She saw things she had never imagined; a moose with impossibly long legs walking nonchalantly into the water to browse the new shoots, swallows careening and dipping by the tens and hundreds, a doe heavy with fawn frozen at the edge of a marsh, a line of turtles on a partially submerged tree trunk, their knobby shells glowing gray—green in the sun. A bear cub on its own, gnawing at a flyblown carcass of a fox on the shore. Elizabeth pointed this out to Nathaniel.

"Wolverine," he corrected her. "Or some call them forest devils." She looked again and saw the long, bushy tail.

There were rich smells, the water itself and sun on fertile mud and acres of wildflowers in blossom. At the river's edge, willows trailed pale fronds in the water where dragonflies hovered.

And there was Nathaniel to watch, in front of her. He had taken off his shirt in the heat of the sun. At first she looked away, the vestiges of aunt Merriweather's training still strong enough to make her start at his nakedness. But of course she must watch him, this man she had held in her arms just a day ago. This man she would hold tonight. She was at complete liberty to look at him to her heart's content. A little self—consciously, knowing that this would not escape the attention of Runs-from-Bears, Elizabeth settled in to make a thorough study. The way his muscles contracted and then relaxed, the shape of each of them as they rolled and flexed in his shoulders and upper arms, the easy, knowing grip of his hands on the paddle. She had time and ease now, to study his tattoo. Like a long bolt of lightning it looped around his left side and up his spine. The rhythmic swing of his hair hid it and then revealed it again where it disappeared into his hairline at the nape of his neck.

The force of her staring finally caused him to glance over his shoulder, to catch a look on her face that she would have preferred not to share, at that moment. He grinned at her and made a comment to Runs-from-Bears. There was a low grunt, of agreement or laughter, Elizabeth couldn't tell. She decided not to ask for a translation.

Gradually she began to take in signs of habitation. A gaudily colored duck building a nest in the wreck of a canoe half—hidden in reeds. At a distance, two men fishing in a marsh. Smoke rising from a cabin peeking out of a grove of pine trees. A canoe paddling upstream, slowly, the boys in it nodding to them in passing.

It was on the last portage that they first ran into the trapper. He was a small, wiry man with a battered coon cap too large for his head and grime and tobacco juice worked into every crease on his face. He nodded at them from under his canoe, his eyes sliding in a disinterested way past Elizabeth to move greedily over the furs that Runs-from-Bears carried. Elizabeth imagined she saw Nathaniel shift the weight ever so slightly. He was dressed again, his chest crisscrossed with leather thongs and a wide leather belt around his waist that supported a long knife in a beaded sheath, a bullet pouch, and a tomahawk tucked flat to the right of his spine. His rifle was slung easily across his shoulder pack, his powder horn under his right arm.

When the man was long gone, Nathaniel stopped, settling the canoe on the ground and then entering into a long conversation with Runs-from-Bears that Elizabeth had no chance of following at all.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

But Nathaniel was hefting the canoe again, and he didn't speak until he had it balanced where it belonged.

"Bad luck, to run into him," he said. "We'll have to move faster."

Elizabeth glanced back to where the path disappeared into the wood. "Who was that?"

"Dirty—Knife," said Runs-from-Bears with a disgusted shake of his head.

"To the Kahnyen'keháka he's Dirty—Knife, but he goes by Claude Dubonnet otherwise," said Nathaniel.

"Peter Dubonnet's father? My student Peter?" Elizabeth had never seen the man before; he had been in the bush, trapping, all winter.

"Aye," said Nathaniel quietly. "And headed for Paradise, no question."

"But why didn't he speak to you?" she asked, mystified.

"Because he's Dirty—Knife," said Bears. Elizabeth saw that there was no further explanation forthcoming.

"Oh. Well." She knew she should be alarmed, but instead there was vague sense of disconnection. Claude Dubonnet would be in Paradise this evening and tell them who and what he had seen.

"We knew they'd be coming sooner or later."

"This is too soon," Nathaniel said. "And they know we didn't head for Johnstown."

"Can we be in Albany by morning?"

"It would be better if we could get this settled today," Nathaniel said. "We'll have to stop in at Saratoga, hope that the Schuylers have come up early, given the warm weather."

"The Schuylers?" asked Elizabeth, with growing alarm. "Do you mean Major General Schuyler and his wife? Catherine?"

He nodded.

"My father speaks of Philip Schuyler quite often, Nathaniel," Elizabeth said. "He considers the general a trusted friend."

Runs-from-Bears grunted, a dismissive sound.

Nathaniel didn't seem worried, either. "I don't doubt he tells himself that," he said. "But I have a feeling the Schuylers'll be glad to see us."

Once back on the water they moved fast on the strong spring currents of the Hudson. In just two hours of winding waterway, they came to the juncture where the river joined the Fishkill, quickly passing what looked to be a small abandoned fort on the north shore of the smaller river. Here the white water was enough to buffet them hard, but Elizabeth's anxieties were focused elsewhere. On the west side of the river she could see the rising smoke of a small settlement just beyond the trees, and then there was a cleared path up through woods to a setting that reminded her of the England she had left behind. Not the narrow and grimy streets of London, or the wild, unrestrained countryside of Scotland where she had gone walking with her cousins, but the England of her growing—up years, clipped and tended, the England of afternoon visits and whist tables and musicales. It took her breath away to see that world appear suddenly on the banks of this wild and unpredictable river.