“Was there fighting there?”
“Fighting there was. The British ships firing at us, and our men waist-deep in water shooting back—even the General himself, Old Put.”
“Did you hear what the volunteers be for?”
“Maybe. You haven’t been here all along? You’re one o’ the reserves who come in late last night? One o’ Stark’s men?”
“Aye. One o’ Stark’s men, and proud of it.”
The man was chewing tobacco, Tom’s keen nose told him. He spat suddenly into the reeds, his own mouth tasting rancid.
“Likely some day you may have something to be proud of. You done no more yet than anyone else, as I can see.”
Tom ignored the rebuke. “Volunteers now,” he murmured. “If I knew what ’twas about, likely I might take a notion to go.”
“Likely they wouldn’t want you,” sneered the older man. “If I was Putnam—which I ain’t—I’d give the job to one o’ the Essex County boys.”
“Why?”