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I bet your friend Congressman Williams has had his share of prime beef in Philadelphia. You can report whatever you please to him, Chaplain. If you think anyone in this army’s going to stand up and salute at the word ‘Congress’ your noodle’s loose.”
    The lieutenant shifted his gaze from Caleb to Hugh Stapleton as he spoke. He meant his defiance for both of them.
    â€œThere are men in Congress who want to help the army,” Stapleton said. “I’m one of them.”
    â€œYeah, I know,” the lieutenant said. “We all know what’s happening in Philadelphia. Those goddamn cheapskate Yankees are the ones who’re starving us. While they and their cronies get richer by the day.”
    The lieutenant glared at Caleb Chandler again. “If I were you, Chaplain, I’d warn your friend the congressman from Connecticut that after this war’s over, maybe even before it ends, the rest of this continent is goin’ to settle scores with you pious honkers. We’d all be better off if you started worryin’ about that instead of who killed a runaway nigger.”
    The combination of the man’s hatred of New England and his indifference to Caesar Muzzey’s death coalesced with the
disillusion in Caleb Chandler’s soul. This was a test, he told himself. A test of America’s integrity. Did the leaders of the nation’s army believe those soaring words in the Declaration of Independence about liberty and happiness belonging by right to all men?
    â€œI’ve changed my mind,” the chaplain said. “Instead of appealing to Congressman Williams, I intend to bring this crime to the personal attention of General Washington. I will demand a thorough investigation of Caesar Muzzey’s death, and the apprehension and hanging of his murderer.”
    Again, the inner voice whispered, Fool. But Caleb refused to listen to it. He was more and more certain that God had led him to this confrontation in the January night. It was his destiny to find this dying black man, to hear him gasp those last mysterious words, to rebuke this sneering dismissal of his humanity. It was his chance to challenge the despair, the loss of faith in American and America’s God, that had destroyed Joel Lockwood.
    Congressman Stapleton yawned. “May I have my lantern, Chaplain? I’m going to bed.”

THREE
    How happy the soldier who lives on his pay
And spends a half-crown out of sixpence a day
Yet fears neither justices, warrants, nor bums
But pays all his debts with a roll of his drums.
    Â 
    A HALF-DOZEN BRITISH OFFICERS ROARED this favorite song into the frigid midnight on Jane Street in New York. They were on their way to the tangle of streets just east of Kings College, known as the Holy Ground. There, no fewer than five hundred willing ladies waited to relieve them of their cash and their frustrations.
    In the comfortable study of his three-story town house on Jane Street sat a man who did not waste his time on carousing or whoring. Work was Major Walter Beckford’s mistress, although a casual observer might have thought it was his stomach. He was one of those large, naturally bulky men who seem unbothered by—in fact seem almost proud of—growing fat. His red regimental coat, with the aiguillette of a general’s aide on the right shoulder, only pretended to encompass his big belly. Youth—he was in his early thirties—gave his spherical pink cheeks and double chins a glow of health. Walter Beckford’s soft white hand gripped a pen with the same determination that other soldiers grasped a sword or a gun.
    On the table before him were a half-dozen books—dictionaries; Laurence Sterne’s novel, Tristram Shandy; Blackstone’s Commentaries. Beside them was a letter composed entirely of numbers. Each number told Beckford where to look in one of the books. Each line came from a different book. “I defy anyone to break