That was a close one! Stephen muttered, squeezing his mothers hand.

Nearly slammed into that cliff, we did! said a man nearby.

The captain must have eyes like a cat! said another. I never saw it coming.

Time after time Hanks made similar blind maneuvers as if following the channel by sheer instinct or remarkable memory. Overhead the wheelhouse was but a dim glow while the deck lanterns faded into golden halos of ineffectual light. Still the Galena churned along through a dark world of racing water and shadowy riverbanks, while low-hanging branches brushed the top deck railings. The vessel steamed onward for several hours until at last in the distance a speck of light appeared and steadily grew larger.

Weve made it! cried out a passenger.

Were here! exulted another.

Three cheers for Captain Hanks!

Through the wild chorus Hanks voice boomed loudly through his megaphone:

Landing ahead! St. Paul! Deck hands stand by the mooring lines. Passengers prepare to disembark. He punctuated his orders with several long blasts from the Galenas whistle, signaling his approach. Soon a cheering crowd on shore appeared on the landing in the glow of dozens of lanterns, while torches were ignited along the edge of the dock to guide the vessel safely into port.

A pounding arose in Stephens breast as he first caught sight of the sea of faces on shore. His mothers hand squeezed his tightly as she uttered a tremulous, Were here! Oh, thank God, Stephen, were here at last!

Together they pushed their way to the railing and for a long moment looked not at the faces in the welcoming crowd, but into each others eyes. Stephen was sure he saw in his mothers face the same confusion of fear and happy anticipation that lurked in his own heart. They waited until the initial crush was over, then made their way to the lower deck. There they found the red-haired man in buckskin, smiling broadly, one foot planted firmly on their trunk.

Ill give you a hand with this, he said.

Well tend to that ourselves, thank you, Eleanor said emphatically. If you dont mind . . .

I dont mind a bit! said the frontiersman, hoisting the heavy trunk to his shoulder. You just follow me.

Wait! Wait! Eleanor called after him. You dont seem to understand.

But the man in buckskin crossed the gangway and stepped onto the dock, heading toward the wharfingers shack. Mother and son quickly snatched up their travel bags and hurried after him, struggling now through a surge of disembarking passengers.

There he goes, Mother, Stephen said, panting under his load. He just went into that little shed.

In moments they reached the door through which he had entered, but immediately found their way blocked by a tall man with a black beard whose eyes shone fiercely in the blaze of torch lights. Eleanor fell back at the sight of him. Then, with all the fear and despair and loneliness that had accumulated over four long years, she exclaimed, Vincent, its you!

Dizzied by the whirl of events, Stephen eased himself down on his travel bag, and rested his head in his hands, trying to collect himself. As his parents embraced, the strangeness of the scene weighed heavily upon him. His impulse was to weep in relief, just to stare at the street with tear-dimmed eyes and weep as the crowd milled around him and laughter and shouting and happy greetings filled the cold night air. In the passing crowd he caught sight of Jonathan Wells, now dressed in his Army uniform. He was about to hail him when the sound of his own name brought him back to the reality of the moment.

Stephen, my boy! Stand up and let me look at you.

He got up slowly, unbent, rather, in his weariness, and faced the man who held his mother in his arms.

Look at him, Eleanor, look at him, would you! Hes become a man, I swear. He held out his hand and Stephen grasped it firmly. A man indeed! Vincent exclaimed. But lets not stand here in the cold. Come inside. I have some business to attend to.

He guided them into the shack where the red-haired man in buckskin was seated on their trunk. At a small table sat a bespectacled man in an overcoat. The man eyed them impassively.

Wheres the key? Vincent asked.

The kids got it, said the man on the trunk.

Give Ben the key, Stephen, said Vincent.

Vincent what . . .?

In a moment, Eleanor. This is important. Give Ben the key, Stephen.

He fished it out of his pocket and handed it over. Vincent watched intently as Ben unlocked the trunk, lifted the lid, and began pawing through clothing. Eleanor gasped as some of her dresses fell to the floor.

Is this it? Ben asked, holding up Eleanors jewelry box.

Now, just a minute! she exclaimed in outrage.

Open it, Vincent commanded.

Nothing here but these, Ben said, holding up a handful of rings and necklaces.

Give me the lid, Vincent ordered. He snatched the lid from Bens hand and began clawing at the decorative paper that covered it. From beneath the paper he extracted a folded document which he opened and inspected carefully. Then with a smile he handed it to the man at the table, who adjusted his spectacles and glanced over the paper.

Thats a certified list of serial numbers, Vincent explained. Each number represents a military land warrant legally purchased from its owner by the Shevley Land Company of New York. Take it for safekeeping, and tomorrow Ill come by the land office and well tally it up for the exchange. I suppose youve got the deeds drawn up?

The man at the table nodded affirmatively as he tucked the document into his inside coat pocket.

Its a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Shevley, he said. Itll take a few hours to do the paper work. Why dont you come by the office sometime tomorrow afternoon? The deeds and surveyors maps will be waiting for you.

Vincent shook the mans hand and led him to the door, signaling Ben to follow him. Eleanor, meanwhile, began picking up the clothing that had been spilled from the trunk. There were tears in her eyes.

Eleanor . . . Vincent began, his arms outstretched. But she ignored him. He then turned to Stephen. Help your mother, boy, he ordered. Weve got a few miles to travel yet tonight.