"That is the simplest version of the story," agreed Mr. Schuyler. "But you should know, Elizabeth, that we are talking about the war. Perhaps that is a topic not welcome to you?"

"Because she's English doesn't mean she's a Tory, Philip," said Mrs. Schuyler in a slightly disapproving tone. "She may have no opinion on political matters at all."

"Bone—in—Her—Back without an opinion is a strange idea," Bears noted dryly, earning a laugh from Nathaniel and a sour look from the bride.

"Nathaniel wouldn't marry a Tory," interjected Cornelia with some force. She was eighteen, beautiful in a butter—and—cream kind of opulence that glowed, and when she looked at Nathaniel—Elizabeth had seen her looking quite often—there was a hesitancy and shyness that was not otherwise there. Elizabeth feared that the girl was opening herself to teasing of the worst kind, but Nathaniel stared down Cornelia's grinning brothers and answered her directly.

"You're right," he said. "Unless it was a reformed one." Under the table he found the soft web of flesh between Elizabeth's thumb and first finger and began to massage it lightly.

"I'm not a Tory sympathizer," Elizabeth confirmed, pulling her hand away. "And I would like to hear the story of Nathaniel at the Battle of Saratoga, if you'd like to tell me."

"I don't think you've got much choice," Nathaniel noted.

"Well, then," said Mr. Schuyler. "Catherine must start, as it begins with her, back in Albany."

Mrs. Schuyler was ready to do her part. "Nathaniel was with Sky—Wound—Round's warriors when they came to town to negotiate terms with Philip. And he brought me a letter from his mother."

"But tell what he looked like!" called one of her grandsons.

"He looked like a healthy nineteen—year—old, the son of my dear friend Cora Bonner, on his way to war.

"Oh, Ma," drawled Rensselaer. "He looked like a Mohawk out for scalps."

"In those days," said Run—from—Bears easily, "he was Kahnyen'keháka, and he took his share of scalps."

There was a sudden silence. Elizabeth felt all the attention in the room focus on her; even Nathaniel's thumb had stopped its slow and careful revolution on the palm of her hand.

"That sounds like a different story," she said to Bears in what she hoped was a neutral tone. "I'm curious about this one right now." And she leaned a little harder against Nathaniel while she threaded her fingers through his. But her mouth was suddenly very dry, and she picked up her glass.

Mrs. Schuyler was frowning at her son. "Rensselaer, you were four years old in September of '77."

"Nevertheless, I remember well enough," he came back, more subdued now. "How could I forget a Mohawk showing up at the door with his head shaved for battle and you making him come in and have a bath. And he did it, too. I watched to see if that tattoo of his would wash away, but it didn't."

There was a welcome ripple of laughter in the room.

The younger Philip Schuyler, a shy twenty—year—old who had barely spoken a word thus far, and who couldn't meet Elizabeth's eye, now addressed Nathaniel.

"Do you remember how we watched over your weapons and your wampum for you?"

"Yes, I do," Nathaniel said. "Don't forget, it was my first time going to battle, and I was just a little younger than you are now. There ain't much I don't remember."

"I think it was seeing that white men were going to fight with the Iroquois that put the idea in John Bradstreet's head in the first place," said Mrs. Schuyler thoughtfully. "About running off, I mean."

Elizabeth glanced up at Nathaniel. "Men? Was your father with you?"

"No," answered Mrs. Schuyler for Nathaniel. "Cora wouldn't let Dan'l near a battlefield that fall, he was down with a recurring fever. She didn't much care for Nathaniel going off, either, but he was—" She broke off then, and clearly didn't know how to continue. Elizabeth had already figured out for herself that at the time all this had happened, Nathaniel must have been very recently married to Sarah and obliged to accompany her father into battle, but she didn't know how to make Mrs. Schuyler aware of her knowledge.

"The other white man was a Scot," said Nathaniel. "Married into the tribe, by the name Ian Murray."

"Is that the one who took Works—with—Her—Hands as wife?" asked Runs-from-Bears, showing the first curiosity since the story had begun, and then looking thoughtful when Nathaniel nodded.

Mrs. Schuyler leaned toward Elizabeth. "So you see, the war party came in one hundred and fifty strong, with Nathaniel and this Ian Murray in it. And our John couldn't stand being down in Albany when the war was taking place on the doorstep up here."

"So John ran away from your home in Albany to follow Nathaniel and the Hode'noshaunee up to the battlefields," Elizabeth summarized for herself.

"Indirectly, he did," confirmed Mrs. Schuyler. "It was about a week after the battle at Freeman's farm—" She paused as if to gather her thoughts, but there was a tic in her cheek that did not escape Elizabeth. At first she thought it was anger, but then she saw the set of Mrs. Schuyler's mouth and realized that there was much more to it, fear still not resolved after sixteen years.

"When there was no more news of fighting, John thought he could come up here and rescue his pony," she finally continued. "And to this day when I think of it, him taking off in the night with a sack of food and an old musket to travel some thirty miles through Burgoyne's lines—he was twelve, you must remember—" She put her hands flat on the table and her mouth compressed into a tight line.