Jennet shifted the basket she was carrying to her other arm. “Mothers and daughters must struggle, but it's out of understanding, in the end. A mother remembers what it's like to be a young woman, but a boy and the man he grows into—why, he must always be a mystery. And what we cannot understand we must fear.”

Elizabeth smiled at her. “You may not have any children yet, Jennet, but you have observed a great deal.”

“Och aye, my eyesight is keen,” she agreed. “But no doubt I'll make the same mistakes my mother did and her mother before her. Seeing the truth of a thing is a far cry from making it your own.”

Elizabeth was so taken aback that it took her a moment to gather her thoughts. Before she could even begin to reply, the sound of another rider coming into the village stopped her.

“More company,” said Jennet. “And coming fast.”

“The post rider,” said Nathaniel, coming up behind them.

“You look as though you might be expecting bad news,” Jennet said, looking between them.

“Any news of the war is bad news,” Elizabeth said, picking up her pace.

Lily said, “And news of war is all he brings, these days.”

She had been so silent for most of the walk that Jennet had almost forgotten that Lily was keeping pace behind them, and listening.

“Shall we go look at the lake then, instead?” She put her arm through Lily's and pulled her close, but her cousin only looked at her as if she made as much sense as a blue jay chattering.

“Of course we must go listen. Better to know than not to know.”

“Are you sure of that?” Jennet asked, but Lily was already gone, the hem of her skirts kicking up in her rush toward more bad news.

The bagattaway game was abandoned; women left the cooking and wiped hands on aprons, and even the children put aside their games to gather around the post rider, their sun-browned faces furrowed with concentration. Missy Parker, a widow woman whose only daughter was married to the post rider and lived in Johnstown, pushed ahead importantly.

A hundred questions presented themselves to Jennet, but they must all be put aside; she could no more interrupt the post rider than a preacher speaking from the pulpit.

He was a middle-aged man with the great rosy-red nose of a dedicated drinker, beard stubble that reached nearly to his eyes, and a greasy old tricorne pulled down over the bushels of dark hair sprouting from his ears. But his reddened eyes were alight with excitement and the newspaper he held in his fist shook.

It was an expression Jennet had seen before, and not so long ago: when she passed through the port at Halifax it had been crowded with the British sailors celebrating their many victories over the American navy. She had almost forgot about the war in the last week, mostly, she realized, because she had seen no evidence of it: Luke had led the way from Montreal to Paradise on back trails. She had seen more than one moose—a creature so outrageously odd that she would not bother to write home about it, for no one would believe her—mountain lions, hundreds of deer, and every other kind of animal the endless forests had to offer, but nothing of soldiers.

But here was the war, again, and in full cry. The post rider seemed to have memorized the newspaper report because he never looked at it while his voice boomed out over the crowd with the news: the Constitution, the gem of the struggling U.S. Navy, had captured the Guerrière and brought it into Boston Harbor. It was a full and resounding defeat of the British, a tremendous victory after months of nothing but one embarrassing defeat after another.

Questions were called out rapid fire: cannons and rounds fired; men injured or lost or taken prisoner; the prize money claimed.

“Jonas Littlejohn!” called out one of the younger men. “Tell us, man, is the Constitution still in Boston Harbor, or must we go to New-York to enlist?”

The post rider seemed to be waiting for just this question. He took a long draft from the tankard of ale that his mother-in-law passed up to him and withdrew a sheet of parchment from his coat with a flourish. Then he stood up in his stirrups and swiveled his great head to meet the gaze of each man present.

“Now's the time, boys,” he began slowly. He shook the paper like a tambourine. “Now's the time for honor and glory, if you're men enough. If you're brave enough. It's time to try your fortune in service to God and country—high time, indeed, for everything that swims the seas must be a prize.”

He was coming into his full voice, high and tremulous and still so compelling that Jennet could not look away.

“The British wolves are at the door again, boys, ready to bleed us dry if we don't put a stop to their thieving ways. Surely every man with an ounce of spirit must be ashamed to look away from such a challenge. Your country needs you. The navy needs you. And you—” He pointed suddenly. “You need the navy! Will you spend your life scraping hides for pennies? Why should you, when honor and fortune call? The navy will pay you, feed you, arm you, train you, and give you the opportunity to serve your country and relieve the English bastards of their goods and coin, all at once. I tell you, boys, it's the navy you're wanting. A company of men like yourselves, strangers to fear, American men. The lobsterbacks dare shake their fists at us again, the bloody sons of whores. We beat them once, we'll do it again, and this time by God they'll know they're beat for good.”

He had worked himself up to such a foaming rant that Jennet, who had absorbed hatred of the English along with her mother's milk, must admire him at least a little for his fervor.