THE FOLLOWING morning, Caleb Chandler began his journey back to Morristown. Wiert Bogert and John Nelson escorted him across the Hudson at the usual place, several miles north of New York City. Above them, for the first time in months, a few random stars glinted through broken clouds. The Great Cold was gradually retreating to the Canadian northland from which it had come. As they reached the middle of the river an unnerving groan filled the night. It was followed by cracking and crunching that Caleb found even more demoralizing. He was tempted to run, but his escorts accepted these unearthly sounds as routine. The ice was shifting. “Soon dis be water,” muttered Bogert. “Aye,” growled Nelson. “Then we’ll have to worry about bloody boats again.” Nelson began condemning Beckford for refusing to reimburse him for a boat the rebels had discovered and sunk last summer. To Nelson the war was a business. Listening to him talk about the amounts of money various British officers, particularly the commissaries, were making from the stalemate, Caleb could not blame him for his attitude.
