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hear women’s voices, and we saw officers driving them out of the Pennsylvania troops. The camp followers were formed in a rough line behind the brigades, the women making a pitiful attempt at colour.
    â€œNigh a thousand women,” Jacob said.
    â€œIt’s hard understanding what a woman’ll take to be near a man.”
    The clouds were piling up, dark grey and white tumbled together. A battery of artillery rolled across the parade.
    â€œKnox’s cannon,” Ely said.
    There must have been almost ten thousand men on the field then. That was before mass desertions had reduced us to half that number, then to less than half. There were a mass of men.
    I close my eyes and try to see them as an army. If I close my eyes, look between the frost on my lids, I can forget that half of them are without guns, and all of them in rags. There are no uniforms except among the Virginian troops, who wear grey, homespun hunting shirts. There isn’t a decent coat or a good pair of boots. Parts of the body show through, bare, blue buttocks where a man’s pants are worn away, bare knees, legs bound in stripped blanket, feet in any material that can be made to cover feet. The feet are most important. Even if an army can’t fight, it must be able to march—march day and night or forever.
    But if I close my eyes, I can see them as an army, haggard, bearded men who will fight the way wild beasts fight. Only I fear we’ll never fight again.
    I laugh aloud.
    Ely looks at me. Kenton says:
    â€œYou’re not holding Moss’ shoes against me, Allen. We’ve been together too long for that, Allen. I swear to God I’ll never wear the shoes——”
    â€œIt’s all right.”
    The trumpets blow a call to arms. We stand on our muskets. For an instant, we are no longer men, only a part of a living revolution. We are a force. We are beyond men—only for an instant. The wind is blowing itself into a shrill shriek, and cold and hunger return.
    A Pennsylvania man says, stubbornly: “To hell with their parades! Why don’t they pay us off?”
    Wayne and Scott ride down the Pennsylvania front. Wayne has a cloth bound round his head. His coat is shredded with use. He stoops in his saddle and rides close to Scott. There is a ripple of cheering, because they are both favourites with the Pennsylvania brigades. But neither man takes any notice. They sit on their horses in front of the line.
    The flags go by. We don’t salute. Very few men salute. We keep shifting about in the cold.
    The officers press us together and finally we are in a line about four or five deep. Washington rides out to the centre of the field. He sits big on his horse and he seems oblivious to the wind. He’s a strange man whom none of us understand and few of us know. Sometimes, we can build a great hate for him. He’s a man without fear.
    Hamilton is next to him, sitting the horse like an aristocrat, the lace cuffs of his uniform showing, behind him a little cluster of officers.
    The voice of the General doesn’t carry; it rises and fades out entirely in the wind.
    â€œâ€¦ have come a long way … a bitter cup to drink … to endure … the British suffer equally, without our faith…”
    Someone shouts: “Where do they suffer—in Philadelphia?”
    â€œWe must endure all wrong—hate …”
    â€œWhere is our pay? By God, your stinking Continental money——”
    I glance at Jacob. His dark eyes are burning. His face, blue with cold, working—in pain—in anger.
    â€œSoon, there will be food enough … rations of rum … a petition to the Congress …”
    â€œLies while we starve!”
    A Pennsylvania man says: “He’s got his fat bit to sleep with, I’ll swear.”
    â€œA house and enough food to stuff him like a pig.”
    â€œâ€¦ when we march out of here—to victory …”
    His voice is