was ... unclean. She had become with child without a husband and, worse, the man was a gentile. Her behaviour was offensive to us, an abrogation of our Law, our morality."

Nodding, Blair bowed his head. "I understand," he murmured, the man's manner making him feel guilty, dirty ... the reason for his mother's disgrace.

"The family sat Shiva, our tradition for mourning our dead. From that time forward, she was dead to us, and her child was nothing to us," Bartholomew went on. He hesitated, and then said, "We are not a heartless people, but our traditions, our Laws, are rigorous. Naomi ... Naomi broke her parents' hearts. She was their youngest, their only daughter. Ruth, her mother, mourned her deeply. It caused great tension between Joshua and Ruth, and within their family."

Again Blair nodded. Looking up, he hazarded, "Are they, my grandparents, in New York, or was I born here, in Philadelphia?"

"They are in New York; you were born there. But ... but you cannot think of them as your grandparents. You do not exist to them. You are anathema."

Blair's jaw tightened and he stiffened, but then he forced himself to relax and take a deep breath. "Do you know who my father was ... is?"

"No, nor do I have any wish to know," Bartholomew replied fervently. "That was a long time ago. Best to leave it alone, and not open old wounds. You are not some kind of prodigal son who was beloved and for whom the family would kill the fatted calf. You are an outsider; not part of our community."

Unconsciously, Blair wrung his hands together as he struggled with the implacable rejection of his existence and his deep anger about how his mother had been treated. What they had done to her was another kind of murder. "My mother," he said slowly but resolutely, lifting his eyes to meet Bartholomew's, "was not a bad person. She may have made a mistake when she was very young, but she was not evil. She took the best care of me that she could, and she never said a harsh word about her family or ... or their ... their cruel rejection of her, and me, when she probably most needed their love and support. And ... and she paid the ultimate price for her sin, if that's how you want to think about it," he went on bitterly, his words falling fast and hard. "She was stoned to death because someone from her past recognized her. She didn't deserve to die like that, on the side of the road, still trying to protect me." When Bartholomew's gaze dropped, his expression troubled, Blair paused and wrestled with his anger. After all, this man had done nothing more than answer his questions and it wasn't this stranger's fault that his family didn't want him, didn't want to know about him. Blair shook his head, bewildered by how cold people could be to their own child, how mean-spirited the laws that governed their lives. Sighing, he added with less heat, "My ... my mother was a good woman. A good person who did her best. The next time you see your cousin, you can tell him that."

Bartholomew nodded slowly, evidently uncomfortable with their conversation and his presence. "And if I ever do tell him of our meeting, what would you have me tell him about you?"

Shrugging, barely able to contain his fury and the stinging pain of being so bluntly and arbitrarily rejected, Blair stood. "You can tell him that I try to be a good man; a man my mother would be proud of. You can tell him that I'm a soldier in the Continental Army, a scout and personal messenger for George Washington," he rasped hoarsely. "You can tell him that I'm fighting for his freedom." Blair started to turn away and then hesitated. His voice very low, near breaking, he added, "And you can tell him that ... that I wanted to know him and my grandmother and the rest of my family. That I always wished and hoped that I had a family, somewhere, to love and to ... to belong to. But ... but I don't need them, and never wanted anything from them; I just wanted to know to them and let them know about me. I've found my own family, maybe not of the blood but family just the same. I have a place where I belong. So if ... if he or Ruth ever wondered or worried about me, you can tell them I'm doing fine."

Coming to his feet, Bartholomew nodded solemnly, and then he held out his hand. Surprised, Blair took it and, as they briefly shook hands, man to man, his elderly cousin said, "I will tell him, Blair Sandburg. I'll tell him that, from what I've seen, he can be proud of the boy who bears his name."

Blair's throat tightened at the unexpected approbation, and he looked away to hide the emotion in his eyes. "Thank you," he replied simply. "Thank you for your time and your honesty."

With that, he turned and walked away, down the hall and out of the building. He strode quickly, blindly, for a block and then, panting hard, nauseated, he leaned his shoulder against a brick wall. Bowing his head, one arm pressed across his body, he covered his face with a trembling hand. "I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered brokenly. "I'm sorry they hurt you so bad." Tears filled his eyes and, though he tightly closed his lashes to contain them, one dribbled onto his cheek. Torn by fury and pain, he fought the urge to sob. All his life, he'd wondered about his family, imagined finding them, finding his father. And now he wished he hadn't looked, hadn't asked, for the answers left him far emptier than he'd been when all he'd had was his dreams.

********************

Jim's head tilted and he lost the train of the vacuous conversation. Cutting across Alexandra's words, he stood and said with hurried gallantry, "I'm sorry, Alex, but I've just realized that I was on my way to an important appointment. Seeing you again drove it right out of my mind, but I must go. If you'll forgive me, I'll call at your home later this weekend."

Though piqued by his abrupt manner, she was equally evidently charmed by his words. "Of course," she allowed with marginal warmth. "We've only begun to get caught up. Please, do, stop by Sunday afternoon. My parents would love to see you again, I'm sure."

He smiled with as much sincerity as he could muster and then hastened out the door. Once on the street, he broke into a run to the end of the block and around the corner and then skidded into a narrow street, where he saw Blair hunched against a brick building, halfway down before the lane curved out of sight. He only slowed his pace when he neared his friend, and then he gently gripped Blair's shoulders and drew him into his arms, hugging him tightly.

"I'm sorry, Chief," he murmured huskily. "I'm sorry."

Blair turned into his embrace, and spastically gripped the edges of his jacket, as if he needed to be anchored, just as Jim so often needed to be grounded by Blair's touch. Sandburg shook with his effort to regain his control; he dragged in one deep breath and then another, sniffed and swallowed hard. Pushing away, he stepped back from Jim, scraped his hands over his face and took another shuddering breath.

"You heard," he said flatly, knowing the observation was unnecessary but still evidently struggling to find words, to figure out what he felt, what he wanted to say. With a brittle laugh, evading Jim's concerned gaze, he shook his head ruefully. "Can't have any secrets from a sentinel, I guess."

"Did you want this to be a secret?" Jim asked quietly, with a scowl of concern.

Sniffing again, Blair shook his head. "No ... no," he replied more calmly. "Not from you. I just ... uh, don't like to break down in front of anyone," he explained self-consciously. Pulling off his cap, his gestures quick and jerky, his hands still unsteady, he raked fingers through his hair to drag it off his face and behind his ears and then, giving up the effort to pretend a normalcy he didn't feel, he sighed and his shoulders slumped. Looking up at Jim, his eyes reddened and his lashes spangled with moisture, he shrugged again, helplessly. "I didn't know whether this would be a dead end or not. But, I, uh, I didn't expect ... I didn't expect to be told I pretty much don't exist, you know? Or to hear such a ... a cold justification for how they treated my mother."

"People can be hard when their most basic beliefs are challenged, Blair," he replied, wishing he had something more consoling to offer. "It's not personal."

Sandburg snorted and his lips twisted in a wry half-smile. "Personal? No, not toward me. To be personal, they'd have to actually know me. But it was damned sure personal for my mother, Jim. Man, they were cold."

Unable to disagree, at a loss for words, Jim looked off down the street and nodded bleakly. Naomi's parents hadn't reacted any differently than a number of others he'd known or heard about over the years but pointing that out would hardly make Blair feel any better. But then he said, "I heard you tell him you had a family."

Blair's smile softened then, and he nodded. "Yeah. Thanks to you, I do."

"Alright, then," he replied, a smile quirking on his lips. Looping an arm around Blair's shoulders, he drew him back along the street, effectively turning both their backs upon Blair's past heritage and directing them toward their shared future. "C'mon. We should be getting back to meet Jefferson."

Badly wanting to put the pain behind him, Blair searched for something else to talk about as they walked along the uneven pavement. Finally, doing his best to find a light teasing tone, he asked, "How'd it go with the fair Alexandra?"

Rolling his eyes, Jim laughed without humour. "She is as superficial and as obvious as she ever was," he replied very dryly. "A widow now. The poor guy probably died of boredom. Looks like she's already trolling for the next rich sucker she can get her hooks into. But you'll see for yourself. We're going visiting on Sunday afternoon. They'll try to pick our brains about the General's plans, and we'll see if we can find out what they know about Howe's intentions. Should be fun."

Laughing, Blair shook his head. "You've got a very strange idea about what constitutes fun, my friend," he chuckled.

Jim just quirked a brow and gave him a crooked, closed-mouth grin.

********************

Over dinner, in a quiet corner of the tavern close to the boarding house, Jefferson soberly told them, "There are rumours of an assassination plot to kill Washington."

They both stopped eating to stare at him, and then Jim frowned as he reached for his glass of red wine. "I suppose that's to be expected. Without him ...." He shrugged and his voice died away. After taking a sip, he asked, "Anything more to the rumour? Like how? When? Who, maybe?"

Jefferson shrugged as he sliced into his beef. "No, nothing specific. The Loyalists are behind it. Whether the British know about it or encourage it is hard to say. Since George is known to always be with his troops, often out in front, at least from what I've heard, it would be easy to accomplish during the confusion of battle." Sighing, he set his knife and fork down, his appetite apparently waning. "You're right. Without Washington, we don't have a hope. It's his ... integrity and dignity, his absolute conviction in the cause that holds it all together."

"If you're right, that it's planned for a battle situation," Blair mused, idly twisting his glass in his hands, "then, well, maybe there aren't that many opportunities, and there might not be for some time. We, uh, we tend to pick our fights."

Jefferson smiled grimly. "So I understand," he allowed wryly, but with no evident censure.

"Alright," Jim said. "We'll warn the General and keep an eye out; see if we can figure out who it is before there's trouble. Watch for someone who's got more money to spare than would be expected of a common soldier. Given that we haven't been paid for months, that shouldn't be all that hard to spot." Pushing his plate away, finished with the meal, he asked, "So, we going to get the money and supplies we need?"

Emptying the carafe of wine into their glasses, Jefferson replied hollowly, "You'll be given a formal response to take back to George late on Monday. But, candidly?" he went on, as he lifted his glass. "You'll get the usual reassurances and not much else. The States are hard-pressed to fund their own militias. We have little or no experience with provisioning on such a massive scale and, as you both well know, support for this war is lacking in too many quarters. What support there is seems to waffle almost on a daily basis." Sighing, he shook his head, but then confided with guarded optimism, "I've heard that there is one person of wealth who doesn't wish to be named who may - may - contribute substantially to address the backpay issue."

"Why wouldn't he want to be known?" Blair asked curiously. "Sounds like a good Samaritan to me."

Jefferson hesitated and then told them, "He's a Quaker."

"Oh," Blair murmured, his brows arching with understanding. "Like Benjamin Franklin and even General Greene. I hear his family threatened to disown him for violating their commitment to non-violent resistance."

Bringing the conversation back on track, Jim said bluntly, "If the pay isn't addressed, and even if it is but we don't get food and supplies, desertion's going to be a big problem again this year."

"I know," Tom replied bleakly. Frustrated anger flickered over his face, but as quickly disappeared behind his veneer of calm deliberation. "We must win this war," he said unequivocally. Looking at them solemnly, his gaze shifting between them, "I'm sorry, for I have no answers as to how. But we cannot lose."

"Yeah, well, you keep telling your fellow Congressmen that," Jim returned sharply, impatient with the rhetoric when substantive relief wasn't assured. "Britain doesn't deal gently with traitors."

A wry smile quirking his lips, Jefferson lifted his glass in a toast. "To victory," he offered hopefully.

Grimly, they saluted him in turn. "To victory."

********************

On Saturday, ignoring his partner's protests, hauling him unceremoniously out of the room they shared, Jim took Blair shopping. "I know, I know," he reiterated, waving off the objections. "We hardly need clothing suited to a drawing room when we're back in the bush. But we can't go visiting rich Loyalists dressed for war and expect them to forget who they're talking to."

"Man, I don't see what you need me there for," Blair whined as they tromped down the narrow wooden staircase, out onto the porch and down to the street. "This is your world, not mine."

"My world is your world, Chief," Jim replied archly. Giving him a fond look, he jostled Blair's shoulder. "Family, remember?"

Snorting, Blair shook his head, but he grinned.

"Besides," Jim went on, teasing as he ruffled Sandburg's wild curls. "There may be other children there you can play with."

"Oh, that's low," he retorted, laughing as he ducked away. "Mocking my best sources like that."

Unrepentant, Jim shrugged. "And if there aren't any kids, there'll still be women: Alexandra, her mother, maybe her sister, Peggy, who I guess would be about sixteen-years-old now, and the maids. Bat those baby blues and they'll be putty in your hands. Probably fall all over themselves to tell you King Georgie's secrets."

"Ah, so that's why you want me along," Blair chuckled. "You want me to be the spy and do all the work."

"You're my secret weapon, Chief," Jim agreed with a complacent smile. Shaking his head, he added bemusedly, "They all seem to think you're harmless."

"It's a gift, Jim," Blair replied solemnly, though his eyes twinkled merrily. "It's a gift."

Jim snorted and shook his head.

********************

Sunday afternoon, they dressed in their new finery: high collared dark gray loosely-fitted frock coats, a burgundy waistcoat for Jim and one of crimson silk for Blair, pristine white shirts with frilled cuffs and lacey cravats, tight fitting black breeches, black knee-high finely woven socks with garters, and patent leather shoes that gleamed so brightly that Blair could see his reflection in their dark surfaces. Standing before the pitted, wavy mirror over the bureau, his hair pulled back and being tied with a black velvet ribbon by Jim, he squirmed against the high starched collar, grimacing as he fingered the cravat.

"Relax, Chief, you look fine," Jim told him, unable to restrain a grin at his partner's discomfiture. Patting him lightly on the shoulders, he added cheerfully, "Actually, you clean up pretty good."

"This ... this isn't who I am, Jim," he replied unhappily. "I feel like a fraud ... no, actually, I feel like an idiot."

"Well, it's not who I am, either, Junior," Jim said more firmly as he picked up his top hat and handed one to Blair. "But this isn't for fun. We're on a mission, here, and this is the uniform of the day, so suck it up."

"Yes, sir," Blair answered sardonically as he placed the tall hat on his head at a rakish angle. "Reporting for duty, sir."

"Smart ass," he laughed, opened the door to the hall and, with a wave, ushered his partner out.

They rode across the city in style and, after he'd observed Jim tipping his hat to the ladies promenading in their Sunday best, enjoying the warm April day, Blair mimicked the courtesy. Twenty minutes later, they dismounted in front of a rambling three story yellow brick mansion faced with a deep covered wooden verandah painted a rich ivory cream, and set amidst lavish gardens on gently rolling grass on the edge of town. They were admitted by a butler and ushered into the drawing room. Large and fronted by tall French windows and doors, the room was bright and furnished with silk-covered settees, chairs and gleaming occasional tables arranged in conversational circles around fireplaces on either end.

The butler offered them glasses of sarsaparilla from bottles arranged on a side table, which they accepted, and said the family would join them momentarily. When he closed the double doors on his way out, Blair looked at Jim and cocked his head. "You hear anything interesting?"

"The master of the house and the wife are arguing because he's not happy about entertaining two rebels, and she thinks a match with the Ellison dynasty would be a good thing," Jim replied sardonically with a twist of his lip.

"Oh, yeah, this is going to be a real fun time," Blair teased ironically, toasting his partner with his glass. Jim just rolled his eyes, and then the doors opened and the family swept in, effusive with their greetings and pleasure to see Jim again and meet his handsome friend.

Jim affected the introductions for Blair. "Mr. Elliot Shippen, and his lovely wife, Jeannine, and his daughters, Peggy and Mrs. Alexandra Barnes. And this is my associate, Mr. Blair Sandburg."

"Sandburg?" Elliot echoed genially. "Would you be related to the diamond merchants in New York, then?"

"Distantly," Blair replied with an engaging smile. "My branch of the family tended toward more scholarly pursuits."

"Ah," Elliot replied, seeming to not quite know what to make of that, so he turned to Jim while the butler served everyone with their beverage, and then offered delicacies to nibble on from a tray he'd carried in with him. "How's William? I've not seen him in far too long. And Steven?"

"Father's well," Jim assured him blithely, "and busy as ever. The last time I visited Steven and his family on the farm, he was looking robust and very proud of his three children."

"Good, good," he acknowledged, and then seemed at a loss for words.

While the two daughters regarded the visitors with avid admiration, Mrs. Shippen picked up the conversational ball when her husband fumbled it. "We were so pleased to hear Alexandra ran into you the other day. What brings you to Philadelphia?"

"Business," Jim replied smoothly. "Following up on partnerships, ensuring open lines of communication in these difficult times, and arranging logistics for the transport of goods."

"Really?" Elliot jumped back in, an edge to his voice. "I'd, uh, heard that you'd joined the Continental Army."

"Yes, I did," Jim affirmed. "Best way to know what's going on is to be where it's happening, don't you agree? Only way to assess threats and opportunities, and future implications for commerce, is to observe events first hand."

"Ahhhh," Elliot smiled, his tight shoulders relaxing. "I should have realized you're your father's son; always got the jump on the rest of us. Bold, if a bit dangerous."

Shrugging, Jim sipped at his glass and then said with a slightly disparaging tone, "There's been more walking and running than real danger, so far at least. I suppose a lot has to do with what Howe plans for this year's campaign."

Shifting to place an arm around Jim's shoulders, very much the senior, wiser and better connected fellow in the room, Elliot leaned close to say with a confidential, conspiratorial air, "He's not made his mind up, yet, son. Gentleman Johnny wants William to meet him on the Hudson, but William has a yen to enjoy the life here in the capital."

Looking into the depths of his glass, Jim nodded sagely. "Either would have its merits in making things difficult for Washington. Splitting the colonies would complicate defence, and losing the capital would be, well, a telling blow."

"Exactly," Elliot beamed. "Either way, this ridiculous rebellion will be over and we can all get back to business as usual."

"Oh, enough talk about business!" Alexandra pouted, and her sister bobbed her head in enthusiastic agreement. Turning to Blair, Peggy observed winningly, "We've been ignoring you, Mr. Sandburg. Please forgive us."

"Not at all," he replied with a winning smile. "Though my family was academically inclined, I've an interest in business and how I invest my, uh, time, so it's always interesting to hear how the future might play out. But, you're quite right. On a lovely day like this, it's a sin not to enjoy the fine weather and such very fair company."

Mrs. Shippen raised a brow and asked, "Your family must miss you while you're here, Mr. Sandburg."

"Alas, I'm an orphan, Madam, and haven't yet started a family of my own, so there's none to miss me while I pursue future opportunities," he assured her.

"Indeed," she replied, intrigued to hear that a Sandburg so young must have already inherited his portion of the family fortune and was still unattached. The fact that he was Jewish was inconvenient, of course, but still ... a rich, eligible bachelor was not to be scorned, and he was bound to have other rich bachelor friends, especially if he was a member of the Ellison family circle. "Peggy," she suggested genially, "why don't you show Mr. Sandburg our gardens. We've some lovely early roses I'm sure he'd admire."

"Wonderful idea," Blair agreed heartily, handing his glass to the butler and holding a hand out to Peggy. "If you'd indulge me, I'd be very grateful."

Not to be outdone, and clearly uninterested in remaining in the company of her parents, Alexandra asked, "Jimmy, how about you? Would you like to see Mama's gardens?"

"I'd enjoy that very much," he replied with a broad smile.

For the next hour, the young people rambled around the extensive grounds. Peggy, in an effort to impress Blair with her sophistication, confided that she was the source of her father's knowledge about the brilliant British General's considerations. While she'd been visiting cousins in New York over the winter, she'd made the acquaintance of a dashing British major, John Andre, who was engaged in intelligence work for Howe, and they'd formed a friendship such that they corresponded regularly. He was suitably impressed, congratulating her on the astuteness of her conquests, and she giggled as she leaned more closely upon his arm. Alexandra told Jim more about her late husband, how he'd been dead set against the rebellion because 'it would be the ruination of the colonies'. He listened and nodded sagely, but refrained from comment. Looking out across the lawns, she said idly, "Men well placed in Washington's camp and who would be willing to help end this travesty would earn a great deal of gratitude from some quarters." And then she gave him a coy, sideways look that had less vacuity and more slyness than she had used to reveal when he'd known her in her youth.

"Really?" he murmured, and quirked his brows as if interested in hearing more.

"Hmm," she nodded. "In fact, you might want to attend a small soiree I'm holding in my home tomorrow evening. Nothing grand, just an intimate gathering of like-minded people who would, I'm sure, appreciate the opportunity of knowing you better."

His eyes hooded, he again nodded. And then he looked up into her eyes. "I think I'd like that very much. What time would be convenient and where would I find your residence?"

Pleased, she gave him the information and then graciously suggested he'd be welcome to bring the charming Mr. Sandburg, as well.

********************

Later that evening, over another fine dinner in the nearby tavern, Jim and Blair advised Jefferson of what they'd learned that afternoon.

"Damnable Loyalists," the Congressman growled angrily. "They're talking treason!"

"Yes, they are," Jim agreed soberly. "And it sounds like they're going to actively try to recruit us tomorrow evening."

"That's grounds for arrest," Jefferson stated flatly.

"Uh huh," Blair grunted. "We were thinking you might want to have reinforcements nearby. We don't know how many people will be there. But ... well, we might not want to shut the whole thing down. Watching them, even feeding them false information - given the link straight into Howe's office - might be as useful right now as putting them out of action."

"We could have some kind of signal after we leave that would let you know whether to arrest those who depart after us, or to let it go, if they don't reveal anything substantial enough to warrant arrest," Jim added. "Or maybe, even better, we could debrief afterward, and the miscreants could be apprehended the next day so their arrest wouldn't be so directly linked to us."

Jefferson nodded thoughtfully. "Let me get back to you tomorrow before you set out for the evening."

********************

"Alright, here's what we're going to do," Jefferson told them in their room late the next afternoon. "You go ahead with the meeting this evening, and then brief me on your return. If there are clear grounds, I'll have the traitors picked up tomorrow. We'll attempt to keep your names out of it - and we'll also leave the Shippen family out of it. You're right. They could prove useful in the future, especially the pert and pretty Peggy with her friend in intelligence."

"Fair enough," Jim agreed, and Blair nodded solemnly.

********************

Once more in their city clothes, as Blair had come to call his new finery, they arrived at the time suggested, only to discover that Alexandra had arranged for them to be there before the others were expected. She greeted Jim as an old friend, with a lingering kiss on his cheek, and offered them wine. While waiting for her manservant to serve the libation, she gestured to a portrait of a distinguished elderly man over the fireplace. "I don't believe you ever met my husband, Jim," she said blithely. "Dear, departed Reggie."

Blair's brows arched. The man was older than her father. And then he looked around at the plush furnishings, the silver and gold fixtures; the house was every bit as grand or more than was her family home. Schooling his face to neutrality, he locked gazes with Jim for a moment before accepting the crystal goblet of wine the servant handed to him. "My condolences on your loss," he murmured. "If it's not too painful a subject, how did your husband die?"

"Suddenly," she replied with hollow coldness. "Despite his age, he was as strong as an ox, and we thought he'd live forever. But, poor man, he took ill one night, perhaps from something he'd eaten, and was gone by morning."

"Shocking," Jim said evenly.

"Very," she replied, and then smiled. "But the old dear left me well provided for, as you can see." Turning to Blair, she said, "I presume you know that Jimmy and I were very close years ago." Batting her eyelashes at Jim, she went on, "Our fathers thought we'd make a good match."

Willing to play along, Blair replied, "And now, here you are again, the two of you free. Funny how things work out sometimes."

"Yes, my thoughts exactly," she agreed. "You're a very astute man, Mr. Sandburg. I trust I'm not betraying a confidence when I say my sister was quite taken with you."

"You're too kind," he rejoined, pretending to be pleased though he was finding her and her family increasingly repulsive. "Your sister is a delightful young woman," he added for good measure.

Jim turned away, apparently to stifle a cough, and Blair was hard-pressed not to laugh himself. The whole situation seemed surreal. She was like a black widow spider, already busy weaving a web around Jim before her husband was hardly cold in his grave. He'd no doubt that the man had died from something he'd eaten; his only question was whether it was arsenic or strychnine.

Further conversation was prohibited when the butler announced three gentlemen. Curiously, Blair studied them. Their names meant nothing to him, but he could see that Jim recognized the men, all of them evidently well-heeled merchants. For the first time, Blair fully understood his friend's concerns about where William Ellison's loyalties rested - these men were his contemporaries and, from the exchange of greetings, they evidently knew the elder Ellison well.

The conversation began with a prelude of genial generalities and gradually moved into a subtle dance of eliciting information and mutual interests. They were sounding him and Jim out, wondering how far they could be trusted. Quaking inside, desperately worried that his lack of any social training or common knowledge of people, places and events would give his charade of the rich young adventurer away, he guarded his tongue and gladly let Jim take the lead. The wine flowed and gradually the men relaxed, reassured as much as anything by the fact that Alexandra had obviously set her cap for William's tall and distinguished son.

Before two hours had passed, they were outright offered a small fortune if they could be helpful in arranging an 'accident' for General Washington. When they indicated they'd do what they could, one of the men laughed with relief. "So fortunate that business brought you here at this time. We've another 'friend' in the camp, but he's ... well, I think he's less reliable."

"Oh? Maybe we know him," Jim suggested. "Always useful to have friends nearby."

"Oh, I doubt that," the fellow demurred, lifting his goblet. "He's riffraff. Not the sort you'd care to associate with, I'm sure. No, young gentlemen, you'll do well, I think, without that scoundrel's help."

Letting it go, Jim nodded and lifted his glass in a toast to their new acquaintances and a long and profitable association.

********************

"Too bad you couldn't get his name," Thomas Jefferson said later that night, then shrugged. "We'll bring them in tomorrow. Maybe one of them will be willing to reveal it for consideration in the sentencing."

"Worth a try," Jim said. "What about Alexandra? She probably murdered her husband."

Sighing, Jefferson shook his head. "Too late to prove that now. Best, I think, if we don't have an overt connection between the arrests and the little coven gathering tonight. We'll watch her. We'll watch them all."

Noting that Blair was fidgeting in clothes he found inordinately uncomfortable, Jim started to wrap up the discussion. "Fair enough; we'll leave all the intrigue to you. What about the Congress' response to Washington?"

"Hopefully, the debate will conclude in time to get you something tomorrow, but I fear a letter to him probably won't be ready until Wednesday."

Jim grimaced unhappily at the delay, but there wasn't much he could do about it; as desirable as democracy was, it wasn't a particularly efficient system of governance, especially in times of crisis. Nodding will ill grace, he stood. "Well, it's late. Time to call it a night. We'll talk with you again tomorrow."

********************

Dressed in their more casual and comfortable garb, they spent the next day wandering around the city. Hoping to gather more clandestine information, Jim listened in to conversations, while Blair stood watch and ensured he didn't go too deep into his sense of hearing. But they didn't learn any more than they already knew. Late in the afternoon, they went to the Congressional Hall and learned that Tom had been right the night before; the formal response to the General wouldn't be ready until late morning. Disgruntled, chafing to be on their way, worried about the unknown assassin in the ranks, they returned to the boarding house to pack their gear to be ready to move as soon as they obtained the missive the next day.

Shortly after their return, there was a sharp rap at the door, and Blair answered to find Alexandra standing in the hall. She was flushed and her eyes flashed, and her smile seemed forced as she asked to be allowed entry to speak to Jim.

Backing up, he opened the door more widely to allow her to pass, and then didn't quite close it, aware that it would be indelicate to entertain a lady behind a firmly closed door in a public boarding house. Frowning to himself, he thought it strange that she'd risked her reputation by coming to see them without any chaperone, but he figured she wanted to further her conquest of Jim.

He turned to find her standing close to the wall, glaring at his partner.

"You must think me a fool," she hissed. Flicking a look at Sandburg, she grated, "And you - my father checked you out with the Jews he knows in the city. You're nobody. Nobody knows you. You have no inheritance." Looking from him to Jim, she drew a cocked pistol from her reticule and snarled, "You lied, didn't you? You're not Loyalists at all. You were only there to spy on us."

Lifting his hands, Jim said, "Put the gun down, Alex. Shooting us won't make anything better."

"We execute spies," she snarled in response, her expression ugly with self-righteous anger.

Taking the opportunity of her attention being off him, afraid she was about to shoot, Blair considered the distance between them and decided she was too far to lunge for, to grab the pistol. With a swift, smooth move, he pulled his hunting knife from his belt, drew his arm back to throw it, and yelled, "Hey!"

Startled, she turned her head toward him and, seeing him ready to attack, she jerked the pistol around and fired, just as he threw the blade. Blown back by the impact of the bullet, Blair banged into the door, slamming it closed and then dropped to the floor. Vaguely, he was aware of Jim cursing and the sound of his friend rushing across the room. Someone started banging on the door behind him. Panting for breath, aware of a blazing burn in his side, he pushed himself up onto his knees. Jim was kneeling over Alex, and she wasn't moving. Blair didn't expect she would; he usually hit what he aimed for. The banging on the door grew more frenzied and Jim yelled, "Just a minute." Standing, he stepped over Alex's body, swiftly helped Blair shift clear of the door, and then opened it to the harridan who owned the house, but blocked her view of the room. "Sorry, sorry, Mrs. Evans," he said hastily. "We were cleaning our weapons and a shot went off accidentally. No harm done. But thanks for checking so swiftly."

She gave him a narrow look and huffed. "If there's been any damage, you'll pay for it," she said sternly.

"No problem," he assured her, already closing the door, anxious to be rid of her. "We're leaving tomorrow and you can do a full inspection before we go."

"You can be assured I will, young man," she promised him and stomped away, muttering about soldiers and guns.

Closing the door, Jim wheeled to drop to one knee beside Blair, who was leaning against the wall beside the door, pressing a hand to the blood seeping through his buckskin shirt. "How bad?" Jim demanded, reaching to lift the edge and examine the wound along his ribs.

His teeth gritted, sounding disgusted, Blair rasped, "It was a pea shooter and she was a lousy shot. Gouged my skin, that's all. Hurts like blazes, though." Licking his lips, and wincing as Jim felt around the raw edges of torn skin and muscle, he grated, "Get my pack. Got some bandages in it. Need the herbs, too."

In seconds, Jim was back at his side and assisting him out of his bloody shirt. While Jim helped him doctor and bind the wound, he glanced at the body. "Why'd you tell Mrs. Evans that everything was fine? We need to report this."

"When hell freezes over," Jim replied caustically. "Young, attractive, rich widow stabbed to death by common soldier. Her family will claim she was trying to defend her virtue and that you murdered her. We've got to get rid of the body."

"What?" Blair exclaimed, and then smothered a yelp when Jim tightened the bandage around his body to hold the dressing in place.

"She was right about one thing, Chief," Jim said grimly. "Spies are executed. You saved her from a hanging. Not to mention saved my skin."

"Don't mention it," he replied with a wan smile. "Just doin' my job."

Jim's lips tightened and he shook his head. When the weapon had fired and Blair had fallen back, he'd thought ... been scared .... Ruthlessly, he pushed the shaky thoughts and feelings away. "Yeah, well, next time?" he said roughly, "Try to do your job without bleeding all over the place, okay?"

Blair's expression softened as he read the clear anxiety for him that lingered in his friend's eyes. "Sure," he agreed as he gripped Jim's arm reassuringly. "Live and learn, right?"

"Right," Jim agreed heartily, and ruffled his hair fondly before gently easing Blair up and over to the chair by the window. "Sit tight while I clean the blood off the floor and find the bullet."

Slightly hunched and wishing he had a telescope in his head to turn down the flaring burn that pulsed in his side, he watched Jim quickly wash his blood off the plank flooring, and then fill the basin with water from the ewer on the bureau to soak the blood out of his shirt. Once that was done, he rolled the damp shirt and shoved it into Blair's pack. Only then did he turn to the body. Kneeling, he wrenched out the knife and wiped it down. "Looks like it pierced her heart, Chief. She didn't bleed at all."

Swallowing, Blair looked away and nodded. He'd never killed a woman before. He hadn't had a choice, and he knew it, but he didn't feel good about it. "We have to tell Tom," he said, suddenly feeling weary.

Straightening, Jim crossed the room and laid the knife on the table beside him. "We don't tell anybody," he said harshly. "It was self-defence and she was a goddamned spy, Sandburg. I'm not going to risk anyone second guessing what happened here or a witchhunt for someone to punish for the death of one of society's darlings. We're in a war, here, and she was the enemy. I'll take her body out tonight, after everyone's asleep. Leave it in an alley. Let it be a mystery."

Pressing his lips together, Blair leaned back to rest his head against the chair and closed his eyes. After a long moment, he nodded wordlessly in reluctant agreement. When he lifted his head, he saw Jim prying at the wall with his own knife. "The bullet?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jim grunted. "You're right; it was just a small ball. You must've absorbed most of the force - it's barely dented the plaster." Pocketing the round pellet, he said, "I'm going to go get us something to eat later, and check in with Tom to confirm the letter will be ready tomorrow before noon, like he figured. You going to be able to ride out once we get it?"

"Yeah, sure," Blair nodded. "Providing the damned horse doesn't throw me."

Snorting, Jim shook his head. "Whine, bitch, moan and complain," he teased. "You gotta do something about that attitude of yours, Corporal."

Snickering half-heartedly, Blair nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. Will do, sir." Feeling groggy with fatigue, figuring he was suffering mild shock, he again leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Wake me when you get back," he mumbled, already drifting into sleep.

Chewing on his lip, Jim studied him for a moment in silence. And then he left the room, locking the door behind him.

He was still sleeping when Jim returned and he only half-wakened when his friend shifted him onto the bed and covered him with a blanket. About all he noticed was that the room was dark but for the glow of a candle on the table. He mumbled that he was thirsty, and Jim supported his head while holding a cup of cool water to his lips. After he drank and muttered his thanks, he tried to roll onto his side and groaned at the sharp pulling pain along his ribs.

"Easy, Chief," Jim soothed him and helped him get comfortable. He closed his eyes as Jim tucked the blanket around his shoulders and, with the comfort of Jim's hand gently rubbing his back, he quickly relaxed into deep sleep.

When he woke again, it was morning and Jim was snoring softly beside him.

The body was gone.

His hand pressed against his side, he carefully shifted onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Thinking back over the last few days, his jaw tightened and his lips thinned; all in all, he hadn't had a great time in Philadelphia and he rather hoped he'd never, ever, have to come back. Sighing, he closed his eyes and dozed until Jim stirred and woke.

"How're you doin'?" his partner asked, rolling onto an elbow to look down at him.

"Okay," he replied, lifting a hand to cover a yawn. "I'm hungry."

"Good sign," Jim smiled and got up.

Stiff, his wound sore, Blair slowing pushed himself up to sit on the side of the bed. Grimacing, he took a few deep breaths and, looking at his friend, he told himself it could have been a lot worse, a whole lot worse.

Wordlessly, Jim gently soaked off the bloody dressing, wound fresh linen around Blair's chest, and helped him into one of Jim's warm, flannel shirts. And then his partner also eased on his buckskin vest, as the day was chill and drizzly, muttering, "Don't want you bitching about how damp it is, getting a chill and sneezing all over the place."

Smiling at the transparent concern, Blair waved off further assistance, and shuffled to the chair by the window. He was ravenous and gratefully tucked into the cold meats, cheese and bread Jim had brought the night before. When he started to stand, Jim told him to stay in his chair while Ellison packed the last of their gear.

"Where'd you -" Blair started to ask, his gaze upon the empty floor by the wall next to the door.

"A few blocks away, in an alley," Jim cut in. Straightening, he slipped their packs over his shoulder, and turned to face Blair. "We don't talk about it again. It never happened." His gaze dropping, Blair nodded. But when Jim crossed the room and gripped his shoulder, he looked up into his friend's eyes. "But that won't mean I'll forget that I owe you my life," Jim told him. With a crooked smile, Blair held out a hand and Jim hauled him to his feet.

"I hope the letter is ready," he said as he moved toward the door.

"Me, too," Jim agreed, following behind.

They had to wait until Mrs. Evans assured herself that they hadn't trashed the room but, then, their bill having been paid in advance by Jefferson, they went to the stable behind the boarding house and saddled their horses. Jim boosted him into his saddle so he wouldn't pull the wound open, and they rode slowly across town to the Congress Hall.

********************

They had to wait an hour on a hard bench by the entrance, but finally Jefferson appeared and handed the sealed scroll to them with a broad smile.

"What? There's better news in here than we expected?" Jim asked hopefully, as he tucked it into his pack.

Shaking his head, Tom replied sardonically, "No, just the usual empty assurances from Congress ... but that other possible source of funds I told you about? He's donated fifty thousand dollars to the cause. It'll cover the back pay and the cost of provisioning for the summer. I'll keep working on the rest of them, to get you more support by winter, or at least I'll do my best."

"Oh, man, that's great news," Blair sighed, vastly relieved that they wouldn't be returning empty-handed except for all the bad news they'd picked up over the last few days.

"Hmm, well, I've got some not so great news," Jefferson said with a sigh. "The conspirators refuse to admit to anything, and certainly aren't willing to disclose the name of the potential assassin already in the camp."

"So ...?" Jim asked with a frown.

"So we'll try them using your signed testimony to me, and they'll hang," he replied darkly.

Blair swallowed and looked away. He knew war meant death, but it was all just so ugly. And so many people were still divided over the revolution. Hanging four prominent and well regarded Loyalists wasn't going to endear the rest. If they weren't careful, they'd end up beating the British only to find themselves divided and at war amongst themselves. Hesitantly, he asked, "Do they have to hang? I mean ... I know they're traitors to the cause, an' all. But ... we are fighting for them, too, aren't we? For all Americans? If they hang, their friends, their families, they'll hate the revolution and those of us who support it even more. It's like a poison that would rot our country from within. Couldn't, well, couldn't they just be held in prison? Besides, if you put them on trial, and our statements to you have to come out, well, then, someone else will alert the assassin about us, and that might make it even more difficult to figure out who he is. I don't know - maybe a summary conviction or holding them pending investigation or something, until the war is over. Hanging them ... I, well, I think that might only bring more people to their cause. Like they were martyrs, or something."

Jefferson looked at him, and then frowned as he studied Sandburg's face. "You feeling alright, Blair? You're looking a little peaked."

"Aw, I'm fine, just a stitch in my side, that's all," he replied with a negligent gesture. "Got a bit of a muscle cramp."

Satisfied with the explanation for the younger man's pallor, Jefferson scratched his cheek and thought about what he'd said. "You may have a point," he allowed. "I'll see what the others think of the idea. Imprison them as a threat to the nation? Maybe." Holding out his hand, he thanked them for all their help and, as they shook, he wished them a safe and speedy journey back to their camp.

Minutes later, they were on their way. Blair was so glad to be leaving town that he didn't complain once about having to ride.

********************

Mindful of Blair's injury, once they were free of the crowded city streets, Jim kept a much slower pace than he would have otherwise. Well aware of his partner's solicitude but not wanting it, Blair nudged his horse into a fast gallop, calling caustically as he passed Jim, "I'm not made of glass! Let's move it."

Rolling his eyes, Jim urged his horse to catch up and they were both soon thundering along the dirt road. When he finally drew alongside, he grabbed Blair's reins to slow him down.

"What?" Blair demanded, irritated, jerking the reins back. "We need to get back! Washington needs to know -"

"Yeah, hero, I know," Jim growled. "Look, you're in pain, dammit, and you lost a fair amount of blood last night. If you fall off your horse and break your stubborn neck, it'll just take that much longer to get back."

Blair tried to maintain his sense of umbrage, but started to snicker. "You said, if I fell off, it wouldn't kill me."

A grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, Jim gave a long-suffering nod. "Uh huh, that's what I said. But you're off-balance and could fall wrong and hard - and could very well break some bones if you landed badly. You're in no shape to ride flat out, not today, anyway."

Blair cast a wary look at the ground and shuddered reflexively. "Okay," he allowed grudgingly, "but we don't have to go so slow your Granny would pass us hobbling barefoot."

"My Granny?" Jim snorted, and then laughed at the image. "Tell you what, hot shot, you set the pace that's comfortable for you, and when you need a break, you say so, you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah. You're worse than a hen with her chick," Blair grumbled. "Okay, we'll play, 'Mother, may I', if it makes you happy."

"You're a pain the ass, Sandburg," Jim complained, seriously irritated. "If it was the other way around, you know you'd be giving me grief about pushing too hard." When Blair just turned his face away, Jim goaded, "I'm right, aren't I? And you know it. You don't have to be such a tough guy all the damned time."

Taking a deep breath and wincing at the pull on his side, Blair nodded. Chagrined, he allowed, "Yeah, you're right."

"I'm the Captain. I'm always right," Jim teased him then, and Blair chuckled. "You wish," he murmured sotto voce, knowing Jim would hear him just fine, and nudged his horse forward, setting the pace at a brisk cantor that was better than the original slow walk but more moderate than the punishing pace he'd been pushing for. His grin widened when Jim just laughed.

********************

Washington's lips thinned as he read the formal response to his letter to Congress. Setting it aside, he looked up at them. "You said you had other matters to report?"

"Yes, sir," Jim replied, and briskly summarized the news about the anonymous donation that was forthcoming. A relieved smile ghosted over the General's face and as quickly vanished as he nodded for Jim to continue. "We uncovered a plot to assassinate you, General," he said soberly. "There's a man in the camp whose been hired by the Loyalists to kill you in the confusion of a battle."

Washington's brow arched and he scratched his cheek, shrugged. "Well, the next time we're in a battle, I'll worry about that. Anything else?"

"We've confirmed the rumours that General Burgoyne will be making an assault on the Hudson in an effort to split the states. What isn't clear yet is whether General Howe will be marching to meet him halfway, or if Howe will attack Philadelphia."

The General's cheeks puffed and he blew a long, slow breath as he looked away to consider the news. His eyes grew distant and he rubbed his mouth, shook his head pensively. "Wait here," he directed them, and then stood to go to lift the flap of the tent. He ordered the sentry outside to bring Generals Greene and Arnold forthwith.

Just as the others were arriving, a courier from the local militia rode swiftly through the camp and slid to the ground outside. "Permission to see the General," he called. He was granted entry and he hastened inside the tent. "Sir," he saluted, and blinked to see all the generals in the confined space. Holding out a message, he went on, "This has just come in from the North."

Curious, Washington took the rolled paper and, opening it, he found a second sheet inside, a printed notice that informed the populace that General Burgoyne had made a treaty with the Iroquois Confederacy, who would take immediate action on his behalf against anyone who supported the rebellion. The note with the poster explained that such announcements had recently been hammered to every other tree and post south of Quebec. Grimly, he passed it around, and dismissed the courier. Glancing at Blair, he reflected, "You warned us, a year ago, that the Indians would have to be reckoned with, but I'd hoped their neutrality would hold." Shaking his head, he ruminated, "The epidemic amongst the Onondaga last winter, and the loss of a number of their Chiefs, have kept them out of the conflict until now, but it seems the respite is over."

Arnold muttered, "Gentleman Johnny's making his move then. He'll already be bragging that he'll be the one to end this war, not Howe."

"Yes, it's what I called you both in to tell you," Washington agreed. "Burgoyne is going to come down the Hudson. Apparently, Howe may march to meet him, if he doesn't go to Philadelphia instead."

"Gates will be hard-pressed to hold him if he makes a determined assault," Greene murmured thoughtfully. Looking up at Washington, he added, "But, we have to hold Howe - if those two armies unite, we won't be able to stop them." Frowning, he shook his head. "I don't see how we can afford to split our forces, to send relief to Gates."

Washington turned to Arnold. "Benedict, you know the land up there, and you've dealt with Burgoyne - snookered Tyconderoga right out from under him more than a year ago. What do you think about this situation?"

"Nathaneal's right, sir," the young brigadier replied. "You'll need all the men you've got and more if Howe makes a determined push, whichever direction he jumps in." His brow furrowed, and he pinched his lip in thought. "Gentleman Johnny is brash, more a juggernaut than a strategist." Gesturing at the poster in Greene's hand, he said, "Like that, for example. Bully tactics. Intimidation. And the British back home won't like it; won't like the idea of enlisting what they think of as 'savages'. He's trying to scare the north into submission, so he won't have to fight all that hard. The man's a dilettante. All flash, not much substance." Rolling his shoulders, as if his energy was too great to be constrained by the uniform, he added, "But there's no question his troops badly outnumber Horatio's - and they're seasoned soldiers, know the land. Been over here for years. Not just arrived last summer like Howe's bunch."

They stood in silence for a long moment, darkly considering the grim situation that was unfolding as their summer challenge. Arnold's gaze flicked toward Jim and Blair, and he went very still, his expression intent as he scrutinized them, and then he turned to Washington. "Sir, I've got an idea. You need my regiment, but you don't need me. Give me two dozen of your best sharpshooters, like these two men here, who helped me drive the British out of Connecticut, and we'll lend a hand to Horatio."

Startled, Jim and Blair stiffened and looked from Arnold to Washington, who was nodding thoughtfully as he considered the request. The General knew full well that Arnold and Gates got along as well as oil and water. Arnold was all fire and action, bold, resolute and impetuous, and the man was lucky - his risks paid off. Gates was conservative, slow to act, a bit too ambitious but steady and, as the senior of the two, he'd keep a rein on Arnold's tendency to act a bit too recklessly. He trusted Gates, but he needed the energy and initiative Arnold would supply if they were to stop Burgoyne's march. Gates knew Burgoyne; they'd trained together as youths in the British military years before. But Arnold had won against the man before. Gates wouldn't be happy, though, to have Arnold foisted on him. "Let me think about it," he finally temporized. "In the meantime," he went on, turning to Jim, "Be thinking about who might be suitable to this assignment if we go ahead with it. You've hunted with these men, fought with them - you probably know as well as anyone who are the best marksmen. If the situation deteriorates in the north, you'll need to move quickly in support of General Arnold."

"Yes, sir," Jim acknowledged smartly; they saluted and left the tent.

********************

"Yo! Captain Ellison!" a deep, rich voice hailed as Jim and Blair strode away from the General's tent.

Turning at the welcome sound of a voice he hadn't heard in far too long, Jim lifted his hand in greeting, smiling broadly when he saw both old friends jogging towards them. "Hey, when'd you two reprobates get here?"

"Earlier today," Joel told them as they slapped one another's backs and shook hands all round. "After we reported in, the General says that seein' as Howe's already movin', there's no point in us hangin' roun' the city for the summer."

"So we're reporting back for duty," Simon grinned. "Heard you two were enjoyin' the pleasures of Philadelphia."

"Yeah, my kind of town," Jim drawled sarcastically, grimacing as he shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Loud, filthy and way too many people."

Joel was regarding Blair, his eyes narrowing in concern at the lines of strain around the younger man's mouth and eyes. "What happened?" he asked. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," Blair replied with a negligent wave of his hand. "Just a little sore from being in a saddle too long."

Simon's attention had swung to Sandburg at the question, and his joviality faded. "You look like you're hurtin'," he said, frowning, not buying the excuse and observing that the kid seemed to be favouring his left side. "What the hell happened in Philly?"

"Oh, you know, the usual: political intrigue, spies, femmes fatales, matters of national security," Jim drawled. "Fill you in on the details later." Looking around at the men hustling past, some just loitering in the open, beaten down field that served as a parade square of sorts, Jim took Simon's arm, his voice dropping as he said, "Let's take this somewhere a little quieter. You set up quarters yet?" When Simon nodded and waved them to follow toward the campsite he and Joel had set up on the edge of the main encampment, Jim asked with studied innocence that immediately piqued their attention, "So, how would you fancy a trip up the Hudson?"

"Always like to travel," Joel replied laconically. "See the sights; get to know the country better."

Grinning, Jim replied, "Good. 'Cause you might just get to see a lot more of it."

Once they were settled and Simon had poured them mugs of warm ale, Jim filled them in on their upcoming journey, and what they'd learned about Burgoyne's activities and intentions. "So, we need a score of men who can hit what they aim at."

"I was thinking," Blair suggested, "there's that group from the Virginia frontier that showed up together. Every one of them's a damned fine hunter."

"Yeah," Simon agreed. "Morgan and his Rangers. Was talkin' to 'im once an' he said they was always so short of ammunition in the back of the beyond that they had to hit what they'd aimed at, every time."

"There's what? A dozen or so of them?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded. "So, that leaves eight more slots."

They all put forward ideas of men they'd not only seen handle their weapons well, but men they knew to be solid, not likely to hightail it in the opposite direction when things got rough. After they'd agreed on those they'd choose, Jim and Blair left their gear with the others. Joel promised to scramble up a meal for them all, while they set out to find the men on their informal list and alert them to be ready to travel if the order came for them all to support General Arnold.

When they were on their own again, Jim asked, "You up for this, Chief, if Washington gives the order to go sooner rather than later? Gonna be hard and fast travel."

"Will you stop?" Blair replied, exasperated. "You know as well as I do that it's healing clean. Yeah, so it stings a bit. So what? I'll live."

Jim nodded and they strode a few more paces in silence. Then, jerking his head back the way they'd come, he said quietly, "Philadelphia is your story, Blair. Up to you how much you want to tell them."

"What's a femme fatale, Jim?" he asked as they continued walking across the camp.

"A deadly woman, Chief," he said flatly.

"Oh," he replied and sighed. Raking his hair back, he gave a little shrug. "Well, then, I guess you already gave them the gist of it," he said, looking into the distance. "Not much else to tell." He hesitated and then elaborated, "Not sure there's any point in talking about the, uh, synagogue and all that." When Jim didn't say anything, he went on, "It's not that I don't trust them, you know that. It's just ... there's no point. And, about the other stuff, well, it's safer - for them - not to know all the details."

"They'll be curious about how you got hurt," Jim told him. "They already are."

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "Guess there's no harm in saying we had a run-in with a wannabe traitor and I got burned by a bullet before we got things under control."

"No harm at all," Jim agreed.

"And for sure we have to tell them about the plot to assassinate Washington - we all have to keep our eyes open," Blair added.

"Gonna be hard to do if we're all the hell the way up the Hudson, isn't it?" Jim retorted with a grimace, not particularly happy about the General maybe sending them away when they knew there was a threat in the camp.

"Well, if it turns out we have to go, guess we'll just have to send Gentleman Johnny on his way and get back here on the double," he replied matter-of-factly, as if it would be as easy as that.

Bemused by the confident assumption of victory in the persistent face of defeat, Jim chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, Sandburg, I guess we'll have to do just that."

********************

June dragged on and they wondered what the British were up to, what Howe was waiting for as he dawdled the weeks away in New Jersey, holed up around New Brunswick with nearly eight thousand British and Hessian soldiers at his beck and call. However, the influx of cash cheered the men and desertions dropped so, at least for the time being, the Continental Army contingent under Washington's direct command once again numbered nearly ten thousand. However, with his men undertrained and ill-equipped, Washington did not feel the numerical advantage was enough to engage in an aggressive attack upon Howe's forces.

One day, on his way past the command tent, Jim inadvertently overheard Washington telling Greene that he'd had a letter from Benjamin Franklin. The General sounded discouraged about the fact that the French still hadn't committed; the French wouldn't take on the British unless and until the Americans showed they were useful allies and not simply needy supplicants. However, Jim didn't need enhanced hearing to know that, every chance he got, Arnold argued ever more stridently that they needed to take the war to the British, not hide in the hills and nip at their heels. Washington remained patient with him, but Ellison wondered if the persistent nagging and petulance wore thin after a while. Jim thought if the man reported to him and had so much damned energy, he'd have him out digging trenches and building fortifications until he dropped. Still, he sympathized with the cocky general's irritation. Nobody was ever going to win a war by sitting on their asses and waiting for something to happen.

Day after day, the men did drills, but haphazardly, with no real purpose or goal and no one to show them how to do better. They were all amateurs in the game of war, pitting themselves against the elite of the world's professionals. And so they drank heavily, to fill themselves with false confidence and the strength of bravado as they told one another stories about what they'd do when they had the redcoats in their sights.

Jim, Blair, Simon and Joel all kept an eye out for who might be a little more flush with cash than the others, but the payment of monies owed to the soldiers for months of back pay muddied the waters. Everyone seemed to have more than enough to spend on drink and on the favours of the camp followers.

All in all, being in camp, waiting for something to happen was tedious, grindingly boring. They were all glad when scouting duties, largely to keep an eye on Howe, took them into the countryside, to some peace and quiet and clean air that didn't stink of unwashed men and the filth of the latrine pits.

For weeks, nothing much happened but, finally, the third week of June, they once again inched as close as they could to New Brunswick, so that Jim could get a handle on the rumble of innumerable conversations going on constantly on the streets and in the buildings. As the forest thinned, they crouched low behind scrubby bushes and boulders, and then slithered forward through tall grass to hunch behind wild brush. Blair kept a hand on Jim's lower back or shoulder, grounding him as he struggled to make sense of the cacophony of sound in his ears. Finally, finally, after extending his hearing to the utmost, concentrating until his head ached from the effort of sifting through the clamor of the town to find something useful, he heard officers talking about Howe's intention to march to Amboy to join with Cornwallis' force of eight thousand men. "Got it," he gusted, sagging back and rubbing his ears. "They're getting ready to move out. We've got to alert the General."

"Good job, Jim," Blair praised him, that glow of wonder in his eyes that seemed reserved only for Jim. "You just keep on amazing me, you know that?"

********************

Upon hearing the news, Washington wasted no time in deploying Generals Maxwell and Sullivan to harass the British flanks. But, the next morning, Washington changed his mind and his orders, sending Greene's three regiments to charge the British rear position, intending to box them in. But, it was a disastrous engagement. Maxwell never did get his new orders and Sullivan received his too late to move forward from his position along the line of presumed British retreat. Greene barely got close enough to be a nuisance as the British marched to Amboy, and had to fall back when no reinforcement arrived from his colleagues.

Irritated by the Americans, the British burned houses all along the route as they completed their journey to Amboy.

But Washington did not retreat back to the hills; instead, he gave orders to break camp and follow the British, intending to continue his strategy of harassing their rear guard. But, five days later, Howe contrived to attempt to entrap the Americans, using the same ploy he had on Long Island of sending a large flanking force with the intention of boxing the ten thousand Americans between sixteen thousand superior warriors. Fortunately, Lord Stirling - the same man who'd held the British back long enough on Long Island to allow the main force of the Continental Army to retreat to the Heights - reprised his role as the intrepid and determined wall they'd first have to pass to get to Washington. For hours, Stirling and his division fought with spirit and courage, giving the General time enough to pull his main force back into the hills and well out of the Lion's jaws.

Disgusted, Howe gave up the pursuit. He had other fish to fry, and ordered his forces back to Staten Island.

Watching the massive retreat from their lookout point in the hills, Jim shook his head. "He's going back to New York. To his brother and the armada."

Blair gnawed on his lip. "But to sail where? North, up the Hudson, or south, to the Delaware, to get to Philadelphia?"

"That's the question, Chief," Jim sighed. "If the General guesses the wrong answer, then ... well, we'll have to wait and see what happens next, I guess."

********************

Word reached General Washington that Fort Tyconderoga - the largest, most elaborate fortress in the New World - fell to General Burgoyne the first week of July, and that several other British victories in the north made it clear that Gentleman Johnny was making his move. He was coming down the Hudson. But ... Washington had no idea where Howe was. He'd sailed out of New York harbor and had taken the massive armada with him. The sails slipped over the horizon and disappeared into the Atlantic without giving any indication of their ultimate direction. Watchers were stationed up and down the coastline, seeking a sign to indicate whether Howe was sailing to support Burgoyne, or had plans to invade Philadelphia but, so far, the ships remained far out of sight.

General Arnold was beside himself with frustration at the indecision and lack of any meaningful activity. His urgings to be allowed to go to Gates' aid became relentless and, finally, tired of the constant haranguing, Washington gave him leave to go, and take the sharpshooters with him.

********************

General Arnold rode, but the rest of them - Jim and his three subordinates, Morgan and his rangers and a handful of other men, including the obnoxious Quinn who was, unfortunately, a superlative shot, too good to be left behind - hoofed it cross-country to the banks of the Hudson River, far enough north of Manhattan to evade any British presence. Once they reached the broad waterway, they hustled north along its shoreline to the nearest village and wharf. There, General Arnold commandeered a sloop and they clattered onboard. The sturdy vessel, designed by the Dutch settlers in the area, sported broad sails to catch the wind and carry it against the current at good speed.

Wide-eyed and unable to completely mask his delight despite the sober reasons for their voyage, Blair hurried to a place on the rail, to watch the river and the passing shore. Jim dumped his pack to the deck beside his partner and settled beside him. Simon and Joel fetched up nearby, and the others ranged themselves around the rest of the top deck. Arnold's horse shied a bit when the sloop dipped and rolled under its weight, but the General soothed the animal with low croons and looped sturdy ropes around its neck that attached to hooks in the decking, to keep it from rearing and plunging if the craft hit rough water.

Blair flashed eyes filled with excitement at Jim, who once again found himself thinking that the kid looked scarcely more than fifteen, despite the fact that he was some years older. His enthusiasm for new experiences seemed boundless, his curiosity insatiable. "You look awfully happy to be heading toward a major fight, Chief," he observed fondly.

"I've never been on a sailboat," Sandburg replied with a grin. "A canoe, sure, rowboats, that barge when we left Long Island, even a big longboat but this, this is something completely different." His gaze flashed to the rigging and the sails that were being unfurled, and his mouth dropped open in awe at the massive spread of canvas fluttering above his head. The boom shifted and they all had to duck as it came around and wind filled the sails with a loud snap of canvas that flapped and then billowed tightly and the sturdy craft lunged forward. "This is great," he sighed happily, and then again turned to watch the shore recede as the sloop moved swiftly into the centre of the river. "Sure beats walking for days and days."

"Or going horseback," Jim added wryly.

"Yeah, that, too," Blair laughed in agreement.

While Blair watched the passing view as the day sped past, sometimes of farms, occasionally of small fishing villages, increasingly of dense forest upon the steep slopes of the Adirondacks that soon loomed around them, Jim watched the waters behind them, half expecting the British Armada to hove into sight. But, as the hours passed, all he saw were fishing boats and barges, rafts and other sloops like their own plying up and down the waterway.

When dusk fell, the four of them shared cold meat, hard bread, cheese and apples, and then arranged their bedrolls on the decking. At full dark, the sloop anchored for the night. Lying on the deck, looking up at the stars dimpling the night sky, Blair murmured wistfully, "I wish I could see what you see."

"The sky's not all that different from what you see; it's all so far away," Jim replied softly, reaching out to pat his shoulder consolingly. Blair didn't often express envy of his greater acuity of sensory perception, but he knew the kid often wished he could share the experience. Somehow, Blair had never gotten to the point of taking his senses for granted, never got past being in awe of them. And Jim knew that it was because of Blair that he seldom saw them as curses anymore, but had discovered a kind of joy in them. "Brighter, I guess. More stars. But not a lot different."

Blair smiled a little and nodded. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the current, they soon slipped into sleep.

********************

They disembarked late on the morning of their third day on the vessel, some distance south of Saratoga, and strode, more than marched, through the forest to Gates' nearby camp. Jim, walking to one side behind General Arnold, was the only one of their group who could have seen General Horatio Gates' reaction when he realized who was approaching the encampment. At first, Gates gaped, and then an expression of mingled disgust and anger swept across his long, narrow, aristocratic features, and his posture stiffened in resistance and resentment.

Rolling his eyes, Jim sighed. Not a propitious welcome.

When they drew closer, Gates and Arnold exchanged greetings that were painfully civil, brittle in tone and manner. "What brings you here?" Gates demanded abruptly as soon as the official pleasantries were concluded. Looking past Arnold, he cast a disparaging glance at the two dozen hard men who fell in behind Arnold.

"General Washington thought I might lend a hand," Arnold replied, affecting a nonchalance that sounded forced.

"Two dozen more men will scarcely do much to hold the line against Burgoyne."

"We'll see about that," Arnold contested, and then gave a rough laugh. "For want of a nail, after all," he added, quoting the old nursing rhyme. Gates didn't look impressed.

For the next several days, the generals attempted to hide their mutual antipathy from the ranks, and only Jim could hear the increasingly heated discussions about strategy and tactics over their nightly dinners together. Arnold wanted to take the battle to Burgoyne, insisting he be allowed to take a contingent and march north and reinforce their forts below Quebec. Gates thought he was crazy, arguing that to split their forces, which were already badly outnumbered by the British, would be criminally negligent and lead to certain defeat. Uncomfortable with what he considered eavesdropping, but unable to not hear what others couldn't, Jim kept the conflict between their leaders to himself, not even confiding it to Blair.

But when Arnold continued to press his views, growing ever more insistent, anyone that was in proximity of the command headquarters that incorporated Gates' private domain could hear the escalating argument. Getting nowhere, cursing to himself late one evening as he stomped out of the building to return to the modest shanty he'd appropriated for his own use, Arnold spotted Jim and waved him over.

"Tell the men to prepare to move out in the morning," he directed abruptly. "I'm sending them north under Major Morgan's command, with you as his second, to reinforce Fort Schuyler and Fort Stanwix - God knows, we're doing no good sitting around here waiting for the British to come to us. I'm betting that Burgoyne has a force heading their way, to ensure he'd got no one behind him as he continues down the Hudson. I saw longboats on the riverbank - take one of them as far as you can, to save time."

"Yes, sir," Jim acknowledged. "You're remaining here, sir?"

Nodding, Arnold cast a dyspeptic glance back at Gates' quarters. "General Gates and I have more to talk about," he said darkly. Turning back to Jim, he laid a hand on his shoulder and drew him further away from the building. "We can't afford to lose those installations. Don't be constrained to fight the British the way they choose. Do whatever is necessary to hold the ground and drive them off, and then hightail it back here."

Nodding that he understood, Jim saluted and moved off to alert Morgan and the others.

********************

Very aware that they were moving deeper into what could be enemy territory, especially given that at least some of the Iroquois nations were said to be mobilizing in support of the British, they cautiously paddled up the river. Even Quinn, the inveterate complainer who was always mumbling in disgruntlement with the rations or the mosquitoes or the damned heat or whatever, lapsed into uneasy silence. At night, they eschewed campfires, eating hard tack and jerky, berries when they were near to hand.

When they encountered fishermen on the river, they sought as much information as they could get, though most were reticent to talk with them, afraid of British reprisals. Everyone seemed to be constantly looking over their shoulders at the shadows of the surrounding forests, clearly wondering if they were being watched by Indians. Jim found he picked up more by stretching his hearing and listening in on the gossip and speculation of others on the river, who were more open when they thought they were out of earshot.

Gradually, as the men talked together in the evenings, keeping their voices low, the pieces of the complex puzzle of relationships and alliances in the north became clearer.

"I've heard," Jim said one night, as if he was opening a general conversation rather than reporting on what he'd overheard that day from two fishermen talking on the bank, "that the Iroquois Confederacy is split over this war. That they're reluctant allies of the British, at best."

Morgan looked at him, his gaze assessing, his manner suggesting that he'd begun to wonder just where and how Captain Ellison 'heard' all that he did. But he let it go and simply added what he knew or guessed. "Yeah, makes sense. There was a big epidemic in the heart of Iroquois country last winter - killed off several of their big chiefs. Mostly, the Indians, at least the ones where we come from, want no part of 'whiteman's wars' - figure that there's no point getting themselves killed on our behalf, and one white man in charge of things is pretty much the same as another, the way they see it. But ... if the Chiefs that're left can't keep a rein on the hotheads, and if the British are threatening reprisals if they don't help, then some'll resent the British and fight 'em just to spite 'em, an' others'll fall into line."

"How do we know who's friend and who's foe?" Joel wondered with a frown.

"Ain't no Injun that's a good Injun," Quinn asserted with a sneering glance at Sandburg, and then he hawked and spit.

Blair's lips thinned but he didn't bother reacting to the obvious insult. "We can't afford to attack any who might be on our side," he asserted, ignoring Quinn's derisive snort. "We need all the allies we can get."

"So ... you're saying, we go carefully and only shoot back if we're attacked," Jim interpreted.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"Makes good sense to me," Morgan agreed sardonically. "Problem is, most of us might be dead before we even see these suckers. Move like shadows, they do; silent as the night. But ... if we can't see 'em, we can't fight 'em. An arrow in the back'll let us know if we're in trouble quick enough."

Blair gave Jim a sideways glance. "Guess we'll just have to listen hard and pay attention to moving shadows," he said quietly.

Jim cut him a quick look, but only nodded. And then he heard something, a long way away. Miles away. He frowned and turned his head, tried to catch the high pitched yips, a screaming wail, then shots ....

"What is it, Jim?" Blair asked, lightly gripping his arm as he leaned close.

He blinked and shook his head. Whatever it was, it was over. "Something bad, I think. Something north of us." He looked past Blair and saw Morgan staring at him, a frown puckering his brow. The Major's lips thinned, and he turned away.

********************

The mood on the river was different the next day. There were angry shouts and a buzz of conversation in the village up ahead. Jim signaled that they were turning into the bank, and a few minutes later, they heard the news from a furious group of fisherman.

"Killed her, the savages!"

"God-damned British! It's their fault!"

"What? Slow down! What's happened?" Jim commanded fiercely, his ice cold voice cutting through the heated shouts and silencing the men around them.

"Indians. Kidnapped a girl - Jenny McCrae, her name was - and she was goin' up to Fort Edwards, to be with her fiancé. She was a Tory, one of the Loyalists, dammit. And those heathen Indians took her anyway. Killed her. Took her scalp," a whippet-thin man in faded dungarees told them bitterly. "God-damned Brits," he swore again, nearly inarticulate with fury.

"That's it," another called out. "I'm done putting up with it. Time the militia showed 'em they can't push us around no more! Whose with me?!"

A ragged shouted cheer greeted his words ... and Jim and Morgan found themselves with a bunch of volunteers only too eager to hunt redcoats.

After that, all along the river, more and more men joined them, grabbing their weapons and shoving canoes into the water behind them. Two days later, they left the river and began traveling overland, northeast toward Fort Stanwix.

The land was rough, filled with steep terrain and bogs in the low-lying areas. Though they moved steadily, Jim felt as if it took forever to cover a mile as the crow flies. But from the map they'd copied while at Gates' camp, they all knew they were nearing the Fort three days later when he stiffened, and tilted his head. Blair laid a hand on his back, murmuring to him so low none of the others could hear what he was saying.

Jim heard whispers, muffled sounds of men moving stealthily, not far away - just a couple miles, if that, past the nearby Oriskany Creek. He strained and caught British accents. Holding up a hand, he shook his head. There was something else - further away, from the southeast, but oddly louder. Many men tramping through the forest, coming toward them but angling slightly north, toward the Fort. American accents.

"Ambush!" he growled to Blair. "Up ahead, no more than two miles away. Waiting for ... can't be sure. Lots of Americans." Louder, he called to the others, "C'mon! This way!"

Some of the men looked at him uneasily. The rivermen had grown increasingly aware that he was different, and all had heard rumours that he could see far better and hear far more than any ordinary man. But the range of acuity of his skills unnerved those who were superstitious. Morgan simply nodded briskly and added his own sharp orders to hasten the troop on its way.

They heard a volley of shots before they got there, and that fired them, so they plunged forward through the thick underbrush, heedless of thorns catching at them, lunging around trees in their way. And they ran headlong into a bloody, hand to hand battle of hundreds of British soldiers, militiamen - and Indians, who seemed to be fighting one another, so they'd no idea which of the natives were on their side. There was no room to get clear, clean shots. Muskets were hastily slung over shoulders and hunting knives were drawn. Those with bayonets on the end of their rifles used them, swinging and slashing, stabbing. Battle cries filled their throats as they plunged into the fray.

The leaf-strewn earth ran slick and red with blood. Grunts and screams, shouted orders and furious resistance filled the air. Blair had his war club in one hand and his blade in the other, and Jim used his bayonet. Back to back, they cut a swath through the British, Simon and Joel close behind and to one side, slugging, hacking, stabbing. Morgan and his men, and the militiamen who'd joined them en route, waded into battle until they all formed a formidable line, catching the British between them and the Americans who had been ambushed, but had rallied rather than run, and were fighting back tooth and nail.

The bloodbath raged for two hours before the British pulled back and away, leaving the Americans gasping for breath. Gradually, Jim and Morgan learned that their fellow Americans were eight hundred militiamen from the Mohawk Valley of upper New York and sixty Oneida warriors, led by Brigadier General Nicholas Herkimer. The Brigadier had received a severe leg wound early in the conflict and yet had coolly directed his men from where he slumped against an oak tree. The thousand or so British and Mohawk warriors they had driven off were part of a larger contingent who were apparently laying siege to Fort Stanwix. Two hundred and fifty of the Americans suffered wounds or were killed in the engagement, and they had to believe a similar number of the British had gone down, else they'd not have retreated so smartly.

Herkimer and the wounded needed attention as soon as possible. Blair did what he could, along with others who took on informal medic roles of binding wounds, but there were too many injured, and some wounds were too serious for his skills. After doing his best to stem the blood flowing from Herkimer's wound, he turned to Jim and said quietly, "His leg was shattered by a musket ball and I doubt it can be saved." He swallowed and, looking back at the valiant man, added sorrowfully, "I don't think he's going to make it."

Dusk fell by the time they got everything organized and a contingent of the upper New York men headed home with their wounded and dead. The rest had no choice but to set up camp for the night, and hope Fort Stanwix could hold out a little longer.

The next day, they set out at double time with the Mohawk Valley men and Indians, more familiar with the territory, taking the lead. Somehow, the British must have learned they were coming, no doubt from those who had fled the battle the day before. The patriots came out of the forest around Fort Stanwix just as the last of the redcoats who had been laying siege were disappearing to the north, scurrying back to Quebec.

Fort Stanwix had not fallen and was now secure.

But there were other vulnerable targets in Burgoyne's path. Turning around, they marched back toward the Hudson River to the south and west of their position. Two days later, they encountered fifteen hundred militiamen from New Hampshire under the command of Colonel Stark, who had crossed the boundary lines into New York. He had information that there was a large contingent of Hessians nearby, marching toward Bennington to acquire supplies from the depot there for Burgoyne. The two groups of patriots banded together.

Stark divided his now larger force, sending some around to attack the Germans from the rear. The two wings quickly surrounded the Hessians, and the Loyalists and Indians with them panicked and ran. The Germans fought stolidly, trying to break through the American lines, and the battle raged fiercely for two hours before the Americans triumphed.

They'd barely caught their breath, however, before Jim heard the approach of another large contingent, and he hastily warned Stark to prepare for attack. Five hundred more British attacked and the battle turned into another bloody confrontation. Back and forth, neither side gaining much ground, they fought for hours, and the patriots were flagging, exhausted from the earlier brutal fight. But, just as it seemed as if they must fall back, five hundred Vermont volunteers charged with piercing battle cries into the foray. The British were overwhelmed and some broke away, but the rest were trapped. When the second battle finally ended, of the thousand British warriors, only a hundred had escaped; there were over six hundred enemy dead, and most of the captives were wounded. One of them told his patriot captors what his commander, Raum, had said about the patriots before he died in the battle: 'They fought more like hellhounds than soldiers.' From another they learned that the British they'd driven back north from Fort Stanwix had been key to Burgoyne's assault, the second of three waves, the third being Howe, who was expected from the south.

But for now, it appeared as if Burgoyne was on his own ... and was faltering. Apparently, his supply lines back to Canada had stretched too thin, which is why he'd sent Raum's force to secure more supplies. And the Americans retreating from Fort Edwards had cut down trees, fired farms and driven off cattle, to slow his advance even further. The patriots snickered appreciatively when they heard that it had taken the British General twenty-three days to traverse as many miles.

However, the Americans sent by Arnold to assist in the north didn't come through the battle unscathed. They all numbered amongst the nearly three hundred wounded. Simon and Joel both had bloody, if shallow wounds on their arms and legs, Morgan had lost a man, and three others had suffered flesh wounds. Blair was bleeding from a nasty cut to his scalp, but he just kept swiping the blood out of his eyes as he concentrated on stemming the flow of crimson from the saber thrust Jim had taken in his left shoulder.

"How bad is it?" Simon demanded roughly, as he and Joel helped bind one another's wounds after liberally lacing them with herbs from a leather pouch Blair thrust at them.

"Looks clean; damned lucky it wasn't lower," Sandburg grated hoarsely as he kept pressure on the wound and then he muttered urgently to Jim, who was clenched tight with the agony of it, "Turn it down, dammit. Now. Turn it down."

His face starkly pale, eyes pressed tightly closed, gasping for breath, Jim nodded jerkily. Grimacing with effort, he concentrated for what seemed like endless minutes but could only have been seconds. Finally, his breathing eased and he blinked. "Okay," he rasped. "S'okay now."

"Good," Blair replied and swiped another runnel of blood away from his eyes. "'Cause I'm gonna have to hurt you, man. The bleeding isn't stopping; I have to cauterize the wound."

Jim looked up at him balefully and swallowed hard. Closing his eyes, resignedly he said, "Do it."

Joel drew flint from a pouch at his waist, and hastily got a small fire going nearby. Simon took the knife Sandburg held out to him. "Clean it," Blair directed, curling his lip at the blood on the blade. "And then stick it in the flames."

"How's ... how's your head?" Jim panted, wincing and squinting up at his friend.

"Other than the fact I see two of you, not too bad," Blair told him with a ragged grin.

Jim snorted and then huffed, "Just put the knife in the real wound, okay, Corporal?"

Lightly stroking his hand over Jim's brow, Blair murmured fondly, "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Laughter at their old joke creased Jim's face, but the pain caught him again and he clenched his jaw as he fought off a moan.

"Easy, Jim," Blair soothed, glancing at the knife and noting it was turning red. "Easy." When he decided the blade was hot enough, he signaled to Simon to bring it back to him. Before he took it though, he grabbed a small thick twig from the ground beside him and said, "Bite on this, Jim. And, and, turn the scope down as far as you can. This is really going to hurt bad, but I'll be as quick as I can."

Jim obligingly opened his mouth and then clamped down on the wood fragment. He closed his eyes briefly, and then nodded. Simon handed the blazing hot blade to Blair. Grasping it firmly, he gestured to Simon to hold Jim's shoulders down. And then, when Simon had knelt by Jim's head and had leaned his weight on Ellison, Blair took a deep breath, bit his lip and then swiftly lifted the pad of rags he'd been holding over the wound, and slid the hot knife into the wound.

Jim grunted a low, wild howl and tried to arch away from the pain, but Simon held him securely. His face contorted and flushed with the effort to control and contain the agony, and then he went limp as he passed out. The sickening stench of burning flesh nauseated all of them.

Hot tears warred with the warm blood dripping down his brow and into his eyes, but Blair blinked furiously to clear his vision and counted under his breath in Cherokee. And then he pulled the blade away and drove it violently into the ground. Panting, he watched the wound, relaxing only when he was sure the bleeding had stopped. Rifling in his pack, he drew out a small clay pot of ointment, and he carefully, tenderly, coated the burned flesh and the wound. And then he bound a thick wad of clean rags over the injury with a long strip of linen that Simon helped him wind around Jim's shoulder and chest.

"He gonna be okay?" Joel asked soberly.

"Yeah, yeah, I think so," Blair replied faintly, sounding woozy now that the adrenaline that had been driving him wore off. "Probably ache like hell in cold weather for the rest of his life, but he should be ... should be ... f-fi -" His voice broke and he abruptly jerked around, gagging and retching but there was nothing inside to give up. "Oh, man," he moaned and lifted his hands to his head, swayed sideways ... and sagged, sprawling on his side, unconscious before he hit the ground.

"Sonuva ..." Simon exclaimed, as he scrambled to help Joel turn the kid onto his back. Using water from Joel's canteen and another rag from Blair's pack, they cleaned the blood away and found a bone-deep gash on his brow, near the hairline close to his temple.

"Nasty. Damned near got scalped," Joel commented hoarsely, and then dug out the gut and a needle he knew Blair kept in a leather pouch in his pack. "Good thing he's out of it. This'd sting." Swiftly, he stitched the ragged edges of skin together, and powdered the wound with more of Sandburg's magic herbs. "Nasty bump coming up," he muttered, and then, while Simon held Blair's head off the ground, he wound a bandage around the kid's skull. Looking up at Simon, he said, "Looks like you and me get to play nursemaids for a few days."

"Lord help us," Simon rumbled. "I doubt these two are good company when they can't do for themselves." Shaking his head, he added, "Sandburg's gonna have one godawful headache when he wakes up."

"We just better hope he wakes up before Jim does," Joel sighed with a glance at Ellison. "Or there'll be hell to pay." Simon barked a laugh and nodded. They both knew that their Captain would be a bear until he was assured that Blair wasn't badly hurt. But, gazing down at the kid, he sobered as he soaked a rag to wash the blood-matted hair and then gently smoothed the damp curls from the bandaged brow. God, he hoped the kid's collapse was mostly due to exhaustion and shock, and not something more serious.

Head injuries could be tricky.

********************

Jim moaned softly as he eased back into consciousness. There was a fire in his shoulder that was burning relentlessly, mercilessly and he had a vague idea of pouring water over it. Confused, unable to think past the agony, he floated helplessly but then he latched onto the heartbeat that was always there, and the heartbeat reminded him he could diminish his experience of the pain. There was something about the heartbeat that bothered him, something not quite right, but he couldn't figure out what until he could focus better - and he couldn't think about anything until he got the pain under control. So he struggled with the damned spyglass in his head, imagining the pain skimming farther and farther away, so he could scarcely make it out in the distance and he gulped in air with the relief of being able to breathe easily again. What the hell had happened? Oh, yeah, the ferocious, exhausting battles, one right after the other. Scraping his face and rubbing his eyes with his good hand, he blinked and looked around, expecting to see Blair hovering over him - but he saw Joel, and frowned. The heartbeat. There was something ... it was slow. Slower than he'd ever heard it before, even when Blair was deeply asleep.

"Where's Sandburg?" he rasped, struggling to push himself up, made awkward by his useless left arm. The agony in his shoulder flared and he subsided with a frustrated growl.

"He's right here," Joel assured him, waving toward Blair who was stretched out a few feet away, with Simon squatting next to him. "He's, uh, he's catching some shuteye."

His gaze narrowing, he studied Joel, and his gaze flicked to Simon and then to Blair's still form. Their heartbeats were racing, as if they were running flat out - they were worried and they were flat-out lying to him - and the kid's was slow. Too slow. Fear erupted in his gut and he surged up to his knees, heedless of the shrieking, searing, furious burn in his shoulder. "B