In a line with the rest of the prisoners he shuffled out of the deserted garrison toward the transport ship Fair Winds. There were many sailors among the prisoners, and they spoke among themselves about the ship in no complimentary terms. Even from this good distance they diagnosed rot and weakened timbers and poor knees. Not that it mattered, they said in lower voices, and elbowed each other knowingly.

If not for the fact that Daniel stood in line waiting to be shackled, he might have found something to laugh at in the rumors that the men passed back and forth. In the few hours since Jennet brought her news the story had grown to astonishing proportions. The entire American navy waited just around the next bend in the river, it seemed, and was poised to deliver swift justice and freedom.

Daniel wondered what they would say if he told them that it wasn't a navy who would rescue them, but his own brother and uncle and cousin. He had unlimited faith in his own people, but even so, he could hardly imagine how they would manage what they had promised. They could not turn the ship for American waters without sailing directly into the British force that had left at dawn to provoke a battle; to sail north was only to go deeper into Canada.

He turned his head away while the blacksmith worked, and reminded himself that the manacles would be struck off before the sun had set.

And still their weight dragged on his left arm, freed of its sling. The part of his mind that could still think about these things with some degree of detachment noted that the pain had a particular quality today, as though a hot wire had been stuck into his shoulder joint. A pain that moved like a live thing with a mind of its own, burrowing into bone like a worm into sand.

There had been no more laudanum this morning. In the night his sister had given the last of it to Liam Kirby, and then waited with him until he was gone. Unable to sleep, Daniel had watched. Hannah's expression had never changed all through that terrible hour. She was as steady as the stars and as fragile as crystal, not thirty years old but when she finally rose up and let his body be taken away, she moved like a woman at the end of a long life.

The war had taken the use of his arm from Daniel, but his sister had not got away so easy.

Daniel would have refused the laudanum if there had been any for the taking. Not because he welcomed the pain or wanted to punish himself, but because the stuff made him stupid, and today he must have his wits about him. He was going home, finally, and for good. The idea filled him with relief and terror both.

He wanted his people the way he wanted to breathe; he could not close his eyes without seeing them, or dream without hearing their voices. But on the mountain where he had been born and raised there would be no avoiding the question that he pushed away every waking minute of the day. He would see it in his mother's face and hear it in every word his sister spoke. They would do everything in their power to help him heal, but every day it would be asked in a hundred different ways: what would he do with his life if he never regained the use of his arm? If he couldn't handle a rifle, if he couldn't set a trap, or skin a deer, or wield an axe. Who would that man be; what would he see when he looked into the glass?

“Three ships and two dozen gunboats gone south,” Daniel heard one man say to another as the line of prisoners shambled through the garrison past the deserted parade ground. “And what fine weather it is for a bloodbath. May every one of the bastards find a grave at the bottom of the lake.”

A year ago Daniel would have despaired to think that he would have no part in the battle that must be taking place right now. He had left home eager for war and the chance to prove himself, as his father had done and his grandfathers before him. The lessons he had learned on Nut Island were not the ones he had hoped for, and they left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Move along there,” shouted the guards to the clashing rhythm of men in chains. “Step lively!”

On the other side of the parade ground there was a sudden shouting, men running back and forth in high agitation, the flash of sunlight on muzzles. An officer came toward the docks in a dead run, waving his arms frantically.

“Hold! Hold there! Stop!”

Before he went to war, Daniel had tried to imagine the kind of fear that lived on battlefields and fed on gunfire; he had asked his father and uncle and his grandfather about it, and they had all told him the same thing: the fear could be, must be banished. It was the first, the unavoidable enemy; a man who couldn't outrun fear for his own life would never be a warrior.

That was one kind of fear, Daniel learned now, and here was another. As officers and marines ran toward the ship, guns at the ready, he felt the weight of the chains that bound him and thought of his sister and cousin, and knew himself to be powerless. The agony of his shoulder was nothing to this new pain.

The captain had come off the ship to meet the officers just where the line of prisoners had stopped. He was a great plug of a man with an outsized face flushed a peculiar shade of plum.

“Colonel Caudebec,” panted the officer who had come from the blockhouse. “Colonel Caudebec is murdered and the paymasters with him. Throats cut.” He put back his head and shouted to the sky. “Christ Almighty!” Then he threw his body forward and vomited onto his boots.

“When?” asked the captain, turning to another officer. “How?”

The men, officers and guards alike, began talking all at once, their voices raised and clashing. It seemed that nothing of any sense would ever be said, until another officer appeared approaching from the direction of the followers' camp. He was moving at a lope, fast and easy, and Daniel had the idea that of all the military men he had seen thus far on this island, this unnamed major—by his uniform one of the infamous King's Rangers—would be the most serious threat on a battlefield.