"He'd get his ears boxed all over again if he were here," finished young Catherine with a wince. "Never mind he's twenty—eight years old."

"And rightly so," said Anton with an upraised finger. "Just look what it did to his parents, the worry.

"So how did he find you?" Elizabeth asked.

"He didn't," Nathaniel said. "And that's where the story starts, I guess."

He took his time to fill his glass and then, when the whole room had settled, he began.

"We missed the first battle by a day. At the time I was mad as hell about it—pardon me, Dominie—that's how young I was. More than a thousand dead, you couldn't walk ten paces without stepping in blood in some spots, and me disappointed to have missed it. We stuck around, though, because Gates pulled back before the Tories were down for good."

Mr. Schuyler looked suddenly very put out. Elizabeth wondered what the story was behind this, but Nathaniel moved on with a nod to his host.

"And another battle was a sure thing. So they set us to work like the rest of the militia and the soldiers, building fortifications and the like. It was frustrating, let me tell you, being sent up to battle and to end up with a shovel in my hand. I was glad of it when they called me in to put me on scout duty."

Nathaniel paused to drink, but the rest of the table was perfectly still. Even the teenagers, who had been rocking on their chairs and itching to be let free, were suddenly fixed and attentive.

"So I got familiar with the terrain on the other side of things—"

"Behind the British lines?" asked Elizabeth, puzzled.  There was a disapproving frown from Mrs. Schuyler and Elizabeth realized that this story was a precious one, with its own parameters that didn't allow stray questions. But Nathaniel was patient, if his audience was not.

He raised a brow. "A passing familiarity with the enemy's situation is generally what you need, Boots," he said. "So I did some looking around. The Hode'noshaunee fighting for Burgoyne, well, they had already started heading out by that time, and they weren't in a hurry to turn me in. Now, it must have been about ten days after we set up camp that Varick came to find me.

"My aide," clarified Mr. Schuyler.

"Just when I had come to the conclusion that we'd all die of boredom or blisters before another shot was fired. And here was this news that the boy had took off from home and they suspected he was on his way to Saratoga. So I come up here, and sure enough, the Tories had grabbed him when he showed up and stuck him cold and wet in a barn. He had the good sense at least not to tell them whose son he was. And that's where I found him, coughing and fever—rid."

He paused to smile at Mrs. Schuyler, as if to remind her that there was a happy ending coming to this story.

"Well, short of it is—" He held up a palm to stop protests from the younger Schuylers. "I got him back down to our camp near the lake, and we found him a doctor, a woman tending the wounded."

"A doctor or a woman?"

"Both," said Nathaniel.

"A woman surgeon?" asked Elizabeth, confused.

"The White Witch," said Runs-from-Bears. "I've heard tell of her."

"And so has every soldier who set foot on that battlefield," agreed Mr. Schuyler.

"A Kahnyen’keháka healer?" Elizabeth was curious enough to risk the displeasure of the rest of the audience with another question.

Nathaniel shook his head. "No, a white woman, and English by the sound of her. Ian fetched her, and then it turned out she was his Auntie Claire. Brought her into camp just when I was thinking we couldn't do much for the boy. And she hunkers down next to him and listens to his chest and then she forces something down his gullet, and she bundles him up. The thing to see, though, was the way he settled down when he heard her voice, talking low to him, telling him to lay his head. Like my own ma would have done if she had been there."

"How old was this woman?" Elizabeth asked, and then ducked her head at the good—natured laughter. "Out of curiosity—" she began feebly, but Nathaniel had put his arm around her and he gave her a little squeeze.

"Well, maybe it'll put your mind to ease if I tell you that her husband was there too, came along to camp. A big red—haired Scot, wounded at Freeman's farm. I ran into him later again on the Heights, and I was glad of it, too. I've thought of them many times since that day."

He turned to Mr. Schuyler. "Without her John Bradstreet would have died, so maybe we should be drinking her health."

"And so we should," agreed Mr. Schuyler, and raised his glass. "To Nathaniel, who brought young John through the lines," he said.

"And to the White Witch—”

“Claire Fraser," Nathaniel reminded him.

"To Claire Fraser, who brought him through his fever."

"What happened then?" Elizabeth asked when they had touched glasses.

"Not much. We settled him down at camp, far enough from the fortifications at Bemis Heights to be safe, and there he stayed through the next battle, until he was well enough to set up. By that time everything was said and done, Burgoyne routed and this whole place burned on retreat. Mr. Schuyler came up when the surrender was arranged, and fetched John. And that's the story."

"Nathaniel!" scolded Mrs. Schuyler. "False modesty does not become you in the least."