She made a sound of impatience.

"It was Joshua Littlefield," Nathaniel said. "On his way to join Clinton at Canajoharie."

"The surgeon?" Elizabeth asked, and then something flooded her face, understanding and a blank horror. "Richard." She leaned forward and took his hands. "Richard was there. Richard told them about the village, how to get to it, how to surprise them. Was it Richard?"

Nathaniel nodded. "I hadn't caught sight of him till then, or maybe I did and I didn't recognize him. I'd been living in Falling—Day's long house for two years at that point. But there was Richard with Littlefield, and he was doing a lot of talking. It was Littlefield who was leading the militia to Clinton's camp, but it was Richard who was making the decisions."

"He took them hostage," Elizabeth said.

"I assume it was his idea," Nathaniel agreed. "Although I didn't figure that out straightaway. Not until it was too late." A wariness came over her face.

"I thought if I could get to Richard, I could explain to him about Sarah, that she was my wife, that those people were my family. That Sky—Wound—Round was under Schuyler's protection. I wasn't thinking straight," he said, still now after so many years feeling the shame of this, that he had made such an elemental mistake in assessing his enemy.

"He wouldn't listen?"

"He had me arrested as a spy," Nathaniel said simply. "And he would have seen me shot then and there if it hadn't been for Sarah."

* * *

Elizabeth felt slightly nauseated and wished very much that Nathaniel would stop this story. She dropped the hand that she had been holding and wished for a handkerchief to wipe her face. Here was a Sarah she hadn't anticipated. A young woman who had stood up to the men who held her captive. Capable of convincing them that they would have Schuyler's wrath to deal with if they shot one of his best and most valued negotiators and translators. Nathaniel could only tell her about this in a disjointed way, he explained, because he himself had not heard what Sarah had to say.

"Somebody came up behind me and put a musket butt to my head, and that's all I remember till the next morning. I don't know exactly what she said, but she scairt Littlefield enough about Schuyler to put a stop to an execution."

"What did Richard say to you?" Elizabeth asked. "How did he explain himself?"

"Explain himself? Richard Todd? He didn't have a thing to say. Stayed just behind us for the rest of the march, watching to make sure we didn't try to run, and hoping that we'd be so stupid. To this day I wonder if he really thought he could talk Clinton into shooting me. He may have thought that; he was only eighteen at the time but he had a way with men. I'm sure it was him who got the militia riled up enough to attack Barktown, told them how to do it. Who else would know how to do that, but a man raised by the Kahnyen’keháka? And he made it look like it all came from Littlefield, that was the real genius of it. Whether or not he thought he could see me shot at Canajoharie, he surely enjoyed watching us march."

Nathaniel had a picture of himself as he must have looked: Blinded by his own blood, with his hands bound behind him, and wheeling, his head a flare of pain. It was the sight of Otter walking in front of him that had kept him focused and able to put one foot in front of the next. Otter with his back straight and his five—year—old eyes sparking hate, so determined not to shame his grandfather or his mother. Otter who had insisted on calling Richard "Irtakohsaks," Cat—Eater, to his face, and who had been whipped for it. He thought of the Otter Elizabeth knew, and the one she didn't, and then he told her this story. Her head snapped up in surprise when he had finished.

"It was Otter, wasn't it, who shot at the horses that day, when we bolted?"

Nathaniel nodded.

"This is more complicated than I anticipated," Elizabeth murmured. "I am presuming that Clinton believed what you had to say?"

"Aye, once we got that far there was no question of hostages or executions. Littlefield went to report to Clinton straightaway, and you could hear the man bellow across the camp. He came thundering out of his tent and found us where they had dumped us, and he spent an hour apologizing to Sky—Wound—Round and trying to set things right. Gave us provisions and horses and sent us on our way. Promised to punish the men who were responsible—something that never happened, to the best of my knowledge. And he had the gall to send his greetings to my folks. But he couldn't send us home to Barktown," Nathaniel finished. "Because there wasn't a home to go back to anymore.

"What of Richard?"

"Did Clinton punish him, do you mean? No. He hadn't done anything but put ideas in Littlefield's head, and Littlefield was the one who caught the trouble. When we left Canajoharie the last I saw was Richard standing there, scratching his chin, watching us ride away. But then at least I knew the truth about him."

"And what is that?"

He reached out to her, took her hand in his own. She looked at it, strong and brown and capable of so much, of gentleness and affection and of harder things, when it was called for.

"Richard Todd is determined to take everything I ever had or ever wanted away from me," Nathaniel said.

Sarah, thought Elizabeth. She was standing between them; Elizabeth could almost see her. Nathaniel was thinking of Sarah, who waited to play her part in this story.

"Tell me the rest," she said. "Tell me about Sarah."