CHAPTER EIGHT

THE PATRIOTS

Summer, 1772

     There are parts of the Jersey Pine Barrens where the sun never touches the ground.  In these places, immense cedar trees, hundreds of years old, tower above the forest.  Their trunks are wider around than the linked arms of five strong men and their boughs shed a slow rain of needles to coat the ground with a sound absorbing carpet that creates an eerie silence.  The gloom in the depths of the pine forest is like eternal dusk where very little grows and what does, fights in the dim light to stretch its leaves and capture the few thin rays of sunshine reaching the forest floor. 
 
     The streams running through the woods, seem to stand still on the surface but below, they run swiftly around their bends, cutting deep, changing channels into the soft sand and gravel of “Smuggler’s Wood.”  Where the water runs quickest, it tears new channels through the loose sandy soil matted with cranberry and huckleberry bushes and the roots of the great cedar trees, themselves.  Sand and small gravel carried by the river is deposited where the water runs slowly creating wide sandy-bottomed fords where crossing is easy. 

     The streams feeding the Mullica flow silently, without falling over rocks, winding like a snake through grass, doubling back on itself again and again, never moving in a straight line for more than a few dozen yards. The streams make their way through the forest picking up and carrying the fine sediment of rotted vegetation and iron ore which tints the shallow tributaries a golden hue and colors the deepest part of the Mullica, a ruddy brown.  Where the trees have been stripped away exposing the sand beneath the carpet of fallen leaves, new growth stretches upward trying to capture the rays of the sun piercing the dense roof.  When, when the temperature changes quickly, a mist rises from the swamp, not fetid and foul but sweet, carrying the perfume of the cedar forest, cool and scented, making even the hottest summer day bearable.

     Summer also brings the insects.  Mosquitoes in great black hordes assault man and beast, drinking their blood and leaving itching welts and sores.  Yellow sand flies and great black horse flies bite their victims relentlessly, causing searing pain at their bite and maddening itch when they have finished.  Ticks cling to the underside of leaves waiting for a warm blooded host to wander by, then attach themselves and bury their heads in the flesh drinking their victim's blood till they become bloated, and drop off, leaving fever and sickness behind. 
 
     Sheltered beneath the great trees, among the winding streams of the pine wilderness, set on a knoll overlooking the anchorage, is the smugglers haven known as Chestnut Neck.  The settlement consists of little more than twelve buildings, a wharf and a warehouse.  But the forest around conceals the homes of more than one hundred families who work the smuggling trade.  Their cabins are scattered about in small family clusters along the Mullica while others stand solitary vigil in the depths of the forest.  The paths between the village and the homes are little more than deer trails, difficult to follow and liable to lead the unwary off into the depths of the trackless forest.  The people who live in the Pine Barrens cherish their privacy and solitude and take great pains to keep the trails barely visible.

      The main activity of the village is centered on the wharf and warehouse.  Here, merchandise taken at the point of a cutlass, from ships plying the Atlantic coast trading routes, is cataloged, cleaned and stored until it can be sold off at auction to the highest bidder.  These auctions are events of great magnitude drawing buyers from New York, Philadelphia and Boston to bid on the cargoes and even the captured ships themselves.  The buyers are either wealthy in their own right or the representatives of investment companies made up of, sometimes, dozens of investors who have pooled their money to outfit a privateer and share in the booty it will take.  

 The auctions take place whenever the warehouse is full.  Invitations are sent through a secret network, summoning a     select few, to come, review and purchase.  The buyers usually begin arriving a day or two before the auction, filling the tavern and turning this usually quiet pub into a place of revelry and rowdy behavior.  Both the sailing men who have acquired the goods and the city merchants who are here to buy them set the village into a festive mood.
 
    Carriages, displaying the signs of the wealth of their passengers, line the road from Batsto for nearly two hundred yards from the Red Water Inn, attesting to the popularity and the exclusivity of the circle invited to participate.  Tents of all sizes spring up on the green outside the Tavern housing the bidders on their overnight stay.  On these occasions, the Innkeeper prepares his stock of beer, wine, ale, rum and whiskey for easy access and quick sale.  In this town, whose primary industry is piracy and the sale of plunder to the highest bidder, Michael has found refuge.  Under the patronage of his Uncle Joshua, he has been tasked to learn the trails through the forest leading from one settlement to another, by delivering goods and messages, as if it were a trade route.  

     The end of summer brought the first hurricane of the season, a monstrous storm from the south with winds that tore trees from their roots and sent massive waves crashing into the Great Harbor, driving the Mullica over its banks and flooding into the forest.  The storm went as quickly as it came and the residents of Chestnut Neck made it their business to inspect the long sandy beaches outside the Great Bay for the broken hulls of ships or cargo washed ashore.  If any are found, the word spreads quickly and the Scavengers pick the ships clean.

     The day started as relief for the residents, the storm had passed without inflicting serious injury on either man, beast or building, when word spread of a merchantman run aground at the mouth of the Great Harbor.  Hastily, Michael and a group of young men piled into a whale boat and rowed across the bay to salvage what they could, knowing that in this race for booty, the first one there would get the best.  Michael's boat arrived in the mid-morning and found a three-mast schooner grounded with wild surf breaking over her.  The pounding waves of the Atlantic had broken her open and needed only a few hours more to steal her cargo and draw her broken boards out into the trackless ocean.  As the skies cleared and the surf calmed, Michael and his friends arrived to find her cargo spilled out onto the beach.    Ignoring the bodies of the drowned sailors and passengers, they picked through the casks and chests strewn across the sand and used tomahawks and iron bars to break open anything locked.  

     Michael and the older Van Helsing brother swam into the surf and out to the ship where they scaled her deck and made directly to the Captain’s quarters.    The cabin was a shambles of broken furniture and soggy maps floating in the ocean foam washing in through the broken bulkhead.    The two began a systematic search salvaging the navigational instruments, two pistols and finally a locked box full of gold coins.  Their morning's work was done.
 The younger Van Helsing, was standing atop the highest sand dune on the beach watching for rival gangs and called an alarm.  His cry was expected but unwelcome.  Two long boats were coming across Little Egg Harbor from the direction of Tuckerton, they would be the O’Rielly clan.  They were a black hearted lot of thugs, dedicated to their own profit and uncaring of any who got in their way.

     Van Helsing rolled down the sand dune and ran to where his brother and Michael were loading their treasure into the boat.  "She’s over loaded called Michael, dump the bulk goods, we found gold.”    Bales of silk were pushed back into the surf and the companions pushed off the sand and into the ocean.    They had found the best and now it was time to leave.  

     The whaleboat rode low in the water as they put off into the rolling surf.  The crew pulled the oars deep and hard to get around the tip of the sand bar and into the weeds and swift flowing channels that cut Osbourne Island into three parts.    Behind them, the O’Rielly’s landed on the sand bar and crossed over to the Atlantic beach and began rooting through the floating cargo and flotsam from the grounded merchant ship.  It wasn't long before they realized they weren't the first to get there and caught a glimpse of the long boat rounding the point to the Great Bay.  

     Michael and his friends rowed hard, laboring to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the O’Rielly’s.  The older Van Helsing held the tiller steering the overloaded long boat through Big Shepherds Creek and across the bay to the mouth of the Mullica.  Their stomachs sank when they heard a taunting voice call from behind, "I'll cut your hearts out and feed them to the pigs."  It was Patrick O'Rielley, himself, nasty as ever and drunk to boot.

     Michael strained his back at the oar as the helmsman called the stroke.  A pistol shot cracked the air, Michael turned to see its ball fall short of their stern.  He put more effort into his strokes.  "Michael, those pistols we found, Van Helsing passed a powder horn and shot bag to him, Load them and give one to me.  Did anyone else bring a pistol," he called?  Martin Shea and another boy each produced a "Committee pistol" from water proof sacks.  Michael said, "I've used these before, they are rifled and accurate up to 50 feet."

     Van Helsing looked the loaded weapon over and nodded.  "Let's keep the O'Rielleys at arms length.    Right then. Two pistols on port and two on starboard.  Fire only on my command and for god's sake don't hit them." 
The distance between the boats dwindled.  Seventy-five feet.  Sixty-five feet.  The O’Rielleys were making obscene gestures and howling curses and threats as they closed in on their quarry. 
 
    "Pull, pull, Laddies,” urged Van Helsing.  “Pull. Your lives depend on it.  Pull till your backs break."  He looked over has shoulder and judged the distance again.  "Now, to the starboard, prepare to fire."

     The long boat changed direction and presented its starboard guns to the pursuers.  The two shots came simultaneously and splashed into the water beyond the O’Rielleys.    Suddenly their taunts and cries ceased.  Michael began reloading furiously while his comrades pulled at the oars.  The two port gunners stood and fired.  The first shot splashed at the bow and skipped across the water, the second shot went high over their heads.  A pistol shot came from the O'Rielleys but fell far short. 
 
     Van Helsing called to his crew again."  Pull till your hearts break, boys.  Pull.  Pull.  Pull, Laddies."  His voice droned on and on concentrating on each man in turn, urging him to pull harder.  Another shot from the O’Rielleys fell short and wide.    Van Helsing called to Michael, "Put your shot over their heads but not too high over."

     Michael stood and pointed his pistol at the pursuing boat.  He looked down the barrel of the gun and into the face of Patrick O'Rielley.  The man’s face fell from a leering scowl to shock and fear.    He could see the shot was intended for him.    Michael raised the gun and fired.  The ball whizzed over O’Rielley’s head, missing him by scant inches.  

     In the very shadow of Chestnut Neck, the O’Rielleys turned and gave up their chase.  The boys from Chestnut Neck gave a cheer as their pursuers turned, empty handed and drifted back down stream.  Words of congratulations passed around the boat, then after a brief rest, they bent their backs to the oars again and brought their treasure laden vessel to the wharf nearest the warehouse.

                                                                                -*-

    On a bright shining morning, Michael was dispatched by Joshua to carry the word, "Booty," across the river and up stream to Captain Van Arsdale and the homes surrounding his estate.   As he paddled the birch bark canoe across the Mullica, Michael saw the door to the stable swung open by two boys and a horse and rider burst out.  The rider was one of the young men Michael had met and talked with in the tavern, a likable fellow, named Kevin, only a few years older than he and alive with the fire of revolution.  Kevin reined in on the horse, causing it to bray out and rise up on its rear legs, towering above the two boys.  When its forelegs hit the ground, he gave the horse its head, circled the tavern once and bolted into the forest on the north trail, toward Batsto.  

    On the far side, Michael beached his canoe and trotted the distance to Captain Van Arsdale's house.  Along the way he called the message, "Booty" to every person he met.  When he arrived at the Captain's house, his presence brought a grin to the man's weather beaten face.  

 "Come in son, sit down, catch your breath,” the captain told him.  "Stella,” he called, “get this young man a cold drink."
 Michael and Stella had become more than friends in the time since his arrival and her bringing him a drink of water was more than a courtesy.  The cool water was freshly drawn from the stream running near the house and its distinctive flavor cut through the dry slick in his mouth.  Michael returned the wooden drinking cup to her, his eyes never moving from hers and their fingers flicked past each other’s as the cup changed hands. 

 “Now be finished with that, Michael, and deliver what message you have."  

 "The message is "Booty," Sir, from Captain Raven.  “That is all he said to tell you."

 The Captain’s face showed little emotion from behind his beard of curling gray whiskers.  "Take me to the levee," he said.

    They took the captain’s skiff down a small golden creek to the Mullica and from there glided quickly to the wharf where a growing crowd of men and women milled about in front of the tavern.
As they arrived, Joshua came out of the tavern with a pewter tankard in his hand, raised it high over his head and called out in a bellowing voice, "Booty."  The crowd cheered and howled, men danced around and the few women present gathered up the young children.  Slowly, they settled down to hear the details of their next voyage, a voyage that might well make them all wealthy.  

    Joshua addressed the crowd of nearly fifty persons and spoke in a clear, resonating voice.  “Boston harbor has been blockaded.”  The crowd hushed.  “The British army occupies the city and a thousand patriots besiege them.  The citizens of Boston have angered his majesty with their open rebellion.  They have flouted his orders by patronizing our friends who sell untaxed goods and speak too loudly of official corruption.”  The crowd grumbled a few seconds then quieted.  Someone called out, "Boston has always been a favorite trading spot for goods taken on the high seas.  How does this ill wind blow us any good?"

    Joshua laughed out loud, "Lord Townsend is just trying to make us all rich!  We already have the coves set up.  Now, all that remains is for us to increase our prices to cover the added demand!’  The crowd roared as Captain Raven continued, “Begin sorting the goods that are of the most need for winter.  These, we will move to Boston when the north wind comes.  Everything else will be moved north with all due haste to our friends who will slip them into the city."

 “This sounds like honest work, not free trading," came a mocking voice in the crowd followed by a quick murmur of laughter.

"Is this what you have brought us here for?"  The voice was Captain Van Arsdale and suddenly the crowd quieted and stood spell bound waiting for the answer. 

 "Of course not!”  Joshua was almost whispering.  Today, sailing with the tide are five merchantmen bound for the Caribbean.  They will follow the coastal route to Cape Florida then swing west to Jamaica.  I propose that when they drop anchor in Jamaica, we be the crew!"    

    The crowd cheered its approval and began to melt away, each man heading to complete the tasks needed to make ready and intercept the merchant ships.  Their plan was simple and had been used several times before with great success.  Captain Raven and several other leaders would take whaleboats out into the shipping lanes and lay in wait for the merchantmen.  When they came, the smugglers would board them and take control, either killing the crew or setting them adrift in the whaleboats.  If they are lucky, two or more of the ships might be taken before the others became wise and scattered.  The prize, more than the cargo, was the ship itself and a new life on the high seas.

     Competition among the men for the right to take part in a venture such as this had already designated those who would go and who would stay.  The competition was fierce since to be among the crew, even as the lowliest seaman, could make a man rich when he received his portion of the plunder.   As the crowd dispersed to begin their assigned tasks, Michael stayed behind, near his uncle, waiting for a task to be given to him.  Eventually, he caught his uncle’s eye and was summoned into the tavern. 

"Michael, I want you to go with Martin Shea and take a Jersey Wagon of merchandise to Batsto and from there to Braddock’s Mill and then on to Philadelphia.  I know you want to go to sea but this journey is of some importance to me and I know you want to go to sea, but I want you to learn more of our ways."

    Michael agreed.  He wasn’t so sure he wanted to take to sea in a whaleboat and actually looked forward to the journey to the Philadelphia market.  He understood his knowledge of the open sea was limited and that he also needed to learn more of the trade routes through the forest.  And, of course there was always Stella, who warmed his heart and made the evenings in the Barrens less dreary.

    The following day, four whale boats rode the tide out to the sea, each carrying ten men, armed with muskets, pistols, knives, swords, tomahawks and four days provisions.  A few family members, like Michael, waved good bye knowing that it might be years before they meet again, if ever.  If their quest was successful, Captain Raven would have his own ship, and sail the Spanish Main and Caribbean in search of plunder and loot.  But, if they failed and were taken by the sea, they would never be heard of again. 

    To the call of the helmsman, the sailors guided the boats around the bend in the river, out to the Great Bay and then on to the open Atlantic.  Michael watched, seated high on the bench of a Jersey Wagon and with a wave of his hand, bid farewell to Joshua and a handful of new friends.  Then, he turned to the job at hand and settled himself down to driving the wagon and its team of four horses.

     Martin Shea was a young man who had been forced to leave a family behind when his speeches at the local tavern earned him the attention of the British Magistrate.  He was about the same age as Michael and an acknowledged master in the art of handling the King’s paperwork and bribing the tax collectors.    He wore the typical wool britches, linen shirt and tricorn hat of colonial fashion and carried a compact sea chest containing several days’ provisions and his “possibles” on his shoulder.  As he stepped up to the wagon, he slipped the chest under the driver’s seat where it fit snugly and deftly climbed into the seat beside Michael.

     The wagon was piled high with goods of every description.  From cloth, to cabinets, salts and foodstuffs, creams and silks, corsets and tools.  At a flick of the rains and a crack of the horsewhip, the team strained in the early morning mist until the great wheels began turning and they slowly rolled out of Chestnut Neck and into the forest following the bank of the Mullica River.  The trail north to Batsto is wide enough for only one wagon at a time.  It has been rutted deeply by heavily loaded wagons traveling in wet weather but there has been no rain recently and so the road is hard packed and the wagon bounces like blacksmith’s hammer banging on an anvil.  The trail is hard, the last rain was more than a week ago and even though the ruts are deep it is easier to ride than if it were wet.  If their luck holds, it will not rain until they get to Philadelphia.  

    The tall pines of the Barrens tower over the trail and the soft carpet of needles on the road muffles the sound of the horse’s hooves.  The air is still and sweet, scented with the gentile aroma of the cedars and pine trees.  Together, the two young men travel the smuggler's route, secure that they are still close to home yet apprehensive at the prospect of what may lay before them.

     Toward the end of the day's ride they watched for a rest spot along the side of the road where countless other travelers on this route had spent the night.  Martin explained that the sites are set at distances marking a day’s travel and have good cover for the wagons and teams and are sometimes spots of particular beauty.  Each site has been defined over the years by travelers who have gone before them, each making a small contribution to improve and not abuse the wayside resting places.  

    The first night’s shelter is a lean-to covered with a thick layer of thatch.  Nearby, is a stack of firewood and a corral stocked with fodder.  On the opposite side of the road is a sandy beach where the horses can be cooled and the drivers can bathe off the dust of the day.  Martin remarked to Michael, “Until we reach Braddock's Mill, this may be the best night we will spend.  The next rest of the spots are not nearby this comfortable.”  

    By the flickering campfire, Michael examined the carvings on the upright supports of the lean-to.  Pictures of beasts and the moon, Indian signs that he readily recognized and some figures he had never seen before.

    Night in the Barrens is filled with the sounds of creatures hunting and being hunted.  Martin built the campfire in a circle so it will not go out while they sleep and the two settled themselves down for their first meal on the road.  Two potatoes slowly roast on a rock next to the fire and two pickerel, which Michael caught in the stream, are spited and suspended over the glowing embers.  As the fish come to a delicious readiness, Martin produces a skin of wine from his sea chest and passes it to Michael.  It is sweet and tangy; its taste mixes with the smoke and the scent of the forest weaving a gentle lullaby of peace and serenity in his brain.

    Martin began his tale as a warning to Michael, "You must keep an eye and an ear sharp for the animals roaming the barrens.  Last year, we found one of our wagons right on this very spot.  The drivers had been torn to pieces and the cargo ripped apart and scattered."

"Indians?”  Michael straightened himself and moved a little closer to the fire.  Martin moved slightly to avoid the column of smoke whiffing his way and with a wry smile said, "No, Indians would have taken the cargo.  It was something else.  Perhaps, dogs.  Perhaps, something worse."

“What could possibly be worse than wild dogs or an Indian raiding party,” asked Michael?

“The Jersey Devil," was Martin's whispered answer.  He let the words sink in and then continued.  "It's been seen by many people who live here in the forest and travelers passing through.     It's larger than a man, with leathery wings and it haunts the forest hunting for fresh blood, particularly that of young children.  Back in 1740 the Bishop from Philadelphia came down here and exercised the forest but it didn't work.  The beast still roams about, taking children and unwary travelers.  And tonight, it is at its hungriest."  

 Michael threw back his head in laughter.  "How can you tell it's hungry?"

"The full moon, like tonight, is when it does its hunting."

     Michael sat up and turned the fish on the spit and then turned the potatoes with quick flips.  "Where I come from, there are ghosts haunting the hills and hollows.  There's one, I’ve heard tell, a headless horseman.  He haunts the valleys and hollows of the Hudson River Valley.  The story goes his head was taken away by a French cannon ball and now he rides the lanes and highways on moon lit nights, like tonight, seeking a head to replace his own."

    Martin edged closer to the fire and shivered.   There were few sounds in the dark forest, the night hunters preferred to wait for the moon to rise and guide their strike.  The horses shuffled in their sleep and after their meal and with an extra drink of wine to settle them in, the boys lay back and let sleep sweep over them.

      Their morning started when the sun woke them.  Breakfast of oatmeal and raisins, done, they began the leg of the trip that would end at the Batsto forge.   Michael was prepared for what he knew a furnace to be, having been brought up around the forge at Barbadoes Neck.  But the sheer size of this one and the bustling activity around it set his pulse racing with the memory of his father.  The furnace is set beside the stream which powers the bellows fanning the clean burning charcoal to a searing inferno, hot enough to melt iron.  At this forge, bog iron, scrounged from the Mullica and its tributaries, is smelted into shot and cannon balls to arm the new patriot militias forming throughout the Jerseys.  

    A tall man, whom Martin addressed as Alfred, met them when they arrived.  He directed the wagon to the warehouse where a portion of its cargo was unloaded and replaced with a new load.  Michael and Martin oversaw the cargo transfer and then accompanied the tallyman to the tavern where Alfred received the ledger sheet and offered them each a flagon of wine.  Both accepted and with a nod of Alfred’s head, two flagons were delivered to the table by a portly woman, who placed them on the table between the young men and retreated back to the kitchen.

     After the two had a chance to sip the wine, Alfred presented them with an inventory of what has been loaded onto their wagon for the next leg of the trip?  The new cargo was musket shot and cannon balls.  It is much smaller and heavier than the general merchandise they brought in, so it is disguised with a load of hay and vegetables.  Refreshed and reloaded, Michael and Martin mounted their wagon again and began the next leg of their journey.  Martin cracked his whip over the head of the lead horse and the wagon groaned to a start, lumbering back into the cool air of the forest.  

    That night, as they sat around a crackling fire of pinecones and dry branches, a scream tore through the forest.   Michael and Martin shuddered with fear.  Michael's eyes met Martin's and he nodded, "Yes, that is the scream of the Jersey Devil."  The two boys tended the horses and gathered up some extra fuel for the fire and checked the priming of their Committee Pistols, in case they needed to fend off the evil spirit.

    At Braddock's Mills, the shot was unloaded and a cargo of paper was loaded onto the wagon.  Again, to disguise it, sacks of flower were loaded on top and they began the last leg of their trip on a well-traveled and maintained road to Camden.  

    The ferry across the Delaware was guarded by Soldiers and the ever present tax collectors searching every wagon passing, levying taxes and collecting them either in coin or produce.  Martin slowed the wagon as he approached the gangway and maneuvered his wagon so it would be inspected by a tall soldier with a pleasant face. The wagon groaned to a halt next to the soldier’s post and with a tip of his tricorn hat and a smile, Martin jumped down from the driver’s seat and stumbled to the ground at the soldier’s feet.  The soldier advanced to Martin as he lay on the ground and extended his hand saying, "Young man, you'll break a leg jumping off a wagon like that."  Martin took his helping hand and Michael saw two silver coins pass to the soldier’s hand.

"I'm all right, sir," Martin said as he regained his feet. 

     The soldier gave him a smile and asked, "Any taxable goods to declare?"

 "No sir,” he responded, “just farm produce" and handed over his forged papers.  The soldier scanned them and then performed a cursory inspection of the cargo under the eye of the tax collector and waived the wagon on to the ferry.  As they crossed the Delaware River, Michael and Martin sat atop their wagon watching the ships in the harbor and the approaching city of Philadelphia.  "It's all been arranged in advance,” said Martin. “Most of the soldiers make more in bribes than they do in wages.  I call them, "Silver Patriots."

    Final delivery of the paper was made to a farm house outside Philadelphia, where it was unloaded and the boys were given instructions to go to another farm to trade the flower for more goods.  The farm they were directed to was several miles to the south and they did not arrive till nearly dusk.  Upon arrival, they found their new cargo is to be four patriots under death warrant. 
 
    The four men worked through the night, while Martin and Michael rested, preparing a smuggler's keep in the wagon, under the farm produce, hay, caged chickens and bolts of cloth.  Sacks of wheat and corn were piled at the back, to hold the hay on board, disguising the hiding place and deterring any over zealous tax collectors from unloading the wagon.  
   
    In the morning, the wagon set out with its human cargo passing through roadblocks.  Unerringly, coins change hands and sped them on their way until just after they passed through Braddock’s Mills where the forest grew close to the road and cast a deep shadow out of which three mounted men appeared and blocked the road.

 “Dragoons,” whispered Martin.  The word sent a chill through Michael’s stomach.  He had heard about them.  They were the cream of the King’s army.  Mounted on the horses bred for strength and size, they could ride for days without rest.  Their reputation as ferocious warriors had been earned on the battlefields of Europe.  In the Colonies, they enforced the King’s edicts by force of arms, spreading fear wherever they rode.  Each was dressed in black riding britches with knee high boots, a white shirt and red waist coat.  They wore leather helmets festooned with black feathers that rustled in the wind like the rattle of a viper.  “Get your pistol ready, we are in for a fight.”

    As the wagon slowed to a stop, the Sergeant called out to them in crisply accented  English, “Stay seated while we inspect."

 The Sergeant drew his horse pistol and pointed it at Michael and Martin forcing them to sit still while one of his dragoons ran a sword into the hay, eliciting a scream of pain that revealed the four men hiding under the cargo.    
"Rebel scum,” growled the Sergeant, “hang them from the trees and leave their bodies for the crows.  They will make a suitable message to any other rebels in the area." 

    Michael acted out of terror and instinct.  The sergeant allowed his eyes to wander off the drivers and to the first man being taken out from under the hay.  He struck out with the horsewhip; its tip cracked the air across the Sergeant’s cheek, opening a cut from ear to chin.  His pistol discharged, the ball missed its mark and cut through the air between the drivers.  Michael drew his own pistol from under the blanket he was sitting on and turned to face the mounted dragoons at the back of the wagon as they leveled their horse pistols at him. Martin aimed and fired first. 

     Michael's shot struck one rider and he rolled off his horse, head over heels, dead before he hit the ground.  Martin's shot struck the second dragoon in the hand, taking his saber away from him.  The Sergeant, his face bleeding from the whip, drew his saber.  Michael drew the knife from his wampum belt, Martin already had his in hand and both leapt, screaming an Iroquois death cry.  The Sergeant slashed his saber and Martin's body absorbed the blow.  Blood gushed over the horse and rider as he limply clawed at the soldier’s arm.  Michael's leap carried him to the rider just as the spray of Martin’s blood squirted over him.  He plunged his knife into the soldier's chest and clung to him dragging the Sergeant from his saddle.  The three fell to the ground with a thud, in a pile of arms, legs and blood, knocking the wind from Michael and driving the knife deep into the dragoon’s heart.

     From inside the wagons hiding place, voices rose up in a cheer and a shout of warning.  Michael staggered to his feet, picked up the saber and turned to face the third dragoon only to find him on his knees, cradling his shattered hand and begging for mercy.  Quickly, Michael examined Martin's wound.  It is a long clean slash across his body from armpit to waist that bared the bone in places.  Blood ran freely soaking his clothes but the wound had only cut through the flesh without piercing a vital organ.

     Hurriedly, Michael released the fugitives from their hiding place and ordered them to tend to Martin and the wounded Dragoon.  They worked furiously, cleaning and then binding the cut as best they could, while Martin’s free running blood soaked into their clothing.  When they finished tending him and made him comfortable as possible, they turned their attention to the wounded soldier.  He was sitting on the ground with his back against the trunk of a scraggly pine tree.  He had pulled off his jacket and wrapped his hand in it to stop the bleeding.  His face was pale as he sat quietly looking at his captors. 

"Kill him,” said one of the fugitives.  “They would have offered us no mercy."

"No,” said Michael with a force that brought all attention to him. “He is my prisoner!  Bind his wound and put their equipment into the keep.  We'll not be using it anymore.”  His companions hesitated and milled about, unsure of what to do.  He ordered, “Get to it."

     They hesitated no longer, as the effect of his first kill had imbued him with a fiery determination.   With Martin’s wounds bound, they busied themselves stripping bridles, saddles and equipment from the horses and dead troopers and storing them in the keep.  Then Michael ordered the two dragoons buried, and a few words said by their comrade over their graves.  
   
     With their respects paid to the dead, the wagon again began the journey to Batsto, trailing three horses behind, the fugitives riding atop and their prisoner secured in the keep.  Armed with the weapons taken from the dragoons, they kept a sharp look out for more riders and tended Martin as best they could on the bumpy road through the forest.

     When they arrived at Batsto, the wounded soldier was turned over to the local militia and Martin to the care of the surgeon.  The horses and equipment captured on the journey belonged to Michael and brought a handsome price at the Batsto market, which he shared equally with Martin.   When he delivered the share, the surgeon told him it would be a week before Martin would be ready to journey back to Chestnut Neck.  He also extended an invitation from the local militia leaders to stay on and accept the gratitude and hospitality of the Patriots.
 
     Over the next months, Michael made a dozen trips to Philadelphia carrying contraband and boycotted goods.  His knowledge of the forest grew to expertise and his reputation in the community for courage and loyalty became as established as it had been in Barbadoes Neck.  But more importantly, He accumulated enough cash to purchase his own wagon and began engaging trips across the Pine Barrens for his own profit.  On his new trading route he carried military supplies, food and information to the Militias in the area surrounding Philadelphia and throughout the great forest.
  
     As winter approached, Michael sought out the "Mayor of Chestnut Neck" and asked again when he would be permitted to put to sea.  "Michael,” he responded, “there are still men ahead of you who have worked many years for the right to take a share on a cruise and there are still many things you need to learn about our organization and what the smugglers do.  However, I feel by next spring you will have gained enough votes to qualify you for a position on an expedition to take a ship."

                                                                            -*-

Spring, 1774

     From the day of his arrival, Michael had conducted his business with the residents of Chestnut Neck with a willingness to go the extra mile, work a little harder, risk his personal fortune and even his life for friends.  Throughout his dealings he demonstrated honesty, ingenuity and most importantly, loyalty.  These traits marked him well and eventually his name was brought up at a "crewing session".

     The crew of a ship was allocated on the basis of seniority, personal worthiness and special talents needed on board.   Each position was highly valued since a single voyage could make a man wealthy.  In this session, Michael attained enough votes from the smugglers to win a position aboard a Periquinier named JASON.  After kissing Stella goodbye, he boarded and assumed the duties of a seaman trimming sails, stowing line and preparing to get under way.  Gently, Captain Knowelton, guided his ship down the winding Mullica, out to the Great Bay and onto the Atlantic.  Carrying a cargo of whiskey, he turned north and headed for the port of Perth Amboy. 
 
     The mouth of the Raritan River opens onto a great shallow bay with a deep channel leading to the open ocean just around the tip of Sandy Hook.  In the shelter of the Raritan Bay, hundreds of ships lay at anchor, waiting to tie up to wharves and eventually unload or load their cargoes from across the British Empire and around the world.  But the JASON was not one to wait.   Under the full moon her cargo was off loaded into long boats, taken to a dock and hidden in a barn on a narrow creek across the bay from Perth Amboy. The following morning, a tired but enthusiastic crew tied up to the King’s custom duty wharf where a boxed cargo of thoroughly inspected, highly documented and totally untaxed machine parts, destined for New York, was loaded.

     During the loading, Michael briefly allowed his thoughts to return to his home in Barbadoes Neck and Faith Dowd.   The pain of his loss returned to him and he struggled to push it away by telling a clever story of sailors and ladies he had heard at the MAST AND BASTARD tavern.  His mates laughed at the story, "Too bad we’re not headed for New York, laddie, our next stop is home!"

     The JASON returned to the safety of the Mullica River where the crated machine parts were unloaded and moved to the warehouse before being sent out by wagon across the Pine Barrens to the Mills and forges where they were needed.  

    That night, Michael was summoned to the Red Water Tavern where he met with Captain Van Arsdale and three Patriots, who described themselves as "Pamphleteers."  The leader of the three explained that the cargo JASON had brought in was printing presses the “Pamphleteers” had purchased in France.  The conversation quickly centered on the logistics of moving the presses to Philadelphia.    Michael described the smuggling operation to the “Pamphleteers” and suggested it would be safer to use their established land route rather than try to slip the presses through harbor customs.  They agreed and Captain Van Arsdale pointed out that Michael was one of the most experienced drivers and assigned him to be the leader of a convoy of four wagons.    Three wagons were designated to carry the presses, ink and paper, the fourth to carry general merchandise, as a cover, and supplies for the journey.

     When the meeting ended, Michael caught Stella’s eye and waited outside for her.  In the shadows they embraced and kissed.  "I'm leaving for Philadelphia in the morning,” he told her. “I wish you would come with me."

"Michael, you know my father would never leave me alone with you."

"But we wouldn’t be alone,” he countered.  “There would be three other drivers and those three patriots from Philadelphia."

"So much the worse,” she pouted, “can you imagine father allowing me to go out into the forest with so many handsome, young men?"

     Michael chuckled and agreed, "You're father's right, you might fall in love with one of those rascals and forget about me."

"Michael, I'll never forget about you."  She looked into his eyes and paused, savoring the warmth of his body, and kissed him again. 

                                                                      -*-

    The journey to Philadelphia began well but soon fell on hard luck.  The evening after they left Batsto, clouds rolled over the moon from the north east and the temperature dropped.  The morning broke cold; the sky was a leaden gray.  Clouds hung low in the sky, touching the tops of the great cedar trees and dripped a cold drenching rain on the travelers.  The rain was a continuous thin mist that soaked through their cloths and although it was the nearly summer, they shivered uncontrollably. 
 
    The road turned to mud and Michael directed the train to pull off the road at the next way station to wait for the storm to break.  But the rain kept up for three more days, grinding on their bodies as they sat under the roadside shelter trying to warm themselves around a thin fire of waterlogged kindling.  

     When the storm finally broke, the patriots were desperate to get back on the road.  Michael advised them to wait another day or two for the roads to dry out but they were short tempered, cold and anxious to get to the end of their journey.  After a day of hard going, they neared the edge of the forest and just as Michael had feared, one of the wagons sank into the softened earth and bogged down in mud so deep the teams could not pull it free.    Amidst curses and recriminations the men worked desperately to free the heavy wagon from the mire.  They piled branches under the wheels and tried to use logs as levers to pry it from the mud but it held fast.

     Then, their situation got worse.  A troop of mounted Dragoons appeared on the road.  Michael watched their approach with dread, knowing their own weapons were out of reach and they were out classed in a fight.  From the corner of his eye, he saw one of his drivers slip down into the mud, slide off the side of the road and crawl into the woods.  “It will not be long before he is back,” thought Michael, “and with plenty of our friends from Braddock's Mill to help.”

     The mounted Officer reigned up on his mount and examined the scene before him.  Michael stepped forward, put a smile on his face and greeted the riders. 

"Good Day,” he called, as he stepped in front of the officer’s horse and stroked the animal’s nose.  The soldier looked down on him coldly as he asked, "Sir, could you spare your men to help us out of this bog?"  The mounted officer scowled at him as his riders surrounded the wagons and rather than help, began poking under the canvas coverings.  
    It took only a quick inspection to see that the cargo was contraband and a quick phrase was called to the officer.  Michael allowed the gold coin in his hand to be seen but as the officer reached down to take it; he struck Michael on the side of the head with his baton and knocked him to the ground, senseless.  
 
    When Michael awoke, he found his hair and face covered with a crisp caked sheen of blood and an open gash in his scalp.  He was being carried by two of the “Pamphleteers” and his wrists and ankles were in shackles.  Painfully he took his own weight and staggered on, his vision blurred from the blow to his head, thirst clawing at his throat.  Near dark, they came to the end of their march, a military encampment, which Michael judged to be near Braddock’s Mills.  They were herded into a coral, their chained secured to the wagons and left to ponder their fate.  

    Shortly after sunset, the prisoners were marched; amass, before a British Colonel in full dress uniform and given a summary military trial.  One of the men tried to speak in his own defense and was struck in the stomach with the butt end of a musket.  He sank to the ground gasping for breath unable to speak.  The Colonel gave the man a disgusted look and asked, “Does any one else have something to say?”   There was no response and he pounded the table before them with the handle of a pistol, pronounced them guilty and sentenced each to twenty years at hard labor in the service of His Majesty.  

     At dawn, after a restless and unrefreshing sleep, they were roused to continue their journey to the prison ship anchored in the Delaware River.  Shackled to each other they walked in lock step behind the wagons carrying the presses they had been smuggling.  Through the morning they trudged on, hungry and exhausted.  They were beaten whenever they fell.  Prodded with bayonets and whips, they marched in a single column between two files of soldiers, mercenaries, hardened by their life in the military, uncaring and unsympathetic to the cries and moans of the prisoners.
 
     Sweating in the heat of the day, the prisoners struggled to keep up with the train.  Any one falling to the ground was beaten with a whip and kicked until he either rose or was dragged along as a dead weight.    Michael staggered and stumbled, his weight dragged the men behind and in front down to the ground with him.  A horsewhip cracked and cut the flesh on his back driving him back to his feet, struggling with all his remaining strength to keep up with the column.  The shackles on his wrists and ankles were so tight they cut into his skin.  Thin rivulets of blood soaked his shoes and hands attracting flies and biting insects to feast on him.  The sky blurred into the forest, the forest into the pain in his head and legs.  Pain blended into pain till his mind and body could no longer cope and he slipped into unconsciousness again. When he revived, he found the sky had darkened to evening and the column had halted.  The prisoners were again chained to the wagons, collapsed in a heap and sleeping fitfully.  His mouth was dry and swollen.  He called out for water and was rewarded with a cup of foul tasting liquid, which he eagerly drank and promptly fell into a deep dreamless sleep

                                                                     -*-

     Michael woke to the sound of shouts.  Flaming arrows were arching out of the darkness and setting the canvas covers of the caravan's supply wagons ablaze.  Frantic soldiers were braving the fires trying to salvage the food and water, risking the arrows to pull burning boxes and barrels from the inferno.  The prisoners came awake.  Michael smiled wryly and whispered under his breath, "Soon you die, lobsterbacks."

     Rifle shots rang out in the forest and the horse teams screamed in pain and fell dead.  The mounted trooper’s horses were cut from their night tethers and driven off.  The night was alive with the sounds of the Jersey Devil.  Sentries disappeared from their posts.  Screams echoed in the forest, terrifying the soldiers.  Arrows cut through the dark, keeping the soldiers on edge, depriving them of sleep, terrorizing them. 
 
    In the thin light before dawn, the soldiers and their prisoners found themselves stranded as thoroughly as if they were on a desert island.  The officer commanding the troop ordered the wagons abandoned and began a forced march out of the forest.  The prisoners walked as slowly as their captors would tolerate, slowing progress, delaying the column, giving their rescuers time to organize.  As the sun climbed to its midday zenith, they left the forest behind and began traversing rolling farmland.    The road ran straight for the most part but around a turn at the crown of a rise, they found themselves confronting a roadblock manned by men dressed as Indians and carrying rifles. 
 
     The Officer raised his hand for the column to halt and looked around, his scouts and skirmishers were no where to be seen and probably dead.  The soft fields on either side of the road seemed an unlikely direction for an attack.    Retreating back into the forest was out of the question.  His only alternative was to move forward.  The Indians formed a skirmish line around the wood barricade across the road and from a distance well out of musket range they called to the British troops to surrender or die. 
 
     The soldiers instinctively drew their bayonets, fixed them on their muskets, preparing for a frontal assault and close quarters combat where their blades could be used effectively.  On both left and right flanks, beyond the cultivated field of foot tall wheat, more Indians could be seen moving from the forest and taking up positions.  The Officer surveyed the situation.  They were surrounded and outnumbered.  The soldiers looked nervously to their Officers for orders.  

"Captain," called a white man dressed in the war bonnet of a Mohawk chief.  “The fight is here.”  His accent was clearly colonial.  "Right here and now we will kill each and every one of your men and dump your bodies in the forest where they will never be found.  No one shall know what happened here and no one shall know what happened to you and your men."  He paused, letting the impact of what he said sink into the heart of each trooper.  "You may walk out of here alive or we shall bury you here.  The choice is up to you."

    The Officer pondered his position and watched as more "Indians” arrived and took up positions reinforcing the rebels already hiding behind rock walls, trees and the barricade, closing the circle behind him and tightening the noose around his command.
                                                                   -*-

 Behind the thin line of patriots surrounding the British force, the Militia Officer cajoled his men to look like ten.  Their plan was simple.  Scarecrows, gathered from across the farmlands, were being used to fool the German mercenaries into thinking there were more people surrounding them than there actually were.  As the militiamen, dressed like Indians, arrived, each one took a scarecrow with them to a position and then left it in their place with a broom stick to look like a musket and returned to the woods to pick up another scarecrow and take it to another strong point around the British force.  One man in ten stayed behind, armed with a rifle, well out of range of the British Brown Bess muskets.

     The sun crept higher into the sky, raising a steaming heat from the ground until finally, after contemplating his position and options, Captain Houten called out to the “Chief” for terms to avoid the slaughter of his command.
 The response was simple, "Free the prisoners and be on your way."

     The Officer agonized over his options.  He contemplated a direct attack down the narrow lane, into the teeth of the fortified position, through a crossfire.  His men would be cut to pieces before they reached the barricade.  Meanwhile, at the edge of the woods, more Indians, armed with muskets, were arriving, reinforcing the strong points surrounding him and making his position ever more untenable.

     Finally, Captain Houten called out, "If I agree to release the prisoners, my men must be allowed to keep their arms."  

     The Chief stood atop the barricade, threw back his head and laughed,    "Be glad we allow you to keep your hair!  Be off with you before I allow my warriors to taste your blood."

    The mercenaries slung their muskets over their shoulders and marched, at double time, past the barricade and continued unmolested down the road to Camden.  When they were out of sight, the "Indians" closed in on the caravan and freed the prisoners.  The keys were passed around and the chains were removed.  Fresh water and food was distributed and thanksgiving for salvation was offered.  

    Within an hour’s time, fresh horses arrived and the wagons, which had been left behind in the forest were once again heading off over back roads to bring them to Philadelphia.  The freed prisoners joked among themselves that by nightfall, the presses would be set up and turning out accounts of the day’s actions before the British troops had even arrived home. 
 
     That night, Michael and the prisoners were treated to a victory celebration at a glade deep in the woods.  The militia had much to celebrate.  The presses had been delivered, the prisoners freed and the British humiliated.  But best of all, there had been no casualties.

                                                                     -*-

Summer, 1775

    Michael continued to read the books and pamphlets he smuggled.  The essays and books by Locke, and Montesquier on "Rule by the People" captured his interest and around crackling fires of cedar and oak he and his friends talked of these new ideas and what they meant to them.    Their meetings were not all talk.  A Revolutionary Committee had been set up and a Militia was being organized to defend their lives, homes and business, should the British Empire decide to strike at them.  The smugglers had long understood that sooner or later the British Navy would launch a reprisal attack on Smuggler’s Wood.  The damage they were doing to British commerce along the coast made them a logical target.  With this understood, a militia was organized to defend against the attack they knew would inevitably come. 

    Michael's position among the leadership of the underground Militia grew as he carried ever more important cargoes to the desperate and pressed Militias across the Jerseys.  Supplies of food, clothing, guns and powder captured on the high seas and brought back to Chestnut Neck were shipped overland on his wagons.    Along with these hard goods, the documents and newspapers he carried told of the intense political battle being fought and the preparations for war.  

    Word of the fighting in the Massachusetts colony was received with some cheer by the smugglers who met in the Red Water Tavern.   For years, their arguments, over countless drafts of ale and rum had been decidedly in favor of independence.  Many of the speakers, like Michael, were not at all philosophical; they had blood vengeance reasons for taking up arms.  In the words of King George, "The die was cast."

    The Militias increased the intensity of their recruitment, until their number topped 100 strong.  Not all the volunteers were smugglers, although they were the core around which the company was built.  Some of the volunteers were farmers; others were merchants, craftsmen and fisherman.  They were young, like Michael, and old, like Jeremiah Stonebreaker, more a philosopher than a soldier and wanted for treason against the King.  He had signed one too many pamphlets.

     The company met in a glade about two miles from the Red Water Tavern to practice their military drill.    At first, the training sessions seemed less than serious, but after the news of open rebellion in Massachusetts, it became deadly earnest.  Target practice and ambush tactics dominated the training. Men, who had fought the British regulars on the streets of Boston and in the fields of Lexington and Concord, came to Chestnut Neck and lectured the Militia on what tactics worked best and which were liable to get a man run through with a bayonet.  The tactics they taught concentrated on the rifle, because it had a range of better than 100 yards compared to the Brown Bess musket, which was effective up to only 50 yards.  Using the rifle's superior range and accuracy, the Massachusetts Militias had ambushed and harried a force of British Regulars to the point of route.    With this lesson in mind, the Chestnut Neck Militia blended the tactics of secrecy, deception, ambush and communication, which they had learned from the Indians, into their plans and dispensed with the formalities of military drill and parade. 

    Jeremiah Stonebreaker accepted command of the Militia on the day word was received of the battle at Bunker Hill.  Michael listened intently as the dispatch was read before the assembled militia.  “The Massachusetts militia withstood a furious bombardment by the Royal Navy.  By holding their fire till Grenadiers and Royal Infantry approached to within twenty rods, they repulsed three assaults at the loss of only a few brave men and five severely missed field guns.”  

    Captain Stonebreaker took the dispatch as a sign of the impending conflict and began the task of planning for the defense of Chestnut Neck.  Meanwhile, it fell to the smugglers to keep the stream of arms, munitions and supplies flowing to the sorely pressed Militias and the new army.  Under Captain Stonebreaker’s direction a small fortification was planned and eventually, three eight pound field guns were diverted from a captured frigate and incorporated into the defensive plan.  The guns were manned and maintained by a small cadre of men who practiced under the tutelage of a local farmer, who called himself, Count Rhordon.    Whether or not he was a real Count was of little concern to the militia, he knew the artillery drill and selflessly devoted himself to the task of teaching the volunteers how to maintain the guns and fire them accurately.  The Count took a personal interest in drilling the gun crews and groomed them with a combination of fatherly love and strict discipline and chose five men for each gun.  Several times a week, the one armed man gathered his students in the glade and in his thick German accent instructed them on the different types of shot and how to calculate trajectories. 

“Der ist only five men zu each gun.  Vat happens ven ein is killed?” Rhordon’s question hung in the air over his students. 

Michael spoke up hesitantly, “We keep firing.”

“Ja, Herr Fields, you keep firing.  Never!  Never! Never, may you halt.  Ven der British sense a veekened battery ze vill concentrate der fire on it.  Eine man, one man must be able to fire der gun alone.”  He picked up the wad pole in his lone hand.  “Wounded or untouched, you must keep up der fire.”  He swung the pole in a wide arch took a step forward and planted the pole in the bucket of water.  He repositioned his hand to the middle of the pole and spun it above his head.  Swung it down, tucked it under his arm and brought it to rest across his shoulders and pointing directly down the barrel of the gun.  His class of student gunners murmured their approval and broke out into outright applause and shouts of praise as the Count loaded the gun, touched off the charge and came to attention with a cloud of sweet smelling gunpowder enveloping him.  His eyes were intent as he addressed his students again.  “Each of you must be able zu fire your gun, alone.  Now, zu den drill.”

    For hours on end, he drilled his crews on the precise steps to be taken in loading, firing and reloading the guns. Michael fell into the rhythm of the drill and while the other students stumbled their way through it, he flowed as if he were dancing with Stella.   Before committing himself to the necessary demands he knew the Count would place on him as a student, Michael had reasoned that when he got to sea, knowledge of a cannon would be more valuable than infantry training.  Having made the decision he committed himself wholeheartedly to learn the Artilleryman’s trade.  Rhordon recognized not only his determination but his innate ability and recognized that of all his students, Michael was the only one with true talent.  He lavished his time and instruction upon him, honing his skills to a fine edge and as the skills of his prize student grew he found his drills had also molded and perfected the crews to the point where he felt they were on par with the British. 

    Despite the demands of the military training at Chestnut Neck, Michael’s desire to go to sea remained strong.  Although he sailed on several short trips, he had yet to participate in the taking of a ship on the high seas.  Finally, his bid to sail on a voyage of plunder was accepted by Captain Worthington of the Periquinier, GREEN GROVE.  The target of the voyage was to be any of several lightly armed British merchant vessels, anchored off the Atlantic Highlands, near Sandy Hook, and scheduled to depart for Jamaica at the new moon.

                                                                     -*-

     Evening was falling quickly as the Periquinier edged within hailing distance of the MARIUM.  She was a beautifully appointed sloop, armed with six guns and carrying a treasure trove of trading goods in her hold.  Under the guise of needing help to repair her broken keel, Captain Worthington worked the GREEN GROVE along side the MARIUM, while keeping his boarding force hidden. 

     Michael and three men were hidden under a canvas that had been spread over a frame as if it covered a boxed cargo on the deck.  Each man was armed with a pistol and a saber.  Under other false cargoes more men, carrying rifles and tomahawks, waited in silence, anxious to take their prize.

    Captain Farnsworth, Master of the MARIUM, his crew and the passengers gathered at the rail, watching the stricken craft bob on the waves, without control.  Worthington's plea for assistance fell on listening ears and was accepted.  The Captains of the respective craft called orders to their crews and directed them to bring the two vessels near enough to pass a line and secure the GREEN GROVE to the MARIUM.  

    The men under the canvas waited patiently till they felt the 'thump' that told them the ships had made contact.  They readied their weapons, steeled themselves for the fight and waited for the signal.
  
    MARIUM's crew breathed easier as the stricken craft was secured to theirs.  But suddenly, at the cry of "Booty," the canvas coverings on the deck cargo flew back and armed men leapt up from the pens and rushed over the side, spilling onto the MARIUM's deck.  With sabers in hand and pistols pointing at the Officers, the Pirates stormed onto her deck, forcing the passengers backward from the rail, tripping over each other and the crew.  The women screamed and the men begged for mercy.  Their charity had been their undoing.  The crew had been taken totally unaware and surrendered quickly, with hardly a shot being fired.

    Worthington ordered his men to herd the crew and passengers onto the deck where they were held at gunpoint while the ship was searched.  Confident that all aboard had been found; he ordered them into the long boats and bid them a safe journey to shore.    

    The prize had been easily taken and so it was with magnanimous spirit, Captain Worthington cut the long boat loose, in sight of land, with two oars and his most sincere thanks and best wishes.
 
     Michael was among the skeleton crew left on the MARIUM and it took all his sailing skill to set the sails and get her under way.  Southward she sailed, following the GREEN GROVE, back to the Mullica River, where it’s rich cargo of linens, tea and whiskey was removed and the ship was refitted and renamed, SNOW LEGEND.

                                                                         -*-

CHAPTER NINE

THE INDIANS

     Summnytown lies about 30 miles northwest of Philadelphia.  Nestled deep in the forest near the Perkiomen creek, this tiny enclave is an important industrial center where gunpowder is produced for the fledgling colonial army.   The surrounding hardwood forest is an abundant source of wood to be turned into charcoal, one of three essential ingredients needed to make gunpowder.  The operation of felding trees, feeding them into the fires and charring them into the desired residue, goes on day and night without interruption.  The sheer size of the operation has stripped the forest from the land and turned the air a smoky brown.

    As Michael’s wagon train approached Summnytown, they passed through a desert of tree stumps and smoldering fires.   Fine ash drifted on the wind, covering the roads, the houses and the plants, choking every living thing.  The road through this desert led straight to the magazine where the charcoal was blended with the sulfur and potassium nitrate he brought.  The gunpowder would then be shipped to the army preparing to fight for the freedom of the new nation.  

    Michael and his drivers covered their faces with cloths to filter out some of the smoke.  But still it burns their eyes and stings their throats.  The smell also affected the horses, making them flighty, on edge and difficult to control. 
 The town was a ramshackle collection of log huts and tents sheltering the workers from the elements and giving some relief from the choking air.  They form a perimeter around the magazine but set back far enough so an accidental explosion would leave them unscathed.  There were few women and no children to be found in the town and the tavern was loud with rough voices slaking the ash from parched throats with whiskey and beer.

     The cross-country trip had been grueling and Michael was glad he finally had time to rest and find a meal.  After dropping his cargo, he rode one of his horses back to the town where he had seen several Lenapi cooking cauldrons of vegetables and meat into soup for the crews.  He approached them and called a greeting in Muncie.  The Indians paused their work and hesitantly returned his greeting with a response that identified them as Unami.  At first, their conversation was guarded but as the Indians became more at ease with him, they shared their food and listened as he explained that he is a brother to the Aquacknunck tribe.  Michael gave his clan name and related that his brother had left his home in the east to come to Lenapihoking. 

“Help me,” he asked.  “I seek Calik of Beaver Clan.  If he is here, deliver a message to him; tell him Sua Klanta is here."

     Two days later, as Michael prepared his sea chest for the next leg of his journey, delivering the gunpowder to the soldiers manning forts on the Hudson River; he felt someone watching him and looked up.  Standing at the edge of the road was a tall slender Indian, dressed in buckskins marked with symbols of the Aquacknunck tribe.  

"Calik," he whispered.   A smile spread across his face and he walked deliberately across to the waiting man.  They stood in front of each other, not saying a word and then embraced as brothers.

"We have many things to speak of,” said Calik.  “Much has changed.  But first, you must come to my lodge and share my food.  Then I will show you Lenapihoking."

     Michael made his excuses to the quartermaster and left his wagon in his care.  "I'll return in a few days but first I am going to visit with friends."

"Fields,” yelled the quartermaster. “You have a load to deliver, I'll have you court marshaled if you leave now!"

"Don't be silly,” he responded, “I'm a civilian.  And I will be back when my business with the Lenapi is finished."

    The two friends rode into the forest that had not yet been cut to the ground.  Upwind of the smoke, it was easier to breathe and the forest was still green.  For less than an hour, they rode along a narrow trail going deeper into the forest, until they came to the knoll of a hill overlooking the Perkiomen valley.  At the crest of the knoll was a huge bolder and atop it were three Indians.  They stood, puzzled, and called to Calik asking why a “Light Skin" was being brought to Lenapihoking?  He responded, charging himself with the “Yang Quis” safe conduct and nodded for Michael to follow him down the path down to the valley.  The path ran beside a wall of stones marking family holdings and farms.  They were the same type walls that marked the farms on Barbadoes Neck. These walls did not run in straight lines like those built by the Europeans.  They followed the contours of the land, linking large boulders and stone cairns, marking the seasons and the stars.  

     Calik led Michael through an encampment of Lenapi families that seemed endless and could only be described as a city.  Everywhere he looked there were lodges.  Some made of logs, laid against overhanging stones, others made of branches, tied together and sided with skins and bark.  Families were everywhere.  Children ran to the edge of the trail, pointing at the white man and laughing among themselves.  The adults eyed Michael with suspicion and in some; he felt their look transmitted hatred.

     Calik pointed out the monuments to past ages and long dead leaders.  He noted stone springhouses where Mantu, the spirit of the earth, rose to the surface.  As they passed a field of standing stones, Calik described how they marked the seasons and the planets.  At the end of line of stones was an entrance to a hollow inside the earth, a place Michael knew was for worship and contemplation.  Michael looked around; he could see the city was not fully occupied.   The cooking fires were too large for the number of the lodges and much of the land lay fallow, untilled and untended, overgrown with weeds.  The current residents were only a shadow of the number who had lived here in the past!
"What has happened,” Michael asked?"

"They have left,” responded Calik, “gone west, to Shamokin.  To the old lands."

    As they crossed the valley, they passed stones carved with bowls cascading one into the next.  At some, there were women grinding grain but at others, red, black and yellow paints flowed, blending from one bowl to another and then running along channels forming the outlines of animals and birds.   The largest of the rocks overlooking the valley were painted with the red and black face of Masingua.  Others were decorated with intricate geometric designs and spirals. 

    Michael marveled at the engineering the Lenapi demonstrated in their earth art.  On the opposite bank of the creek,    running up the cleared face of the hillside, well maintained walls wove their way to the ridge following the contour of the earth.  From the edge of the creek where a stone dam formed a small waterfall, a wall ran to a mound of stones, taller than a man, and linked it to several more mounds before ending abruptly.  

    Calik brought his friend to his lodge.  There, a young woman named Al-lanque was grinding corn in a bowl cut into a flat granite boulder.   She stood at the approach of her husband.  She was round with the prospect of baring a child and greeted Michael warmly, inviting him into their lodge.  The shelter was comfortable and Michael felt immediately at home.  Over a bowl of beans and corn spiced with red peppers and generously laced with chicken, Calik described the holding, which he had purchased with the proceeds of his ventures with Michael and the sale of the PASSAIC FALCON.  

     After the meal, Calik conducted Michael on a tour of his orchards, crops and streams.   In the shade of an ancient oak tree, they rested, sitting on a stone beside a shelter built around a spring.  Calik opened his tobacco pouch, took out his pipe and filled it with sweet smelling herbs, lit it and passed it to Michael who puffed deeply and returned it. It was the best kanicanick Michael had ever tasted.  They smoked the pipe and listened to the sound of the water running gently over stones and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on their faces.  

     The walls on the hills converged at the spot where they sat and water bubbled up from the ground, flowing clear and sweet down the hill, forming several small pools, before it joined the main creek lower in the valley.   They walked along the brook until it flowed into a large pond.  But it was not a natural pond.   It was a large flat rock that had been hollowed out and smoothed.   Calik stripped off his cloths and slipped into the pool.  Michael followed.  

     The water was warm, heated by the sun and hot stones that had been dropped into it.  The sides of the pool were perfectly smooth and the two sat immersed up to their necks, talking of the good times of their youth.  Around the pool, flat stones were set in a semi-circle.   Each was deeply etched and decorated with Lenapi symbols.   Beyond them, a wall circled the pool and wandered off into the distance.  Michael felt the ache of the road slip away from his body and emerged from the bath refreshed.  

     Wherever they turned, Calik pointed out stone structures defining astronomical observations.  There were spring houses.   Cairns of set stone.  Circles, some made of boulders larger than a man, others made up of fist size rocks, meticulously piled and maintained.  These were the same formations Michael knew from the Aquacknunck village near Barbadoes Neck.   They were the definition of nature, documenting mother earth and her ways and honoring Mantu and Masingua.

     The cooking fire at Calik's lodge burned in a stone circle older than any Lenapi could tell and that night Michael and Calik sat beside it talking for hours.  They spoke fondly of their adventures in Newark and Secaucus and marveled at the power of Mantu that had brought them together, once again.  But there was a great sadness upon Calik and soon the talk turned to its cause.

"Michael,” he began, “in all the dealings the Lenapi have had with the Yang Quis, we were always cheated. That has been the experience of all Lenapi.  You, Sua Klanta, were one of few men who never cheated us.  Since I came here, I have heard many sad tales.   Around the fire, men tell of how they were cheated out of their land, their families murdered, their animals driven off.  They curse the coming of the Yang Quis, for all that was ours has been taken from us.  Around the campfire, men tell of a treaty called “Walking Purchase.”   They tell how the Lenapi had agreed to sell to the English, all the land they could walk over in two days.  But the English cheated them.  They did not walk!  They did not stop to smoke kanicanick or fish.  They had a team of runners. When one tired, another took his place.  They ran day and night.   When they had finished, they had taken much more than we had intended to give.  The land they claim includes this place."  

    Calik paused and added a branch to the fire.  "Our people also speak of sickness that came with the English and killed whole villages.  They speak of rum given freely until the Lenapi could no longer stand and when they awoke found their trading goods taken.  In the past, the English came to us asking for help against their enemy, the French.  My father Tangami-Kan answered their plea and fought the white man’s war.  His sacrifice gained him nothing.  Now, they come to us again, asking for help in fighting the Yang Quis and the Yang Quis come to us asking for help against the English.   Forever, we are asked to fight the wars of the white man.  But when the war is over, it is the Lenapi who have been destroyed.  Even now the fires making gunpowder for your war are poisoning the air we breathe and the water we drink.   Chasing the game away and killing all that grows.  Soon the cutters will be here at Lenapihoking but before they arrive, we shall destroy what we cannot take with us and leave this land for all time."

    He paused to take a sip of water and continued, “Most of our people have gone already, soon, the time will come for my clan to follow.  Soon, we will leave behind the lodges of our fathers and their fathers before them and make our homes in the lodges of cousins far to the west."

    Michael was stunned at the ramifications of his friend’s soliloquy.  "Calik, my friend, I know of these things.  They have brought me great sorrow and I grieve that I am the only one you can call Sua Klanta." 

    Calik lit his pipe again, the sweet odor of the burning herbs swirled around the fire and he passed it to Michael.  "Tomorrow,” he said, “When we rise, I will show you the sadness of the Lenapi.  But tonight we will smoke kanicanick and sing of the PASSAIC FALCON and the beautiful women we have known."

                                                                                       -*-

     In the morning Calik and Michael left the lodge and rode along the bank of the creek.  In the cool shade they stopped and watered the horses.  For minutes Michael had no idea why they had stopped but felt there was something important to be seen.   His eye wandered up to the hillside and was stunned by what he saw.   Half way up the valley wall the land leveled out and set on the plain, bathed in the rays of the early morning sun, stood a pyramid of stone!   Massive rocks had been deliberately placed together to form the structure looking out over the cornfields on the flood plain of the Perkiomen creek.  Each stone was painted with brilliant symbols forming a tapestry and fitting perfectly into its companions.  But most impressive, at its apex, was a stone seat.  A throne!

“Deep inside, the spirit of Mantu dwells.  I have been there,” Calik said with pride and joy in his voice, “and I have seen both the heaven above and heaven below."

     They urged their horses on, plodding past farmland and lodges, past circles of stone that radiated walls to all points of the compass, until they arrived at a peaceful hollow, nestled in the arms of the hills and caressed by a gently flowing creek.   Michael thought the pyramid he had just seen had prepared him for whatever the Lenapi culture could construct but the scene before him staggered him and he numbly dismounted.
  
    The pyramid stood three or four times the height of the first he had seen.  Its top was truncated, leveled, and set with smooth stone.  Torches burned, even in the brightness of the day, around an altar at the apex.  Behind the pyramid, the hill was laced with walls and, for a moment, Michael thought he saw his home on Barbadoes Neck at the top of the hill.

"Come,” said Calik, “we should stop here."

    Together they climbed the pyramid, clambering over carefully set stones that gave an easy route to the top.  From there they surveyed the valley, looking out over the farms and crops and the walls running off in all directions, twisting and turning on their path to markers beyond their vision.  Half way down the back of the pyramid there was a narrow opening between two stones.  Calik entered and beckoned Michael to follow.  The interior chamber was cool and dry.  A small lamp burned in the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of carefully honed stones.  They sat down on the floor, cross-legged, and Calik produced his pouch of kanicanick and his pipe.  He filled and lit it, inhaled deep and passed it to Michael, who followed his friends lead.   They talked again of the coincidence that had brought them together and wondered out loud what plan Mantu had for them.  It seemed to Michael they had only talked a few minutes but when they exited he could see it had been several hours.  

    Mounting their horses, they followed the trail on into the forest, along the bank of the winding creek till they came to a place where a large number of people had gathered.   A chant Michael had never heard before ran through the throng as they piled firewood around a smooth round stone cut deeply with Lenapi drawings.   Michael recognized some of the symbols and realized the stone told the history of Lenapihoking.   Hundreds of people stood around it.  More arrived in a steady stream with wood, piling it higher until the stone was covered.  An old man stepped forward with a torch and lit the kindling.  The fire took quickly and raged up to the sky creating a whirlwind.  Sparks carried up in the hot draft and black smoke rose in a straight line into the sky.  Calik sat down and watched the flames.  “Sit with me, Michael.  This will take some time.”  They smoked Calik’s pipe again but this time without joy.  

     Clay pots of cold water were lined up on the east side of the stone and as the fuel burned away men began throwing the water onto the hot stone.   The water hissed and turned to steam and within seconds, there was a sharp crack and the stone shattered in two.  Men and women screamed at the sound, not in delight with their destruction, but in anguish.  A tear ran down Calik's face.    More water was thrown onto the halves, breaking them into smaller pieces again and again until there was only a litter of rubble in the smoldering ash. 
 
     Michael watched, stunned and shaken, for the rest of the day as fires were built around stones of incredible interest.   He stood in silence as columns, painted the red and black of Masingua were toppled and broken.  Stone bowls were struck with clubs and shattered.  Lodges were burned and springhouses knocked in.

    That night, at Calik's fire, Michael sat quietly staring into its heart.  The city was being destroyed, in the tradition of the Lenapi, to keep it from the white man.  They no longer possessed their own home.  "When will you be finished,” he asked?

"That is difficult to say.  This work breaks the hearts of strong men.   At night they cry in their lodges and every day more men take their families and begin the journey west. I am sworn to stay; I am the last caretaker of this holy place.   Before I leave, there will be nothing for whoever follows.  It is the way of our people."

"I cannot stay with you,” said Michael, “I also have commitments I must see through.  And I think this work would break my heart too."

“Then we must part.  This time, I fear our paths will not cross again."

     In the morning, Michael ate a meal of fried corn bread with Calik but no words were spoken.  Sorrow much deeper than when they had last parted clouded his mind and heart.  Undirected anguish brought him to tears as he gently kissed Al-lanque and embraced his old friend one last time.  With a heavy heart, he rode out of the valley, leaving behind a vast city, the history of the Lenapi and a friend.  

    In the forest the smell of smoke grew stronger and the air became heavier.  As he rode back to the magazine, he came upon a party of cutters feeding oak, maple and birch into a slow fire, drawing out partially burned wood, scraping off the charcoal and returning the log to the fire.  From the edge of the clearing he watched the progress in silence until a heavy set man came over and asked his business. 

"I'm on my way to the magazine," responded Michael.

"Then be on your way, man, there is a war to win."

    At the magazine Michael reported to the Quartermaster and retrieved his fully loaded wagon for the next leg of his trip.   "We thought you had deserted us,” said the Quartermaster.  “The train will be moving north today.  The guns at Fort Lee are in desperate need of powder."

                                                                                  -*-

 

CHAPTER TEN

THE SOLDIERS

JUNE, 1776

     Michael’s Jersey Wagon and a train of eight more wagons, each loaded with gunpowder and shot, arrived at Fort Lee in a drenching rainstorm.  The frigid deluge graciously washed the caked dust off the teams and their drivers but left both shivering with cold.  Exhausted from the journey, the drivers were numb in mind and body from a fortnight long rigor over roads that were little more than ruts in the forests, hills and fields.  Painfully, they dismounted their wagons and stretched cramped muscles, massaged aching internal organs and cracked joints that had been dislodged by the rough ride.  Their physical endurance had been taxed to the limit of human tolerance and now each wanted only a hot meal and a dry place to sleep.

     Michael stood atop his wagon in the downpour and surveyed the fort around him.  The stronghold had been cut out of the forest at the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Hudson River and Manhattan Island.   Through the rain he could make out the gun emplacements facing east and the log cabin barracks housing the crews.    At the edge of the cliffs, walls of earth and rolled branches formed the outer perimeter of the fort and protected the guns from the British navy’s anti-battery fire.  Behind them, in the relative safety of a deep glade, a sea of dirty, white canvas tents flowed over the hillside leading down from the fortified pinnacle.

     Wearily, Michael climbed down from his wagon and met a uniformed officer who took his bill of lading and tucked it into a leather pouch under his coat.  Leaning against the wagon wheel he massaged the cramps out of his back and watched a knot of Continental Army Officers in brilliant blue uniforms hustling toward a log cabin.   Michael wiped the rain from his hair and looked again.  “Alex?”  He continued to massage the muscles in his neck, rolling his head on his shoulders and rubbing his eyes with his chilled hands.  “Alex,” he called but the group entered the log hut without pausing and two sentries posted themselves outside the door.  

     The Quartermaster reviewed Michael’s bill of lading and paid him in silver coins.  Michael turned to go, paused and returned, asking the officer behind the desk, "Was that Alex Hamilton, I saw earlier?"

“Captain Hamilton to you, Mister!  He is the commander of the New York State Provisional Artillery Company and one of our best Officers."

“I see," said Michael and walked off in search of a drink, a meal and a bed.

     The following morning Michael scrubbed his face and hands, put on fresh clothes from his sea chest and delivered himself to Col. Knox's office where the Artillery staff was meeting.  At the door, the soldier on duty resolutely rebuffed his request for an audience and curtly ordered him away from the hut.  

     Not one to give up easily and possessed of patience learned from the Aquacknuncks, Michael set himself down in the shade of a birch tree across from the Colonel's office and waited.  The afternoon grew old and the sun edged toward the western horizon but still Alex did not emerge.  Then a delivery of food to the cabin ignited a plan in his mind that would get him inside to see his old friend. 
 
     It wasn’t long before the man who had brought the meal, returned to remove the remnants.  Michael intercepted him near the door and offered him a Spanish Dollar if he would let Michael collect the dishes and clean up Colonel Knox’s office.   The man agreed, pocketed the coin with a grin and slipped off into the evening.

     Inside, Michael set himself to clearing the remnants of the meal with deliberate slowness, trying to catch Captain Hamilton’s eye.  After several minutes Colonel Knox let out an exasperated sigh, turned over the sheet of paper he was reading and said,   "Young man, get a move on it and get out!"  Captain Hamilton turned from the map he was studying, stepped between his Colonel and the man collecting the dinnerware.  He was about to hustle him out of the cabin when he found himself looking into a broad and hauntingly familiar smile.  He paused and asked in a puzzled voice, "Sir, have we met before?”

"We have,” responded Michael.  “It was only a few years ago, we went to the Harvest Festival in Newark with some young ladies from Barbadoes neck.  As I recall you started a riot that night and when you returned to the Kingsland Manor you had to face the wrath of the young lady’s father.  What was her name?  Lisa, wasn’t it?”

     The Captain smiled.  "Well, well, well.   Michael Fields. What a surprise."  He turned to the gathered Officers and introduced his old friend.  Colonel Knox nodded to Michael then announced, "Gentlemen, we have done enough, let’s end this for today and let Captain Hamilton relive his childhood.   Reconvene tomorrow at nine in the morning.  Thank you and Good Night."

     After the last Officer left the room, Alexander greeted his boyhood friend with a broad grin and open arms.  "Michael, you rascal!  How did you ever manage to get into our office?"

"It was really quite easy, Alex. A Spanish Dollar has lost none of its charm."

"Oh yes, of course.  You always were rather good at that sort of chicanery, weren't you?"

     Alex returned to his chair and gestured for Michael to seat himself and relax.  "Tell me, Michael, what brings an old friend back to me after all these years?"

“Thank you for remembering me and considering me your friend, Captain."

"Nonsense, Michael, if it weren't for you, I might have suffered more than a bloodied nose at the festival.  And please, shall we dispense with the formalities for a while?"

 "Thank you, Alex.  What has brought you to such a position among our Continental Army?"

"My studies at King’s College were going well when I made a speech at Fields Park in New York City.  It wasn’t particularly vitriolic, just the usual defense of the Boston Tea Party and a call for democratically chosen delegates to our First Continental Congress.  The Dean of Students didn’t approve and before you could say Yankee Doodle, I had been expelled. Shortly after that, I enlisted in the New York Artillery and here I am.  And how is your family?"

"My father died in the winter of '70 but mother is quite well.  Anne has married and by this time probably has children of her own."

 Alex raised an eyebrow.  "You don't know?"

"No,” responded Michael, “the circumstances of my coming here are quite unfortunate."

“I see,” he said.  “Well, tell me, what is it that has brought you here?"

“I also fell afoul of authority.  My smuggling operation started to include guns and papers for the Committees of Correspondence.  By the way, did you know Master Kingsland is one of us?”  Alex grinned, “So I have heard.”
Michael frowned and continued on, I have been to sea a few times and now I’m carrying supplies for the Army.  When I saw you, I thought it would be worthwhile to speak to you again.  It seems you have dedicated yourself to this fight and to tell the truth, I would like to do something more than drive a Jersey Wagon carrying gun powder."

"Carrying gun powder is extremely important to us, Michael.   You serve your county well doing that."

"Yes, but I can do more.  I have had artillery training,” blustered Michael proudly.

"Oh,” said Alex bemused.  “And where was that?"

"At Chestnut Neck, with the Militia."

"Chestnut Neck!  Ahh, that bunch.  I knew you would fall in with brigands and cutthroats one day.”

“I served under Count Rhordon.”

“Oh,” said Alex, “Now I’m impressed.  How is the Count?”

“Quite well,” Michael responded, “the arm slows him down a bit but he's still faster than most men with two.  Do you know him?"

“Only by reputation and if he has been your mentor, it will be worth while to get you into one of our batteries.  I'll see what I can do."

 The reunion went on for nearly an hour, as the two recalled the games and places of their boyhood and reminisced over the names and events of years before.  As the evening dimmed to night, they parted with a handshake and a pledge from Alex to speak with his commander about Michael’s potential as an artilleryman.

    The following morning a uniformed soldier delivered a handwritten letter from Captain Hamilton inviting Michael to meet with Colonel Knox when he reviewed the garrison guns at Fort Washington that afternoon.  A letter addressed to Colonel Knox and sealed with the initials “AH” accompanied the invitation.  Michael felt immensely confident and dressed in his best buckskin britches, white shirt and tricorn hat, then rode down the long sloping trail from the fort to Barrett's Ferry at the foot of the palisade.  There, he boarded a flat bottom barge and along with a wagonload of military supplies was ferried across the Hudson River.  On the east bank the land rose quickly again to more than 200 feet above the river where the second of the twin forts barring the Hudson River to the British fleet stood.

     Michael found Colonel Knox inspecting a gun emplacement overlooking the Hudson River, while the crew and commander stood by at stiff attention.  Having presented his credentials and the letter of introduction to the Colonel’s Aide, Michael also assumed the position of “Attention” and waited while he read the letter.  The Colonel completed his inspection, dismissed the gun crews and walked over to where Michael stood.  His aide handed him the letter from Alex and said, “Colonel, this is Michael T. Fields, the young man who intruded into our headquarters yesterday.” 

    Colonel Knox looked him over and stated.  "Captain Hamilton seems to think rather highly of you,” he said. 

“Do you have any idea why?"

"Yes sir, we have had a few drafts and an adventure or two together."

"I see.  The Captain also says Count Rhordon trained you.  Prey tell,” the Colonel added skeptically, “What skill do you bring us."

"Sir,” responded Michael, “I can fire, reload and fire an eight pound field gun in under two minutes. Alone."

“Really.  I’ll make you an officer in this Regiment if you can do it in a one twenty count!”   The Colonel gestured to the cannon he had just inspected and said, "Use that gun.  Wait for my signal."

    Michael set himself to the task of performing the manual of drill he had eagerly learned in the tutelage of Count Rhordon.  Today, he reflected, he was being offered a commission in an elite command, if he could prove he knew the job of each crewman and not only perform them, but do them alone, better and faster, than a full crew.   Back at Chestnut Neck, when powder was available, he had actually fired the gun, but the militia rarely had powder to waste on practice, so he had learned to rapid fire a gun, using dry loads.  Today, the canvas bags were filled with black powder rather than sand.  Michael focused his attention on the gun.

    He inspected the equipment in a flowing ceremony, checking the position of each piece of gear, straightening the placement and spacing.  He hefted the wad pole and checked its weight, drew his knife from the wampum belt and pared a ragged edge from the sponge, topped off the water bucket and dunked the bore brush end into it.  

    He inspected the pre-packaged canvas bags of gunpowder and the shot loads.  He smoothed out the powder bags and checked the surface of the cannon balls stacked in a neat pyramid, six on a side.   Peering down the muzzle of the gun, he inspected the smooth walls of the barrel and noted the expected ray of sunlight streaming through the clear touchhole.  Stepping to the back of the gun carriage, he used a handspike to change the guns direction, its azimuth, 90 degrees from south to due west, aiming for the opposite bank of the river.  He chocked up the elevating wedge to maximum trajectory, judging it would place the ball in the channel.  With his inventory complete, he turned and saluted Colonel Knox.

     The Colonel returned his salute and Michael turned back to the gun, stuffed a canvas cartridge into the barrel with his hand and seated it into the breech with the rammer, inserted an eight-pound ball and tamped the load securely into the breech.   Gingerly, he poured finely ground gunpowder from a paper packet into the touchhole, priming the gun, lit the linstock, came to attention and reported in a crisp military voice, "Prepared to fire." Colonel Knox raised his sword, pointed the tip toward the river and Commanded, "Fire!"

     Michael touched the smoldering end of the linstock to the priming powder and the gun roared.  Its moorings held.  He jammed a cork into the touchhole, rammed the hooked end of the wadpole down the barrel and drew out the smoldering skeleton of the powder bag.  He spun the wadpole and rammed the soaked sponge into the barrel, extinguishing any remaining sparks.  Without breaking stride, he picked up the top cartridge and fitted it firmly into the barrel and pushed it in a few inches.  Grabbing the rammer he pushed the charge down to the breech and tamped it, once...twice, inserted another cannonball, packed it in, then moved to the rear of the gun and removed the cork.  Delicately he poured the fine priming powder into the touchhole stood back and again touched the Linstock to it.  The primer sparked, ignited the charge and the cannon roared for a second time.  The ball arched out over the blue Hudson River and splashed within the still spreading bullseye of the first splash.  Michael returned to attention and saluted Colonel Knox.

     The Colonel looked to his aide and in an aside voice said,  "One twenty one, by my count" and then in his command voice,  "Put Lieutenant Fields in charge of gun number three, Battery three."

                                                                          -*-

    The artillery skills Michael had learned with Count Rhordon were put to use and honed to a fine edge in the weeks leading up to the battle for control of the Hudson River Valley.  In those scant days of preparation he came to fully understand that the coming contest would pit the raw determination and accuracy of the entrenched but untested Colonial batteries against the formidable might of the British Royal Navy.   The guns on the heights and the cliffs above the narrow neck of the Hudson River posed a daunting obstacle to the British Navy and kept their warships from pressing up the river.  So far, the mere presence of the Continental Army on the high ground had kept the British from driving up the Hudson valley and splitting the New England Colonies off from their sisters to the south.  Further up the river, at Poughkeepsie, Patriot shipbuilders were working franticly to complete two large Frigates.  These ships were destined to be the beginnings of the American fleet, if they were ever completed.  The mission of defending them till they were seaworthy and fully armed fell to the gunners of Fort Lee and Fort Washington. 

     The Hudson River remained closed solely because of the superior strategic position of the fortifications.   The two forts were a rambling collection of trenches, revetments, and gun emplacements reinforced to the point where they presented a formidable gauntlet to any ship attempting to pass beneath them.  The gunners, perched on the dominating cliffs of the New Jersey side and on the Heights of the northern end of Manhattan Island, protected by earthworks, were placed so high that shipboard artillery, even mortars, were almost totally ineffective against them.  Navel artillery simply could not be elevated high enough to strike back effectively at the guns blocking their way.  The huge garrison guns emplaced in the two forts were capable of raining a crossfire of shot and shell down on any ship attempting to pass.  The targeting calculations had been pre-determined and were accurate.  The gunners were ready to bombard and sink any vessel attempting to run their gauntlet. 
 
    The private soldiers assigned to the forts were never allowed idle time.  They were kept busy continually constructing and reinforcing the gun emplacements with bundles of sticks, called "fascines" and dirt to protect the cannons and their crews from British counter battery fire.    Until the shooting began, there was little else to do except work, sleep, and enjoy the immense majesty and panorama of the Hudson River palisades.  

     “Battery Three” was located on an outcropping of granite forming the southern most emplacement in Fort Washington. Gun three was the southernmost piece in the battery and therefore the first to enter the fight and the first to draw fire.   The battery consisted of nine, 24-pound guns, each mounted on a monstrous carriage, like a Navel gun, and measuring some 24 feet from muzzle to touch hole.  These mammoth weapons could fire any of a selection of charges from the 24 pound cannon ball, from which it took its name, to a horrifying array of iron shot packed in metal or canvas casings, looking much like a bunch of grapes and referred to as “Grapeshot.”  Their inventory of death and destruction included foot long metal bars and eight pound balls connected with varying lengths of chain designed to tear sailcloth and break a ship's mast.  The most devastating charge in their arsenal was an explosive shell, called a “bomb,” designed and timed to burst in the air over the target and shower it with burning slivers of iron.  The 24-pound guns were true monsters that could hurl anything the gunners put into them, including nails and rocks, with considerable accuracy.    Gun number three and her eight sisters were the guardians of the Hudson and had, so far, kept the gateway to the Hudson Valley closed.   

                                                                                -*-
JULY 12, 1776

    Dispatch riders from Philadelphia brought word the day before that the Colonies had signed a Declaration of Independence. They also carried a warning that the British Navy would not tolerate the existence of the forts and to expect an assault at any time.  The first artillery battle opened when the lookouts reported sails on the river.  By the time the ships approached the blockade, the Garrison Gun crews were standing by, fully loaded and waiting for the order to fire.  Michael counted twenty vessels and passed the word back to Colonel Knox.  Most of the ships were small, about the size of a Periquinier, and armed with mortars and cannon, but amid the flotilla were two 30-gun frigates.  

    As the fleet came into range of the cliff top guns they opened fire but their shots fell short and crashed into the forested slopes of Manhattan below the fort.  The Continental gunners held their fire and let the fleet move deep into the killing field of their cliff top guns.  A gun in Fort Washington, under the direct command of Colonel Knox, fired signaling the guns on both sides of the river to commence fire.   Smoke and fire belched from their muzzles. Thunder rumbled up and down the valley, echoing off the palisades as shot fell short and long.  The Hudson turned white with foam as a rain of projectiles fell onto the attacking ships.   Geysers of water leaped up among the small fleet and the Captains of the individual craft took their ships into evasion patterns trying to make themselves harder to hit while they pressed on toward their designated targets.

     Colonel Knox’s voice rose over the din, calling his drummer to summon the gun commanders to him.  Michael turned his post over to the guns second in command and sprinted to where the Colonel stood.   He shouted to them above the din of the cannon roar. "A detachment of vessels has broken away from the main body.  Observers tell us they are sweeping along the bank under our guns."  Crisply he issued new firing instructions to the officers and dispatched them back to their guns.

    From gun number three Michael could see the top pennants of the raiders.  He issued his orders directing the crews to cut their powder in half, change the load to bombs and fire on a new range and bearing.  The men jumped at his order and repositioned the gun with practiced precision.  The guns barely roared and spit their bombs along a flat trajectory dropping them down to the riverbank and cutting into the British ships.  Burning metal shredded the sailors in the rigging and set the sails on fire.  Infantry along the bank fired on the decks killing sailors and forced the ships to change course and move away from the banks of Manhattan Island.  With the forward momentum of the fleet broken, the assault faltered and fell back beyond the range of the rebel guns and turned back to the safety of New York City. 
Beginning that day, a routine developed in which the British fleet sailed up the Hudson to the edge of the range of the fortress guns, fired a few shots then sailed back downstream to New York City, where they arrived just in time for afternoon tea.  Yet even such halfhearted efforts played an integral part in the larger pattern of the siege strategy employed by General Howe.  He was determined to take the forts and open the Hudson to his ships.

                                                                            -*-

     As summer wore on, Michael recognized the daily assaults were synchronized to the moon’s phases and the tides. During an afternoon tea with the artillery officers, he interjected his observations into the conversation at Colonel Knox’s table.

"That's very good, Lieutenant.  Undoubtedly a little of Old Rhordon has rubbed off on you.  Now tell me. From where would you expect the main assault to come?”

“Not by the river,” he responded.  “Overland from New York City, right up the backbone of Manhattan, I should think."

"Very interesting Lieutenant.  Tell me, have you had any frontier experience?"

“Not precisely sir, but I lived with the Aquacknunck tribe.  I speak their language and know their ways."   Knox gazed intently at Michael, formulating a decision.  “You would feel comfortable in these woods?”

“Yes, sir.  They are very similar to the forests around my home.”

"That's excellent,” Knox said, “and although we will miss you on your gun, I have something else in mind for your resourcefulness.  I'd like you speak with Captain Manapat, our Regimental Engineer.  He may have good use of your knowledge.  Captain Manapat," he called.  His voice carried across the mess area loud enough to turn the Captain's head as he approached a table of junior officers carrying a small, ornately carved wood chest.  He tucked the box under his arm and stepped quickly to the Colonel's table.

"Good afternoon, sir, may I be of assistance?"

"Captain, I think Lieutenant Fields here, may be just the man you are looking for to accompany you on your impending survey.  I leave him in your good hands."

                                                                                       -*-

     A steady breeze blew stiffly up the Hudson Valley from the Atlantic Ocean carrying the smell of salt and sailing ships.  It cooled the summer afternoon and rustled the leaves above the sweating men building new fortifications on the hill above the river.  Michael sat with the Regimental Engineer and poured over a map of Manhattan Island spread on the table between them.  He had met Captain Manapat only briefly when he first joined the Regiment and during the ensuing weeks the Captain had been absent and only noticed by his unaccustomed presence.  The junior officers, some of whom had been with the regiment for a year or more, spoke in guarded terms of the mysterious Captain Manapat.   Michael concluded he was a man of adventure and relished the intrigue of the assignment and viewed it as an opportunity to be grasped.

 “The assaults against our Hudson River fortifications are becoming more violent and determined.”  Captain Manapat stated it as a matter of observation.  “Our daily engagements are being fought on a timetable imposed by the tides and wind.  While the British Navy is testing the river fortifications, the Army is exploring our land defenses, probing for weaknesses and exploiting what they find.  General Washington’s army on Long Island is being sorely pressed.  The General has a desperate need for information about the route he may have to take in the event of retreat."  

     The journey Captain Manapat proposed would take them to a thin line of outposts stretching from Fort Washington to Haerlem Village, stations that had been built to warn the Continental Army of the approach of British troops.   The mission sounded like it would be a delightful diversion from the daily routine of gunnery and a respite from the continual roar of the guns plaguing his ears with an incessant buzz.   After every firefight Michael’s hearing was almost completely gone, so getting away from the guns was a needed relief. He was looking forward to riding the quiet forest trails and reconnoitering the roads and countryside south of Haerlem Heights.

     General Washington received information about the movement of British troops through a network of farmers, craftsmen and merchants: men and women whom some called patriots and the British called spies.   These spies sent their reports back to General Washington's Headquarters by a circuit of couriers called "Fast Riders." The couriers were mainly Rangers, who lived in the forests watching the movements of the British Army.  Most of them had frontier experience, which meant they had lived and fought with the Indians.   Some had even marched with Colonel Rogers Rangers in the war against France. All had been toughened by life on the frontier.  Each was a strong rider and fearless fighter, capable of living off the land for long periods.  The “Fast Riders” were organized in a company, under the command of Captain Jeremiah Allbright, who reported directly to General Washington.

     On the parade ground of Fort Washington, Captain Manapat and Lieutenant Fields met a Fast Rider Sergeant named, McIntyre.  He was a bear of a man, an Indian fighter with a ferocious visage and gruff manners.   He was to be their escort on the first leg of their trip and deliver them to the Rider’s Headquarters near the Hell's Gate, south of Haerlem Village. 

     In the woods just north of the Jumal Mansion, the Riders had set up a blockhouse of fallen trees.  It was cleverly disguised and almost invisible to anyone passing on the nearby road.  In this stronghold, the “Fast Riders” recorded their observations of the roads and villages and the movements of the British Army's wagons and foot soldiers and forwarded them back to Fort Washington.  

    After sharing a meal with the “Fast Riders” and resting their horses at the blockhouse, Manapat and his party struck west toward Haerlem Heights.  The Heights lay just south of Fort Washington and formed a natural barrier guarding the road through the forest.  Rufus Putnam, the Chief Engineer of the Continental Army, had predicted the first phase of the siege of Fort Washington would be fought there and had dispatched Captain Manapat to reconnoiter the area.  
 
    The three men rode slowly through the silent forest, approaching the towering granite boulders of the heights from the east.   The trail they followed was wider than an animal run and well beaten but now overgrown from lack of use.  The trail led along the base of a fifty-foot granite cliff, an outcropping of the same geological formation overlooking the river.  The party paused, listening to the sounds of the forest.   McIntyre shivered as he looked up at the weathered paintings adorning the granite then looked around anxiously, "Injuns don’t like white folks in their holy places," he said.
 Michael nodded and looked at Manapat who was furiously drawing in his notebook.  They rode on, paralleling the cliff as it wound through the forest and blended itself into a hill where they found the remnants of a tumbled down sweat lodge.  There, a wall of piled stones began and led them to a circle of rocks at the top of the cliff.  Each boulder around the perimeter of the circle was taller than a man and carved with pictographs, telling the stories of the beginning and end of the world.
  
     Manapat marveled at the lay out of the Indian village and walked through it as if he were hypnotized.  He wandered from building to shelter to fresh water spring, following the outline of the crumbled city.  "As a defensive position,” he said to McIntyre, “this place was well chosen and well fortified.  The General should move immediately to occupy this place."  His voice echoed off the rocks and was absorbed by the forest. 

    The cliffs overlooked and dominated a shallow valley running almost perfectly east to west.  It was easy to see it had been farmed in the past but was now overgrown with saplings and weeds.  "A little work,” mused Manapat, “and this will make an excellent killing ground.  Can you see it, Lieutenant?   Artillery mounted atop this cliff can dominate both the road and the valley before us.  From here we can lend devastating support to entrenched Infantry.   An army should be able to hold here almost indefinitely."

    They pitched their camp at a circle of standing stones and before sundown scouted around and explored the area.   The remains of pictures painted with colors made from the forest berries, oak galls and clay were still visible.  The faint images on the stones were of birds, fish and every animal in the forest.  On the backside of the cliff, the skeletons of lodges, long abandoned, weather beaten and overgrown, marked the deserted homes where hundreds of Manhattan Indians had lived.  

    McIntyre’s concern and nervousness faded away as they explored the abandoned living area of a large shelter and cooked their meal in a stone fireplace that had not felt fire in many years.  A few yards away, a shelter that had not fully succumbed to the elements provided a convenient stable for the horses and each man chose his own sleeping place in the surrounding rock shelters or under the stars.

     As the afternoon waned to evening, Michael completed a circuit of the city and reported back to Captain Manapat.  “The city radiates outward from the central circle where we are and covers the heights.  There are defensible walls everywhere and several large artificial caves.  There are fresh water springs feeding at least four fishponds.  To the north are fallow fields and unkempt orchards.”

 “Very well,” mused Manapat and returned to his notebook.

    As the sun went down McIntyre lay on his back, naked, at the center of the great circle, while Captain Manapat chose to sleep in a family size shelter next to a running brook.  Just off the circle, Michael found a rock shelter at the juncture of six walls.  Inside, the chamber measured three times his length across and had a ceiling high enough for him to stand.  It was bone dry inside and as the sun set, the fading rays entered through the door to play upon and illuminate a brilliantly crafted scene of the Lenapi vision of the world on the back of a great turtle.  In the dark ceremonial chamber, Michael lit a small fire and watched the smoke curl up through the stone roof.   He sat cross-legged next to his fire and smoked the last of the kanicanick Calik had given him.  Around him the walls leapt to life as he slipped off into a sleep troubled by dreams of floodwaters washing the Aquacknunck village away.

     He woke with the dawn and the taste of Calik's kanicanick in his mouth and for a second, he thought he was in the lodge of Tangami-Kan. The remnants of his dream lingered, its meaning was clear.  The vision of his friend fleeing from the ocean as it poured over the land, sweeping over forests and villages, covering what had once been Lenapi.  It was more than a dream.  It was prophecy.  The Lenapi had already been swept away.  The war would hasten the departure of the remaining clans and leave only the Yang Quis. 

     Captain Manapat called from outside, "Gentlemen, time to rise."  He was boiling water for morning tea over a crackling, smokeless fire of dry twigs.  Michael paused as he exited the chamber and listened to the forest.  The noises it made welcomed him to a new day and he stepped into the sunshine with a spry step.  He came to the circle and sat down beside the fire and sliced off a hunk of the raisin bread McIntyre passed to him.  The man smelled from weeks in the field without a bath and Michael tried to stay upwind but he moved closer and looked intently into Michael's eyes. 
"Been on vision quest, have you?  Can you tell me what you saw?"

"It's not clear, and besides, it has meaning only for me."

 McIntyre nodded.  "I saw a dragon.  It rose out of a river and swallowed my friends.  I was spared and I know not why."

 Captain Manapat snorted, "What in blue blazes are you two talking about?"

"The Indians who used to live here,” Michael explained.  “This was a very important place.  It was holy to them.  The Manhattans imbued it with power and some of that power lingers yet."

"And it's a very important place to the Continental Army," responded Manapat.   Now, let’s get moving.  We have a lot of work to do today."

                                                                                   -*-

     From Haerlem Heights the party rode east again to the Haerlem River.   Then through the forests along its West Bank to the Hells Gate where the narrow Haerlem River widens as it meets the western edge of the Long Island Sound to become the East River.  At the Hell's Gate, the water is choppy with vicious currents that ebb and flow, continually changing direction, dangerously swirling in powerful vortices and lashed by a perpetual wind.  The place was aptly named.  They traveled mainly by night, mapping the farms, villages, cross roads and trails from the Haerlem River to the Hell’s Gate.  Usually, they slept in the forest and foraged for their meals but on occasion they stayed at the home of a Patriot, where they received information on troop movements, roads, farm produce, a good meal and perhaps a hayloft where they might sleep.

    Manapat’s party returned to the Fast Rider encampment near Haerlem Village and reported their observations to Captain Allbright.  After receiving the information and discussing some of the points, Allbright insisted Captain Manapat inspect the post's most important feature, an observation post in the upper boughs of an ancient oak tree, overlooking the river. The platform was similar to the crow's nest atop a ships main mast and was rigged with the same type of rope ladder.  Manapat examined the rigging and gently begged off the invitation to climb to the top.  Captain Allbright insisted that the climb would be well worth the effort, despite the seeming scantiness of the fragile looking ladder.
 
    Michael eagerly accepted the invitation and followed Captain Allbright up the spinning rope ladder like the sailor he was.  Upon reaching a large bough halfway up he found the remainder of the distance worked with foot and handholds leading up the trunk till it attained the observation post.  The platform was made of saplings lashed to the trunk with a thatched roof overhead to keep rain off the watcher and was quite comfortable.  The tree towered over the forest and from its height Michael viewed the farms and roads of Manhattan Island spread before his feet like a giant map. Attached to a support member and mounted on a swivel, was a telescope.  It wasn’t as good as the one Michael had owned so many years ago but it was quite sufficient for the job.  Through it he could see the ships anchored in the East River.  He could see the crewmen working on the decks and distinguish the officers directing them.  He counted the guns and read the ship's names.  To the north, the slate roof of the Jamal Mansion glistened in the sun next to the silvery track of the Haerlem River.

    Captain Manapat scaled the tree shakily and arrived at the nest frame, reluctant to look down.  Captain Allbright teased him by shifting his weight and making the tree sway.  Michael and the Captain exchanged amused glances as Manapat blanched and clung to the main bough. Allbright gestured to the telescope, inviting him to peer through it and examine the defensive batteries guarding the north entry to New York Harbor.  Holding onto the rope supports he made his way to the glass, looked through and counted six shore batteries with crossing fields of fire.  Anchored in the narrows were two cruisers, each with 30 guns, and at the confluence of the Haerlem River and Flushing Bay, between Mill Rock and Hogs Island, a frigate with 20 more guns rode at anchor.  Captain Manapat surveyed the array of forces and found himself inexplicably fascinated by the frigate.  He returned to her, focused the telescope on her bowsprit and read her name; HMS DRAGON.  Idly, he counted the smaller cutters patrolling the river communities and picked out a heavy net strung across the Haerlem River.  He scoffed with derision at who ever thought of it because it was destined to catch flotsam in the river and break.  He then turned his attention to the shore batteries and reviewed the placement of the eight-pound guns and marked the locations of the tents housing their crews and support troops in his notebook. 
 
     When Captain Manapat shakily returned to the base of the tree, he found Captain Allbright reviewing a sheaf of reports gathered by one of his post commanders.   As he approached, Allbright held out the papers and apologized for their delay, explaining the post had been cut off by heavy patrol activity for the past week.  Captain Manapat read through the papers and commented briefly on the orderly collection of notes documenting the movement of men, wagons, military hardware and the ships anchored in the East River.  When he finished, he put them aside and lapsed into a distracted conversation with Captain Allbright chatting about the gun positions he had seen.  Obviously, they were the rear guard, protecting the fleet anchored in New York Harbor but the placement of the frigate named DRAGON kept commanding his attention.  “There is more here than meets the eye,” he said, over and over again.  “There is something else going on." 

    Rum spilled out of Manapat's wood cup, rolled over his buckskin britches and down into his boot.  Two of the “Fast Riders” looked on in disbelief.  Not only had he spilled good rum but the officer was mumbling like a fool!  Manapat rose to his feet, spilling the rest of his drink, "Of course!  Of Course! Captain Allbright!  The gun positions are protecting DRAGON!  She must be important.  We must find out why.  Michael, prepare for a trip to the river."
"Yes sir.  I am ready to leave immediately," he responded. 

"Hold on there, Lieutenant!”  Captain Allbright rose and addressed the Engineer.  “Captain, the General would skin me alive if anything happened to you.  I insist you stay here.  The young Lieutenant and one of my men will reconnoiter the river."

 McIntyre’s voice rumbled from behind him, "I’ll make sure the youngster is careful, Captain."

                                                                              -*-

    Rain poured out of the sky in sheets that cut visibility to only a few feet.  It was a night for sensible men to seek the comfort of a warm fire and a hot drink.  Michael and McIntyre crept out of the forest and up to the door of a farmer known to be friendly to the Patriot cause and knocked three times.  A sleepy eyed man answered their knock and opened the door carefully, a Committee Pistol in his hand.  His wife stood behind him, at the far end of the cottage, a rifle at the ready.  Michael whispered his password and the door opened allowing them entry to the warm, dry cabin. 
 The farmer’s name was Jacob.  He was a slender fellow with long brown hair, brilliant blue eyes and a deep abiding hatred for the British.  His son was serving with Washington and he had supplied several reports to the “Fast Riders” on the movement of British troops in the area.  He stoked his fire up to warm the two soaked Riders and served them hot rum grog.   In response to Michael's questions about DRAGON, he related what his neighbor to the south had told him.  His story was brief.  A few weeks ago a cannon had been set up near the road running by his neighbor's field.  While tending the crop he overheard the gun crew saying that DRAGON carried the army's payroll.

"The payroll,” whispered McIntyre.  “Why hasn't someone assaulted her yet"?

"Too dangerous, I reckon,” said Jacob, “or perhaps no one knows it’s there."

                                                                              -*-

     Days later, when Captain Manapat and Michael made their report to General Washington and his staff they included what they had learned about DRAGON.  As an aside, Michael suggested, in a flippant way, if they could steal the payroll they could buy plantations in the West Indies and live like royalty.

 “Well Lieutenant,” replied General Washington, “if you think of a way to do it, tell me and we’ll do it together.  Till then, dismissed.”

    Colonel Knox chuckled as the men left.  The reliable Captain and his brash young lieutenant had done an admirable job. 

    Michael returned to his post at gun number 3 but couldn’t focus his mind.  He kept thinking of cannon emplacements, fast moving waters and a ship filled with gold.

                                                                               -*-

SEPTEMBER 23, 1776
GENERAL WASHINGTON'S HEADQUARTERS
FORT LEE.  NEW JERSEY

    The meeting of General Washington's staff started in mid morning.  Charles Lee, John Sullivan, Nathaniel Greene, Henry Knox and Rufus Putnam huddled in General Washington’s headquarters reviewing their position and contemplating their options.  At sundown they sent for lanterns and food and worked on into the evening, addressing item after item until the agenda was complete and the undeniable conclusion had been reached.   The army had been soundly defeated in Brooklyn and forced to retreat to Haerlem Heights.  The fortifications were still holding but it would not be long before they were overwhelmed and the Army forced to fall back to Fort Washington, the final strongpoint on Manhattan Island. 
 
    The Continental Army was just too small to stand against the ever-growing power of the British Army and Navy amassing in New York Harbor.  The tactics of hit and run had slowed the British down but they could not stop the impending assault against the Hudson Valley Forts nor dispute their inevitable control of the river.  The General Staff of the Continental Army grudgingly accepted the fact that one day in the very near future, the British fleet would sail unopposed up the Hudson, past the silenced guns of the defeated Continental Army. 

    General Washington looked to his staff, the pain in his heart showing on his face.  The rebellion would be over if the army engaged in direct combat.  “What can we do to disrupt Lord Howe's Army?   We can't stand against him and fight his way. We will only too easily be overrun and destroyed.  We have to do something novel."

 "General,” Colonel Knox responded, “do you recall the comment one of my junior officers made?  It seemed an outrageous proposition at the moment.  It was that roguish fellow, Fields, the friend of Captain Hamilton.  If you recall, he suggested we steal the Army's payroll."  

     The General chuckled and said, "Yes, that certainly would slow things down.  From where did he suggest we steal the payroll?"

     Knox shuffled through his papers till he found the one he wanted and then answered.  "Sir, we have information telling us it is aboard HMS DRAGON, anchored in the Hell’s Gate.  She is well protected, of course, by both shipboard and land based artillery.”

     General Sullivan rose and walked to the map tacked to the wall and traced the route of the Haerlem River and spoke.  “Ships large enough to challenge the cruisers can not be brought down the Haerlem.  An attack across land would be futile since DRAGON would simply cut loose and drift down stream to the safety of the fleet in New York Harbor.  How to steal the payroll?  There might be several hundred thousand silver coins and perhaps tens of thousands of gold coins in DRAGON'S hold.”

    General Washington nodded and mused, “The fortune of an empire.   Taxes collected at the point of a bayonet and used to pay a mercenary army to break our rebellion.”  General Lee spoke.  “An attack on this ship would be fool hearty!  Impossible!  Not to mention the weight of all that coin.  It can not be done!”

     General Washington paused, his eyes nearly closed, his fingertips massaging his neck.  In a whisper he said, "Henry, if we were to sink DRAGON, that would have the same effect as stealing the payroll, wouldn't it."  

    Colonel Knox sat up, his brow creased as he concentrated on the map. "Yes, sir,” he said.  "It might be possible.”  He placed his finger on the map upriver of DRAGON.  “If we put a couple of whale boats filled with gunpowder in the water up here,” he paused, then gushed with enthusiasm. “Yes.  We put boats in here, slip them past the gunboats, moor up to DRAGON and detonate the powder.  A sufficiently large charge should break her back and sink her.”
General Washington nodded his head.  “And in the ensuing confusion, the raiding party may have enough time to escape. Henry, I think your man has something there! I want you to start working on this matter and report back to me, no later than tomorrow evening."

                                                                                           -*-

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE RAIDERS

COLONEL KNOX'S OFFICE
FORT LEE, NEW JERSEY

     Michael stood at attention in front of his Commanding officer’s desk, his eyes playing over the papers, charts and maps fixed to the walls, covering tabletops and strewn across the desk.

 "Lieutenant Fields, the General has proposed that someone float a boat loaded with gun powder down the Haerlem River, secure it to the side of DRAGON and blow a hole in her side, hopefully, sending her cargo to the bottom of the Hell's Gate.  Tell me, what do you think the chances of accomplishing that are?"

"Well sir,” began Michael, “rather good if we do it on the right night."

"And what night would you suggest?"

     He answered without hesitation, "Next week, at the dark of the moon." Colonel Knox was impressed with his confidence and grunted approvingly.

"Lieutenant, I need someone I can trust to lead the raiding party.  I need a volunteer."
Michael grinned at the colonel, "I'm very sorry to hear that sir, I was just getting ready to make off with the booty, myself."

     Knox grinned and shook his head, and then chuckled out loud.  Now he was impressed by his levity.  He looked into the eyes of a man who was ready to give his life for his country.

"How many men are you planning to be in the raiding party, Colonel," asked Michael.
Colonel Knox was struck again, this time by the directness of his response.  There was no indecision in his voice; it was as if the matter had already been resolved.  "No more than twenty, I should think,” he said.  “Do you think you can find enough strong swimmers?"

     Michael paused, contemplating a midnight canoe ride down the Haerlem River, "I think twenty is too many, Colonel.  The more people involved, the greater the risk of discovery.  Too many boats or too many men in a boat could awaken a sleepy sentry or disturb an animal.  We need to be stealthy as an Iroquois and quiet as a Delaware.  I think we stand the best chance of success using three canoes and I'm sure I can find five men in Captain Allbright's Fast Riders who would be glad to go."

    Colonel Knox nodded his head.  He knew very little of the ways of the Indians and deferred to the young man’s experience.  "Then let's get down to the business of coordinating the men and materials you will need to get to DRAGON and back."

    As they worked their way through the plan it became painfully obvious to Michael that they would need to be very lucky to survive the approach.  And if they did, the prospect of swimming away from DRAGON before the powder went off would be complicated by a hail of flying pieces the explosion would tear from her hull.  Then they would have to survive a long swim in bitter cold water before they could rendezvous with dry clothes. Shore patrols would be searching for them along the riverbank.  But once away, the raiders would link up with the “Fast Riders” near Haerlem Village and return to Fort Washington.

"There are some special tools that will make the job easier,” said Knox.  “The blacksmith is forging them for you now."

"What type of tools, Sir?"

"I have some drawings here."  

     Colonel Knox removed several sheets of paper from a folder on his desk and spread them on the table in front of Michael.  Holding up the first, a drawing of what appeared to be a large corkscrew, the Colonel explained that it had a sharp point and would be used to bore into DRAGON’s hull and secure the boats to her side. 

"This giant fish hook will help you hold on to DRAGON.   The idea is to drag the hook along the hull until it catches and holds.  The currents at Hells Gate are fast.  You and your men will have very little opportunity to cling to her without this."

    The next drawing was of a whaleboat. "We have two boats immediately available.   They will be fitted with a canvas cover so when the fuse is lit, the sparks won't draw attention.  It may even hold the smoke down for a few extra seconds."

Michael nodded his head in agreement, "Yes, these tools will do the job, but the boat is wrong. A whaleboat is too slow, too noisy. We should use canoes." 

“Very well,” replied Knox. “Will you find them or make them.”

“We can make them ourselves.  It should take us less than a week to put three war canoes together.”
 Knox agreed and added.  "Until our date, I want you and your party to practice on the Overpeck Creek, just off the Hackensack.” Colonel Knox pointed to the map on the wall.  “I want you to rehearse this plan before you try it.  And one more thing, Lieutenant, your raiding party will answer only to me.  I will give you all the support you need.  Good luck." 

    Michael and his troop set their campsite in a wooded glade on a stream leading directly into the Overpeck Creek.  Sergeant MacIntyre had gathered five volunteers from the “Fast Rider” company.  Bret Morgan and Fred Butler were hardened frontiersmen with experience fighting Indians.  Johan Kiel and Daniel Cashon were the youngest of the party, both barely as old a Michael.  The first day they sat in the shade of the willows, drinking rum, swatting mosquitoes and discussing the outline of the job they had undertaken.  Planning eventually turned to what weapons they would take and decided knives and tomahawks would be the best for their assault.  With the crucial decision made, the raiders began constructing three canoes and outfitted them with canvas canopies.  They used rocks to approximate the weight of the gunpowder they would carry.  Each man carried a Flint and steel to light the fuse.  

    Three days later, the tools Colonel Knox had promised were delivered by a special messenger and the raid was scheduled to take place the following night.  The team steeled themselves for the water by swimming in the creek, building their strength for the trial ahead of them.  At night, they rowed their canoes down the Overpeck Creek and silently guided them past sentries who had been alerted to their intention.  Two of the three canoes made it past the sentry posts before the third was seen.   "But then the Hackensack isn't Hells Gate," thought Michael.

                                                                      -*-

     The night began with a three-quarter moon sitting low in the west bathing the Hudson River in silvery light.  Michael met for a few minutes with Captain Manapat in his hut.  "Michael,” the officer began, “I have a message for you," and handed him a small piece of note paper sealed with the imprint, "AH” He opened it and read, "This night, I bid you Good Luck and Godspeed.  Alex."   With a crisp salute, Michael departed Captain Manapat's hut, lantern in hand and began walking down the narrow trail through the forest across the steep face of Innwood Heights and into the growing darkness of the Haerlem River Valley.  

    On the shore of the narrow and quickly running Haerlem River, amid a stand of Maple and Chestnut trees, the raiding party waited.  The war canoes floated side by side in ankle deep water.  The sleek craft were dark as the night and waited bobbing with the gentle lapping of the river.  Michael peered into the blackness of his canoe and touched the kegs of powder, checking, to make sure they were securely lashed in place and the fuses were primed.   He ran his hands along the seam of the canoe inspecting the lacing on the canopy, checking each knot, insuring each it was tight enough to stay in place and keep water from wetting the powder.

     Two men sat in each canoe with the load of gunpowder between them.   Michael shared the first canoe with Cashon, who was wearing a fur cap and buckskin jacket.     MacIntyre and Kiel were in the second and the two hard riding frontiersmen named Morgan and Butler, piloted the third.   These six men knew they were about to undertake a raid past the teeth of the British Navy and into its purse.
 
    The moon was setting rapidly and the Haerlem River Valley was slipping deeper into shadow.  It was time to shove off.   Michael and his party smeared axle grease mixed with charcoal on their bodies.  The grease would help keep them warm in the cold water and the charcoal would make them harder to see.   Each man inventoried the tools on his canoe.  A hook, two corkscrews, flint, steel, powder horn, tomahawks and a knife.  

    The six men gingerly got into their canoes in the waning light of the moon and pushed out into the main stream of the Haerlem River.
       
    The canoes rode low in the water with their loads of powder but in spite of the weight, they quickly reached the Van Turm farm where a candle in the window guided them past the rocks. Total darkness enveloped them and they dug their paddles deep into the water riding the channel current.  Above, the Innwood cliffs marked the point where they crossed into enemy territory.  Silently, they slipped through the shadows, gently paddling, not whispering a word, praying that the British scouting parties and lookouts watching for movement on the river would not notice them as they glided downstream.  The shadows were their only protection from a musket ball.

    The next landmark was the Bridge over the narrows where Continental troops and Hessian mercenaries had fought repeated, bloody skirmishes for the past week.  It came into view, a dull gray against the dark of the night with a brilliant campfire at each end.  The men paused, measuring the distance with their eyes, then gently dipped their paddles into the water and stroked the canoes onward.  They glided the last yards, holding their breaths as they slipped under the span.  The guards, tonight, are British.  They had won the afternoon's blood contest and replaced the Continental soldiers but only after a vicious skirmish that promised to be repeated again in the morning. 

     The six men glided down the dark of the Haerlem River, straining their eyes to see ahead and keep in the main current.  The river quickened as the breath of the river shrank to less than fifty yards.  The party noted the watch fires in the forest along both banks and sailed past them in a tight, single file formation, gliding down the dark ribbon of water, navigating by the reflection the swath of stars above cast on the river surface.   The distance to the Hell's Gate diminished with each stroke.

      The paddlers steered the canoes into a tight formation now, three abreast.  The men in the middle canoes lashed the canoes on their left and right to theirs and rode as a single stable craft.   The men at the back of the outside canoes guided the craft with little effort.  Then the river widened and the current slowed.   With little fear of being seen, they paddled hard.  Digging deep, straining their muscles as they entered the Hells Gate.  Out of the darkness, white caps appeared and cross chopping waves rocked the canoes, testing their stability and threatening to tip them over.  Swells rose over the gunnels and ran off the canvas. 
 
     The front men pulled with all their might driving them onward.  A world of excitement and danger stung at their senses as the canoes rode the white water of the Hells Gate.  The roar of the wind and waves muffled their voices as they released their fears in a series of whispered prayers and oaths.  The current carried them quickly across the open water and for a few minutes they were able to relax and prepare themselves for the final leg of their journey.

"We're almost there; hold this course,” Michael called.   The rushing of the water and the wind muffled his words as the river opened up to nearly a mile across and the banks on either side were lost in the darkness.  In front of them, pinpoints of light marked the picket ships protecting the northern approach to DRAGON.

     Michael stood in his canoe and pointed out their course, between the far right point of light and the blazing fire in midstream that would be Mill Rock.  Using hand signals and whispered commands, he directed the canoes to pass between the pickets and slide onto DRAGON’s lap.  
 
    The waters smoothed as the canoes approached the ragged shoals of Mill Rock.  Michael gave the order, "Cut loose!"   The honed edges of frontier knives cut the leather thongs and their formation changed back to a single file.   Silently approaching the picket ships, each man hunched over, trying to make himself less of an object for the sentries on deck to see. 

     Around the edge of Mill Rock the canoes floated, skirting under the muzzles of the shore batteries, close enough to hear the snoring of the sleeping soldiers.  Silently, each team checked their tools and paddled on, tightly hugging the coast till they were heading directly for DRAGON’s watch lights. 

    Cold water splashing Michael's hands robbed them of feeling as they paddled their way between the picket ships and the shore batteries, closing in on their target, he whispered, "I'm not looking forward to getting into the water!"

     DRAGON was less than a hundred yards away.  They had passed the outposts undetected.  "Good luck,” Michael whispered, “if you miss DRAGON, pull to the shore, wait till you see an explosion, then set your fuse and push the canoe into the current.  Even if it doesn't hit something, it will create a diversion that will help us escape." 

     The silhouette of HMS DRAGON grew as the cold crept deep into Michael's fingers.   Cashon groaned under the strain of each stroke, digging his paddle deep, guiding the low riding canoe to its target.  

     The current was swift enough to sweep them past DRAGON if they didn't target it properly.  There would be no second chance.  They drifted, then paddled, then drifted again.   DRAGON grew until its bulk came near enough to touch.  She was pointing up stream, straining against the anchor chain as the current and tide tried to pull her to the ocean.

    The anchor chain passed within feet of Michael, he reached out with his hook but missed.  The current was faster than a horse at a full gallop.  DRAGON loomed above them; Michael dug his paddle into the water and turned the canoe perpendicular to the hull.   Cashon reached out and hit the hull with his hook and dragged it along the planking until it caught.  He pulled the slack in the rope till it was taut.  The canoe stopped its forward movement and swung parallel to DRAGON.  They used their hands to absorb the shock.  The hook held!   The canoe settled to a halt on the port side of the fore deck.  

    Macintyre’s canoe floated past, both men were paddling furiously, trying to pull close enough to strike.  Michael's rope arched across the distance and MacIntyre caught it just as his canoe slid silently past in the dark.  Seconds later the line went taut, Michael's arms and shoulders absorbed the energy and pulled the second canoe to a halt further down the hull.  Michael turned from his task and looked toward DRAGON'S stern.  There, MacIntyre and Kiel in the second canoe, were securing themselves to the hull.  No words were spoken.   He looked toward the river; the third team was struggling against the current.  They had overshot their line!  Helplessly, they paddled against the current and slid silently past the target.  There was nothing Michael could do to help.

    The four men worked furiously turning their iron corkscrew cleats deep into DRAGON's hull planks.  Sweat broke out on Michael's back.  His hands were no longer cold.  Droplets formed along his forehead and trickled down his face, stinging his eyes.  As each man finished, he looked up the ship towering over his head, expecting at any minute to hear an alarm, expecting to be cut down by musket fire from the deck.  

    Cashon whispered to Michael, "All ready, sir" and slid into the water letting the current carry him past the second canoe, where Kiel slid into the water and joined him.   Together, they floated downstream into the darkness.  Once again there was still no sound or challenge from the deck towering over their heads.  Michael unlaced the canvas canopy and prepared to lower himself into the river.  

    With his legs immersed in the frigid water, he looked to his right where MacIntyre was holding himself in the same position.  As they had practiced, they saluted each other, struck flint to steel and slid into the water as the spark caught the primer and burst into a sparkling wick burning at a precise rate. 

    MacIntyre released his grip and slid into the water and began his float downstream.  Michael looked around one more time and prepared to let go.  The fuses were smoking badly, producing a sweet smelling smoke that was curling up the side of the ship.  It whiffed on a breeze across the deck, where a young marine started from a doze, startled by the smell that should not have been there.  Noise erupted from the ship’s deck above where Michael clung to his canoe.  A cry from the deck above echoed across the narrow straight to Mill Rock.  “Alarm!  Fire on Deck!”  The voice of the terrified Marine on watch broke across the predawn light and was followed by the ringing of the ship’s bell.  Its frantic peel alerted the deck watch to the danger and roused the crew from their hammocks to their posts.  “It smells of powder. Check the magazine!  Check the waterline!”  Precious minutes were gained as the crew scattered about the deck searching for a fire.  Michael hung on.  “A few more seconds,” he thought.  “Just a few more.”  His margin of safety diminished as he waited to guarantee success. 

“Down there, Lieutenant!  It looks like a light or something!”  A voice dripping with command answered, “Or a fuse.  Get that Jacobs ladder over here.  Quickly, man, tie it off here and throw it over.  Hurry!”  A rope ladder clattered against the side of the ship barely feet from Michael’s canoe.  Michael lowered himself further into the chilled water, with only his eyes above the canoe.

“Hurry!  Down the ladder, see what it is!  Snuff it out if it is a fuse! Hurry!”  

    More shouts came from further down the deck above where Macintyre’s canoe was moored. “There’s something over here, sir!  There appears to be smoke!”  Lanterns appeared on the deck, illuminating the forms of Marines peering over the rail.  In the glare, Michael could see the outline of a soldier descending the ladder.  He reached down to his boot and slipped his knife from its sheath.  He needed more time.  The soldier would reach the canoe before the fuse reached the bomb.  Michael stilled himself, his muscles coiled like a spring.  The marine reached the end of the ladder and stepped into the canoe.  It rocked and the soldier balanced himself with one hand on the canoe and the other on DRAGON’s hull.  Michael unleashed himself and lunged up at his prey.  He grabbed the front of the soldier’s tunic and pulled at him as he rammed his knife into the man’s throat and pulled him into the water almost without a struggle.  Underwater, the marine’s body floated limply.  The violence of his slash had nearly decapitated the man and Michael pushed the still body away and took his first stroke toward shore.  Two more strokes and he had to come to the surface for air.

    As he broke the water, he was greeted with pandemonium.  Musket fire from the ship lit the night with dozens of quick bright flashes while canon fire from the shore batteries added their own red brilliance to the night.  A musket ball splashed into the water a few feet from his head.  A second one hit closer and he gulped a lung full of air and pushed himself under water again.  The gunfire above painted the water with eerie images.  The balls made thudding sounds as they smacked the surface.  “Almost out of time,” thought Michael as he swam underwater.  “I need another breath.”  He broke the surface to a chaos of noise and gunfire and shouts of “There! There!”  Fear clutched at him as he gulped air again and dove, stroking, pulling himself under the water.  Suddenly the underwater world exploded into and blanket of light, followed by a shock wave that traveled through the water and struck him like a giant fist.  He was tossed as if he were a small toy or a twig.  The air was pounded out of his lungs and his ears rang as if they had been boxed.  He rose to the surface and turned to look back at DRAGON.

    The first canoe went off with a roar and a blinding fireball that engulfed the second canoe just as its load of powder ignited.  The two fireballs merged into one promethium conflagration and rose up to the sky.  A column of white water leaped up around DRAGON as the hot gasses blossomed over the hull and licked their way up the masts.  Bodies were tossed into the air and over the side of the ship as she tilted over crazily and then righted herself in a pendulum motion that cleared the decks of men and equipment.

    Michael coughed out river water and flailed at the water trying to run away.  The roar of the fire pounded him.  The heat of the flames seared his skin and frizzled the ends of his hair.  Great beams of blazing timber crashed into the water around him.  He gulped frantically and dove under again.  With his lungs bursting and his muscles nearly dead from the strain, he surfaced.  Musket fire had broken out from the upstream picket ships.  The shore batteries were firing their guns blindly into the night.  Distantly, Michael realized that neither seemed to by directed at him. He calmed himself and began to swim. The cold crept into his arms and made his muscles move slowly.  He struggled, spitting out water, his arms aching.  A thought ran through his mind, “I’m losing this; I can’t do it.”  He struggled to stay afloat as the current swept him away from the broken ship. His head dipped under the water and he thrashed wildly back to the surface and fought for another breath of air.  An involuntary groan came from deep down inside his spirit as he tried to swim toward the shore.  His strength was gone.  Michael rolled onto his back and tried to kick but his legs were numb with cold.  He closed his eyes and breathed a prayer certain the end was near.  “Lieutenant Fields.”  A voice reached out to him and rekindled the last spark of his strength.  “Lieutenant, is that you?”

“Mac!”  He tried to pull himself up in the water.  “Help me, Mac.”

    MacIntyre was on the shore keeping a watch for Michael and any of the raiders who survived.  He swam out to him with sure strokes, grabbed his shirt and dragged him towards the shore.  Michael lay in the mud and weeds of the riverbank, spent.  MacIntyre, after a quick glance around, moved close to Michael’s ear.  “We did it, Lieutenant! We did it!  Did you see it?  It was glorious!  What a blaze!  What majesty!”  

    In response, Michael vomited into the weeds and collapsed onto the bank panting and shivering.  “I have to rest,” he whispered between deep breaths of air. 

“Only a minute more,” responded MacIntyre.  “We have to move on.” 

Michael curled up into a ball trying to warm himself.  MacIntyre nudged him.  “I’ll help you, Lieutenant.  I won’t leave you.  But we gotta go now.  They’ll be looking for us.”   Michael stirred and struggled to his feet following MacIntyre back into the cold river.  Together they floated along the shoreline and carefully picked the place where they could pull themselves onto the swampy shores of the hook above North Street.

    Their muscles quivered from the exertion of the swim and the cold as they dragged themselves from the marshy ground and into the cover of the forest, then lay in the underbrush, shivering, tired, but not spent.  Eventually, their breathing came easier and they sat up to watch DRAGON burn.  From the cover of the stonewall running along the shoreline, they watched as the fire grew and then seemed to die down as the dawn broke.   When the sun crested the horizon, they warmed themselves in its first rays and scurried up the rise and into the underbrush.  

                                                                   -*-

MAIN DECK
HMS DRAGON

    Captain Tarlton paced back and forth, his ship was still afloat but taking water more quickly than his crew could pump it out.  The crew had mustered to the task of putting out the fire immediately after the blast and with that task successfully completed; the damage control party found the structural damage to the hull was as bad as the Captain had feared.   The keel, DRAGON's backbone, was broken.  It could not be repaired.  Water was coming in through the broken timbers and though the ship's pumps were fully manned, the water level kept creeping higher.  She was sinking.  The First Officer's voice could be heard above the din, ranting at the sailors to pump harder.  Yet as hard as the men worked their best efforts succeeded only in slowing the inevitable.  

    Tarlton paced the deck as he tried to calculate how long the crew could keep his ship afloat.  Would it be long enough to transfer the cargo? He detailed the only man he could spare, the ship's cook, to row to the fleet commander and request assistance.  In the back of his mind, he mused over what had caused the explosion and fire.  The rebels had attacked  It was crude but effective and, whether he liked it or not, the payroll for the British Army in America was headed to the bottom of the Hells Gate. 
 
     As the deck tilted further to the starboard, he could feel his career slipping away as DRAGON slid deeper into the water.   "There are going to be court marshals for everyone over this mess," he said to the wind.

                                                                  -*-

     MacIntyre was nearly exhausted and could only speak with a ragged breath between his spasms of shivering.  "Keep moving," he snarled at Michael.   He hadn't wanted it to sound angry but he knew they had to get as far away from the water as they could.   Michael twisted the deerskin britches once more and shook them out with a snap, then struggled back into the wet leather.  He was feeling better.  "We gave them one devil of a show,” he said, “and we're alive to tell about it.”  The big man’s body quivered with a spasm of cold as he struggled back into his leather shirt. 

     The sun rose with agonizing slowness and spread its rays of warming energy into the thicket where they hid.  In the glow of the morning sun, Michael and MacIntyre shed the fears of the night before and prepared for the new day’s challenge.  In the gathering dawn, they ran along a deer trail in the general direction of their destination. If they could keep up this pace, it would only be a few more minutes to the rendezvous where horses and dry cloths waited for them.  

    As they trotted through the forest, they kept their ears alert for a sound that should not be there or the lack of one that should.  They paused only briefly to debate the merits of one fork over another, then pushed on, keeping up the pace until the sun broke over Brooklyn Heights and they arrived at the rendezvous. 
 
     One of Captain Allbright’s scouts was waiting for them in the barn with blankets and six fresh horses. MacIntyre and Michael took two and struck west leaving the man to wait for the rest of the raiding party.  They rode straight up Broadway at a full gallop, until they rounded the bend south of Haerlem Village where they slowed their horses to a walk.  For several minutes they stood beside the road and watched before approaching the turnpike.  

    The barrier across the road was reinforced with a guard station and a dozen soldiers. The cabin next to it usually housed tax collectors and British soldiers who monitored the traffic from the highlands of north Manhattan to the city on the southern tip.   Today, the Continental flag flew over the shack and they breathed a sigh of relief.
They walked confidently to the barrier and were immediately recognized by a Sergeant from the Scouting Company, who directed them to the blockhouse.

"Good morning, gentlemen.  Captain Allbright's compliments," said the uniformed officer in charge of the force.  He extended his hand and shook theirs, "You're the first to come through today.  Come inside and eat." 

    The meal was quick.  Hot tea and warm raisin bread, smeared liberally with butter and covered with a thick mass of strawberry jam.   Their comrades had still not arrived when the meal was finished, so with food under their belts, they set out on fresh horses for the Fast Rider headquarters at the base of the tree top observatory.  
 
    They arrived around noon and were greeted warmly by the men of the company, who clapped them on the back and shook their hands.   Even though Michael and MacIntyre were tired, they were exhilarated by the news of their success.  They whooped like Mohawks and raced through the forest to the grandfather tree cradling the lookout high in its boughs and climbed to the top. 

    On the platform, they were greeted by Captain Allbright, who was propped against a support rope looking through the telescope at a thin plume of smoke rising from the river.  "Congratulations, Gentlemen,” he said and stepped aside to let Michael and MacIntyre peer through the telescope.” Take a look at your handy work."  

    It was easy to see the panic surrounding DRAGON.  Long boats circled her and sailors were scrambling about like ants, desperately trying to unload the cargo.  Exhausted men lay about the deck in agonies of pulled shoulders and wrenched backs incurred at the pumps. The salvage parties were desperately trying to avoid the inescapable.  Pandemonium was raging!  Michael could see officers in tight little knots on the shore, waving their arms, pointing, gesturing wildly in the midst of animated discussion.  And while they talked, DRAGON floundered.  
 
    As MacIntyre watched, a chest being loaded onto a long boat broke its cradle and fell into the river.  The splash nearly capsized the already overloaded long boat and sent the cluster of officers into new flurry of activity.  

    From their perch atop the tree, the scouts could see that the outcome had already been decided.  DRAGON was sinking!   The only question remaining was how much of the cargo would be salvaged.   Already listing heavily to the starboard and with her stern rising out of the water, Michael could see her Captain pacing the deck, directing the last ditch salvage efforts.  

    The river was swamping the deck and sailors had to dive into the hold to bring up bags of what could only be gold.  One bag at a time they hauled the payroll out of the cargo hold and loaded them into the long boats.  The officers drove the crew relentlessly, applying the flat of their sabers to any crewman who slowed.   Then, with a bubble of frothing water, the last pocket of air burst from DRAGON’s hold and she slipped under the river, leaving the attending long boats forlorn and abandoned and the last of the salvage crew swimming for their lives. 
 
     Michael and MacIntyre watched in near disbelief as DRAGON slipped to its grave.  They broke into cries of victory, whooping and yelling, dancing in the look out's nest till it threatened to fall apart and dump them to the forest floor.
 As evening fell, Cashon and Kiel made their way into the camp.  They reported that they had seen Morgan and Butler captured by the British and hung, as spies.  The news dimmed their spirits but that night the Fast Riders built their campfire a little higher.  They cooked meat and vegetables and drank a generous ration of rum.  Then one by one they rose to the dance, Indian style in a slow pace, mourning their dead, then quickened the step to celebrate their victory. 
 
     They awoke the next morning as the chattering of small animals welcoming the new day rose to a crescendo.  It was time to depart for Fort Washington.    The Fast Riders stirred quietly from their sleeping places, then froze and listened intently to the forest.   The animals had stopped their sounds!  MacIntyre and Kiel knelt and put their ears to the ground and nodded knowingly.  Horses were approaching!  The men moved to their fighting posts, their weapons primed and ready to fight, their horses saddled and ready to flee. 

    The Dragoons in brilliant red uniforms made easy targets as they rode past, not twenty yards from the Fast Riders.  "They're searching for us,” whispered Cashon.  “They figure we will head back to the fort so they are spreading a net."

    When the mounted troop passed the hidden camp, Captain Allbright spoke to the Riders.  "Gentlemen, we move through their net by staying off the road.  Prepare to ride."  

    The Fast Riders quickly broke camp, saddled their horses and returned the campsite to the appearance of undisturbed forest.  They spread leaves over the ground where the bare earth showed through and wound vines into the look out post.  Satisfied with the camouflage, they set off into the forest following deer trails north to Fort Washington.  

    Nestled in Michael’s heart was elation and pride, tempered with caution.  His mission had been a success; little of DRAGON'S cargo had been removed.  The Hessian mercenaries would now be without their gold and thus a little less anxious to fight.   But the return to Fort Washington would be fraught with danger.  The British would be anxious to extract vengeance on those who had stolen their treasure.

     The Riders moved silently through the forest in single file toward Haerlem Heights where the Continental Army’s Engineers were already following Captain Manapat's recommendation and fortifying the sheer faced granite cliffs overlooking the shallow valley.  They approached the fortification from the south.  Each man recognized the markings of Lenapi occupation.   Everywhere they looked, they saw bowls carved into rocks.  Some still held the remnants of red and black paint.  Standing upon the highest stone was a man in blue uniform Michael had never seen before.  “That’s Thaddeus Koscheusko, the Polish Engineer, working for our cause,” Captain Allbright noted.  “He is in charge of extending so the fortifications of Fort Washington dominate both the land and water approaches.”   At the top of the cliff, the Continental Army had reinforced the site by extending the walls and building others higher.  Family shelters that had been built hundreds of years before were enlarged and now sheltered soldiers and stored their supplies. 
 
     The Fast Riders drove toward the prearranged entry point.   As they approached the sheer faced rock painted with faded animals and the red and black face of Masingua, musket fire broke out in the near distance.  Allbright turned in his saddle.  “It could be British infantry probing the strength of the fortifications, testing the determination of the defenders or it could be pursuit.” 

    The rock cliff walls towered over their heads.  Gun emplacements became visible through the tangled mass of undergrowth and low hanging branches.  The party was close to the entry.  They spurred their horses, riding in single file, paralleling the defensive lines.  Suddenly, the forest behind them came alive with the sound of horses crashing through the underbrush!  Captain Allbright signaled, "Forward."  

     A squad of Dragoons attempting to outflank the defenders had stumbled upon them.  Words of alarm were shouted, Michael drew his Committee pistol and fired, the Riders followed suit and Allbright shouted, “Follow me!"  Two of the Dragoons were struck by the close range pistol fire, their horses, frightened, reared up, wanting to run, the riders struggled to restrain them and returned their own fire.  Their muskets boomed and a heavy ball whizzed past Michael's head.  He snapped around with the sound and saw the ball directed at him strike Cashon.  Blood exploded in a fine red mist from the hole in his back and then erupted in a gush.  Cashon slumped over his horse as it bolted forward along the face of the cliff and around the sharp corner of the massive stone.   "The time is now,” called Allbright, “Cashon leads the way.   Follow him!"

    The riders put spurs to their  horses just as cannon fire roared from the cliff above, covering their escape.  Along the base of the cliff face they dashed out of range of the Dragoons and then uphill calling out the password, "Yankee Doodle!" and waving their hats.   As they bore down on the line of trenches, they reined their horses to a halt at a line of sharpened wood spikes and walked their horses through, under the watchful eyes of a dozen Continental soldiers. 
 Inside the walls, squads of blue uniformed Continentals were running, in formation, toward the trench line, taking up their positions, ready to repulse an attack if the Dragoons should pursue the matter.  Their rifles primed, they waited for the order to Fire.  A squad of Dragoons broke from the wood, sabers drawn and screaming death curses, they charged up the hill.  The order came and the defenders fired in volley.  Fire and smoke exploded from the trench line and cut into the Dragoons, ripping men from their saddles, breaking the forward momentum of the charge and throwing it into retreat.  They left behind four of their number lying dead on the hillside; three more were unhorsed and retreated on foot, wounded and bleeding. 

    Cashon slipped from his saddle and fell to the ground.  The wound in his upper back was pumping blood onto the ground in a steady torrent.   MacIntyre and Kiel dismounted and ran to him.  Gently, they lifted him and quickly as they could, carried him to the Surgeons tent.  “There is no one here!”  Michael called out in a frantic voice, until a young man in an officer’s uniform came running to the tent with a small black bag of instruments.  "I'm the surgeon,” he said. ‘Let me see the man."  

     Probing till he hit a metal object, it only took a few minutes for the Surgeon to locate the ball in Cashon's chest.  Using a small pair of tongs, he removed it, cleaned the wound with clear water and dressed it.  Then he set himself to the task of setting the arm Cashon had broken when he fell from his horse. 
"An easy day,” said the Surgeon as he stepped out of the tent.  “Your comrade will survive, if the wound heals and infection doesn't set in."

     The Fast Riders shared an evening's meal of squirrel and rabbit broth, generously laden with potatoes and carrots.  But the surviving members of the raiding party sat upwind of the fire and ate their food in quiet.  They had scored a victory against an overwhelming enemy and lived to tell of it.   There would be medals and promotions for everyone.  Maybe even cash from the General himself, after all, Captain Allbright mused, “He is a generous man.” 

                                                                     -*-

     The following morning, a predawn infantry probe at the south wall woke them.  As the sun came over the horizon, Michael, MacIntyre and Kiel paid their respects to Captain Allbright and departed Hearlem Heights.  They rode at a gallop nearly all the way to Fort Washington where they reported to Captain Manapat.  He was ecstatic!  The mission had been accomplished!   "MacIntyre, Kiel, return to your barracks.  Fields, Colonel Knox is going to want to hear this from you directly.  Take these dispatches and be off with you."

     Michael stood on the deck of the Bardett Ferry and watched the Innwood highlands fall away and the Jersey Palisades grow as he passed over the Hudson River and returned to Fort Lee.   By noon, he had arrived at the top of the cliffs and made his way to General Washington's headquarters.  He saluted the sentries as he entered the compound and reported to the Captain of the Guard that he had been ordered to report directly to Colonel Knox's office.
 
     Late in the afternoon, he was conducted to the anteroom of the hut Colonel Knox used as an office and was told to wait while other business was conducted within.  Michael sat in a straight back chair and as the afternoon wore on, the world around him seemed to grow warm and fuzzy, his head nodded and he slept. 

"Lieutenant Fields?"  The voice hadn't been spoken to shock him awake it was soothing yet demanding.  "Lieutenant. Colonel Knox will see you now."

    Michael squeezed the sleep from his eyes, stretched his shoulders and stepped into the Colonel's Office.  The room was a shambles.   Papers and maps covered the desk and table.   Charts and diagrams were tacked to the walls and the smell of tobacco was thick in the room.  Alex Hamilton looked up from the page he was writing and rose.  Michael stood before him and took his hand.

"Michael, I was afraid I would never see you again.”

    Colonel Knox extended his hand to Michael and gauged the man to be near total exhaustion.  “What have you to report, Lieutenant?"

"Sir,” he began, “HMS DRAGON is sunk along with the major part of her cargo.  Of the raiding party, two men are dead, one wounded."

    The Colonel sank back into his chair.  "My God! You did it.  You did it!"  He leaped to his feet.  "You did it!  Great God in heaven, man, you may just have bought us the time we need!  You did it!  Sit down, please sit down."

    Michael seated himself and blinked back the wave of sleep washing over him. "As you can see,” interjected Captain Hamilton, “things have gotten a bit more hectic since last we spoke.  I will be moving with my artillery company the Haerlem Heights to reinforce the positions there.  General Washington and his army are falling back from Long Island and we fear they may be over taken before they can reach our emplacements.   If what you have done is successful, then you may have slowed General Howe's Army down just long enough for us to withdraw in an orderly retreat.  For what you have done, my friend, you have my sincerest congratulations.”

    Colonel Knox threw his cloak over his shoulders and pressed his hat down on his head.  “I must take my leave and report to the General.  Captain Hamilton, I will meet you at Haerlem Heights.  Lieutenant Fields, get some sleep and rest assured, you have earned the undying gratitude of your country and your Commander.

                                                                      -*-

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE ARTILLERYMEN

     Michael returned to Battery Three in time to see the first shots in the siege of Fort Washington fired.  The British Army's pursuit of General Washington had begun on Long Island at the end of August in a pitched battle that left his army stunned but undefeated.  After withdrawing from Brooklyn, General Washington occupied New York City for a short time before retreating up the length of Manhattan Island to the newly fortified positions on Haerlem Heights.  There, during the early fall, the armies faced each other over the narrow valley at the foot of the Lenapi City and exchanged fire in a siege that demolished the fortifications and threw the American Army back to their final stronghold on Manhattan.

     The Royal Engineers drew a ring around Fort Washington and began a calculated siege.  Warily the Artillery and Infantry edged closer.  Siege guns, twenty-four pound monsters, were brought into position and pounded the fortifications.  Mortars lobbed their explosives high in the air and down into the trenches.  The massed infantry sharpened their bayonets and waited for their turn in the battle calculated to open the Hudson River and destroy the rebel army.   Day after day, the big guns of the British and American Batteries traded fire in volleys that echoed up and down the Hudson Valley.  Slowly the noose around the Continental Army tightened till General Washington was forced to withdraw to the Jersey side of the Hudson leaving nearly 3000 troops behind.

                                                                     -*-

     Michael responded to Colonel Knox's summons and presented himself at his commander’s tent.  He was tired and exhausted.  His uniform was covered with soot and his hearing was nearly gone.   The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Clouds of the white smoke drifted on the breeze, burning his eyes and irritating his lungs.  The Colonel sat at a small desk inside a tent and as Michael entered and saluted, he looked up from the dispatches he was reading and gestured for him to sit.

"Lieutenant, you have been ordered to take command of a battery of eight pound mounted field guns and withdraw them to Fort Lee.  There, you are to report to General Washington’s office for further instructions.  You are to leave, immediately."

     Michael rose to his feet, stunned, and stood before his commanding officer, "Sir,” he protested, “I can’t leave my battery.  They depend on me!   I belong here, with the men."

"Lieutenant Fields!  In another day or two this fort is going to fall.  Take this appointment and flee.  I assure you there will be other battles.  Now, assume command of Battery One and be off with you.”

                                                                   -*-

November 16, 1776

     From the west bank of the Hudson, the men of Battery One watched as the battle for Fort Washington reached its crescendo.  Not a word was spoken as they stood by their eight-pound field guns and watched from the Jersey side, unable to help.   The flashes of bombs exploding around Fort Washington, breaking down her defenses and killing the defenders lit the night.  Small concentrated pockets of flashes from musket fire were drawing closer to the outer fortifications.   The sounds of men shouting drifted across the river and settled on the defenders of Fort Lee.   As the night dragged on, the guns fell silent, the rifle fire died and the noise of soldiers locked in combat was replaced by the wail of bagpipes proclaiming victory for the British Army.  Michael felt a warm tear roll down his face. A tear for the brave friends he had left behind.

"Now begins the siege of Fort Lee."  It was Sergeant Leopold, who spoke.   Slowly, Michael turned to face him.  He was an intense black man with a stock of snow-white hair and a beard to match. 

"Sergeant,” his voice nearly cracked. “See that the men and animals are rested and ready.  Our part will begin soon."

"Yes, Sir," said Leopold and began herding the gunners to their barracks.

                                                                       -*-

November 20, 1776

    Michael woke from a troubled sleep to find an orderly apologetically shaking his shoulder.  The cool of the autumn morning chilled him as he rose from his bunk.

"Lieutenant Fields, Sir. General Washington requests your presence in his office.  Immediately."

     The weariness of the past days burned his eyes.  He dressed and walked the path leading to the Headquarters buildings.  For the second time in two days, he found himself in the presence of General Washington and his gathered staff.

"Gentlemen,” the General began and the room hushed.”  The British are landing large numbers of troops north of our position near Dobbs Ferry.   We expect them here in less than 12 hours.   The evacuation has begun."  Alexander Hamilton uncovered a map on a trestle board and pointed out the landmarks and roads.   "Our infantry is already on the move and we hold the cross roads near the Old English Church, here.  You, Gentlemen, will command the rear guard units.  It will be your duty to hold the crossroads till the army has withdrawn.  The main body will then move south along Overpeck Creek Road and cross to the town of Hackensack.  The rear guard, consisting of two companies of infantry, will be supported by a battery of field artillery, commanded by Lieutenant Fields."  

     Michael felt a chill run through him.  “After the army has passed through Hackensack, the Artillery will separate from the rear guard and drive south to the Village of Little Ferry.”  Hamilton pointed to the map, “Lieutenant Fields, the British will try to cut off the retreat by crossing here and driving across Barbadoes Neck to the bridge at the Presbyterian Church."   At the name of his home, Michael’s head snapped up and he found himself looking directly into the General’s eyes.  “You will coordinate with the local militia at Little Ferry and destroy every boat capable of ferrying troops across the river.  You will hold the crossing as long as possible, inflicting casualties upon your enemy as they attempt to cross the river.  Before being overrun you will withdraw and move with all due possible haste to Barbadoes Neck.”  General Washington looked around the room at the intense faces listening to his instructions.  In his mind he could not help but ask of himself, "How many of these fine young men will sacrifice their lives to buy us the time we need?"  He continued aloud, "The main part of our army will cross the Passaic at Gothern and proceed south on the River Road to Newark. The artillery will now act as a diversion.  It will be your duty, Lt. Fields, to occupy the attention of the British.  They know we have withdrawn our artillery and they will want to seize it.  We must make them think it is one place when it is elsewhere.  The diversionary force will rendezvous with Militia forces at the Kingsland Mansion and further delay the British advance.  You will cross the Aquacknunck and join the main body again at the Presbyterian Church Bridge.  Lt. Fields, please wait for me after the briefing to discuss your route and tactics."

"Yes, Sir," he responded.

     The meeting ended with hand shakes and wishes of "Godspeed" all around.   Captain Hamilton waited with Michael while the General made ready to leave, and spent a few minutes reviewing the retreat plan and evaluating the landscape of Barbadoes Neck.  Michael wrestled with the situation, trying to formulate the outline of a plan to lure the British cavalry, which would surely be pursuing him, up onto the cliffs of Copper Ridge and into an ambush.  By the time the General returned, Michael had a rough plan ready.  He answered the General’s questions by relating the mock battles of his youth on the scenic precipice, detailing its strengths and weaknesses and concluding that the bait would be the prospect of capturing the American Army’s Artillery.  “Sir,” he asked. “Will I have Infantry support?”  

    The General shook his head, “No, I am afraid not.  Pick up any stragglers you find and impress them into your force.”  

    Michael spoke up again.  “Sir, I will need at least a mounted scout.  I saw a couple of Captain Allbright’s Fast Riders in the bivouac area.  May I commandeer one of them?” 

“Certainly,” he responded, “and may the good Lord grant you Godspeed on your mission.”

     Michael saluted the General and turned to leave.  Alex was waiting for him and wished him good luck, then parted for his own duty with a handshake and a salute.   Michael mounted his horse and rode at a gallop to the bivouac where he found MacIntyre striking his tent.  “Mac,” he called.  “I have been detailed to divert the British while General Washington retreats from the jaws of this ignominious defeat.  I need a scout.  Do you care to join me?” 

 “Aye, lieutenant,” he growled, his voice sounding like a bear woken from its winter slumber, “There is no where else I would rather be on a day such as this.”

    MacIntyre finished packing his kit and “possibles” into a compact roll, slung it across his horse’s back and mounted.  Together they rode to the west gate of the fort where the six mounted, eight pound field pieces and their crews were waiting for their Commander and the order to move out.

                                                                                   -*-

     Fort Lee was evacuated only hours before the British troops arrived.   Their Officers galloped the length and breadth of the emplacements but found no guns, no stores, and no soldiers.   The cooking fires were still smoldering and odd bits of food dropped by the retreating army had not yet been eaten by the forest animals.  "They're not far away," cried Major Thornsby!  Waving his saber above his head, he signaled the bugler to sound “Recall,” ordered, "Pursue the rebels,” and led his mounted troop at a gallop back out the west gate.

                                                                              -*-

     On the first day of the retreat, Michael’s battery waited at the Old English Church, where the road from Ft. Lee intersected with the road to Dobbs Ferry.  They wheeled their guns into positions that dominated the road and with an entrenched infantry company, they waited.  When the last elements of the army passed, they withdrew and followed the road west until they hit the Overpeck Creek Road, then south to the crossroads where they again waited, with two dozen militiamen.  At mid day, MacIntyre returned at a gallop and reported to Michael.  “Infantry are advancing in skirmish lines through the forest, paralleling along the road.  They will be here within the hour.”

“Very good, Mac.  Join the militia and keep their heads down.  Wait for the order to fire.”  MacIntyre saluted Michael and turned his horse to the rifle pits.

The sound of the Infantry advancing was like cattle crashing through the forest.  They were making no attempt at stealth.  MacIntyre kept an eye on Michael and whispered to the militia to stay down and out of sight till ordered to fire.  Each man hunkered down in the ambush position and checked the priming on his rifle or musket.  MacIntyre lay his tomahawk and knife on the ground next to him and peeked at the advancing line again.  As the red coats stepped into their field of fire, Michael pointed to them and dropped his arm.  MacIntyre yelled, “Now!”  The militia fired on the lead element of the British infantry from their hiding spots.  Their bullets struck their marks and tore into the soldiers killing or wounding five.  The remaining three soldiers returned fire, lowered their bayonets and charged the militia.  MacIntyre screamed an Iroquois curse and rose to meet them.   His tomahawk turned the bayonet of the first soldier and he slashed his throat.  He moved to the two remaining soldiers and raised his tomahawk to strike but they exploded with the simultaneous discharge of rifles from behind him.   MacIntyre returned to his position as the main body of the British Infantry turned on their Officer’s order and advanced on the militia position.  Suddenly they found themselves in the midst of an artillery bombardment.  High explosive shells burst in the air over them, grapeshot tore into their ranks and scattered them.  The wounded withdrew to tend their injuries and wait for reinforcements.   Time had been purchased and Michael signaled to Sergeant Leopold to move the guns.

    Michael’s convoy drove south to the Town of Hackensack and entered to find the once bustling community almost completely deserted.  At the green they found a small detachment of Continentals guarding the bridge.  Michael ordered his train to form a line in the square in front of the church, facing the bridge and dismount.  Sergeant Leopold was directing the placement of the guns when a voice called out for Lieutenant Fields and a Continental Officer approached him.  It was Captain Hamilton.  Michael dismounted and saluted.  The look on Alex’s face was grim.  “Michael, we are about to abandon this position and catch up with the Army.  We picked up four stragglers for you and I have a wagonload of cast-offs we picked up along the route.  Use them as bait for your trap.  Scatter the pieces along the road as you pass.  It should serve to mark the false trail and convince the British to follow you to Copper Ridge.  Meanwhile we will be paying particular attention to our route and remove any telltale debris”

Michael looked at the wagon and nodded.  “Can you spare us some food and water?” 

“Certainly,” responded Alex.  “And good luck.  We must be on our way.”

    As Captain Hamilton’s detachment rode out of the green, Michael gave the order to head south, along the west bank of the Hackensack River, to the Village of Little Ferry.  MacIntyre rode in the supply wagon, at the rear of the column, sporadically tossing pieces of equipment onto the road, seeding the false trail

                                                                                -*-

VILLAGE OF LITTLE FERRY

     The column of artillery pieces arrived at the village green and began the process of placing the guns to dominate the ferry.  The local militia leader met Michael and dispatched his men to commandeer any boats they could find, up and down stream, and bring them to the ferry.  A few straggling soldiers and farmers, fleeing the approaching British, arrived on the east bank and caught the last ferry under the protection of Michael’s guns.  The farmers were directed south to seek refuge in Secaucus, while the six stragglers were assumed into Michael’s command.   

    Michael reviewed his detachment.  He now had ten Continental regulars with him,   none of whom were seriously wounded but they were exhausted and short on powder and shot.  The Artillerymen had been together for nearly a year and although Michael had been with them only since the withdrawal from Fort Washington, they had seen him under fire and told the new troopers of his reputation.  Sergeant Leopold vouched for the Lieutenant and assured the troopers that he was a reliable leader.  Michael’s presence solidified the men into a cohesive team and despite being in retreat, the morale of Battery One was high.  

     From behind the cover of a wall running along the bank of the river, the Artillerymen watched as the thin column of downtrodden civilians passed across the Hackensack, retreating before General Cornwallis’ overwhelmingly superior army.  Deep in their hearts, they felt the crushing weight of the defeats they had suffered since their new country had been born only a few short months ago.  Each felt the urge to run and hide from the pursuing British Army that was bound and determined to crush the rebellion and hang its leaders.  But to run would have been a betrayal of their comrades who would end up being hunted down by Hessians and run through with cold bayonets.  There was strength in their dedication and they stood together, determined that they would succeed or die. 

     By mid-afternoon, the last stragglers had crossed the river and the boats, which had ferried them across were beached and filled with kindling. Now it was their job to convince the pursuing British that Washington’s army was nearby and headed toward Barbadoes Neck.  The artillery and its supporting infantry waited in their bunkers determined to delay the pursuit with just enough vigor to convince the British they were on the right trail.

    An hour after the boats had been secured, a squadron of British Dragoons reigned to a halt at the ferry and began looking for boats to ferry them across.  Major Thornsby sent his outriders up and down stream but they returned empty handed.  Every boat for as far as they had ridden had been taken to the other side.  He screamed curses at his dragoons and ordered Company Three to swim the river and secure the far side.  His Company Commander saluted crisply and led his troop to the water's edge and into the river.  The horsemen did not hesitate. The officer drove them on swearing he would personally flog and hang any man who didn't do his job.

     Michael watched from the far side of the river, hidden in a thicket of maple and chestnut trees.  He mounted his horse and reigned with deliberate slowness, then gave the order to Sergeant Leopold, “Sergeant, you may fire when ready."   Three cannons roared in unison and hurled lengths of chain shot into the gathered cavalry on the far bank, scattering them.   Company Three was in the water when the guns went off.  They urged their horses on but as they hit mid stream, a volley of grapeshot, from a second battery, caught the swimming horses and riders and turned them back.  Men fell from their horses and attempted to swim on.  The Continentals protecting the south flank opened fire on them and turned the river red with their blood.  Their dead bodies floated quietly downstream and Major Thornsby counted them.   "Six dead and another ten wounded,” he grumbled.  “Damm these rebels,” he shouted, then screamed, “When we catch you there will be hell to pay!"  Militiamen with rifles opened fire from hidden positions as a force of Hessian foot soldiers arrived.  Their highly accurate fire cut down the officers with the first volley and began picking off the Sergeants and then inflicted heavy losses on the disorganized troops.  From far beyond the range of musket fire, they forced the British to fall back from the riverbank and seek cover.

    MacIntyre came riding out of the forest on the north flank of the artillery emplacements and reigned up his horse beside Michael.  “Sir, Hessians are crossing up stream.  The militia will engage them shortly but they won’t be unable to hold.  It is time to withdraw.”

    Michael nodded.  “Very well, Mac.  Scout the trail to Barbadoes Neck.  Sergeant Leopold. “In covering formation, prepare to move out.”

    It took only minutes to get the guns and their caissons hitched and moving.  But before withdrawing, the artillery fired one more volley into the army massing on the far bank of the Hackensack.  High explosive shells burst in the air over the cavalry, raining hot steel and death down upon them, unhorsing a dozen riders.  Then, adding insult to injury, the militia fired flaming arrows into the boats setting them on fire as the British horsemen hurled curses from across the river.

    With the added delay thrown before the pursuing cavalry, Michael gave the command, "Drivers, take your guns to the next rendezvous."   He looked to the red cliffs in the distance, his home, and cried, "Move them out!"

    The road ran north from Little Ferry, then turned sharply south, skirting the farms of the Hackensack River Valley until it met the road at the foot of the red cliffs north of Barbadoes Neck.   With the bulk of General Washington’s army a day's march ahead of them and the pursuing British Army a few hours behind them, Lieutenant Field’s artillery arrived at the rendezvous at the foot of Copper Ridge.

     The six guns rolled to a halt at a barricade at the fork on the Acquacknunck River Road manned by a hand full of determined local militia.  Michael dispatched the platoon of infantry that had stood with him at Little Ferry to help man the blockade.   The defenders set themselves to fortifying the position and placed the guns where they would be the most effective.  Then, for the next hours, Michael stood by his cannon while people he knew from his childhood drove by in their wagons.  He saluted each one, calling them by name and smiling at the disbelief they expressed, Neighbor after neighbor passed before him and responded in disbelief, "Michael, is that you?"   In a seemingly endless train, wagons loaded with farm produce plodded up the hill, to Kingsland with drivers lashing their teams unmercifully.  War was coming to Barbadoes Neck.

                                                                               -*-

 “Shall I never get any sleep?"  Major Thornsby threw the blanket off and sat up in his cot.  The insomnia and headaches had returned.  He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pressure in his skull.  "If I cannot sleep, no one shall!  Bugler,” he called.  “Sound the Assembly."
    
    The bugler’s response was too quick and the call was "Alert."   He cursed and threw back the tent flap.  The night was glowing with fires around the perimeter of his encampment.  His Aide, a young Lieutenant from Kent, ran to his side and reported,  “The horses have been scattered, Sir.  The rebels shot fire arrows into the corals.  We are rounding them up now."

    Major Thornsby surveyed the circle of fire and men, then saluted and returned to his tent.  Inside, away from the view of his men, he sat down and nursed his head, the pain was so bad his vision blurred and sound came to him as if from far away.  He took a long drink of brandy.  It burned his throat and erupted like fire in his stomach but it was the only thing that helped the headaches.   He thought as he lay back onto his cot, “Damn fires.  One minute darkness, the next, all around us!  Another delay thrown in front of me by those damn rebels!   The same last night.  The same all day.  Delays, constant and continuous delays but I will not be deterred!  The inevitable may be delayed but it will not be denied...” He drifted off into a troubled sleep.

                                                                                        -*-

     Frederick Van Aulin and Edmund Kingsland stood on the top balcony of the Manor House and looked north.  In the distance the sound of gunfire could be heard and the fires of the bivouacked British columns could be seen.  "Tomorrow they will reach us,” said Kingsland, “and then we shall be tested.  But even as they sweep over us they shall find that there will be no sleep and very little support as they loot our homes.   The King’s army will find little here to forage.  Wherever they go, everything before them, granaries, barns and homes will be empty!  There will be no rest, no comfort and no supply for the pursuers."  He bowed his head in prayer   "Dear Lord in heaven, help us in our hour of trial."

                                                                                       -*-

     In the predawn light, Michael met the commander of the Barbadoes Neck militia, his childhood friend, Frederick.   The warmth of their meeting spread over the group.  The militia now knew that the support of the Continental Army would not fade away as the British approached, the commander of the artillery was one of their own, and someone they knew and could trust.

     Frederick opened the briefing with the news that the main body of the Continental Army had crossed the River at Aquacknunck Bridge and was on the opposite side in a forced march toward Newark.  The pursuers had taken the bait and were following the diversionary force. 

    At dawn, the road to Barbadoes Neck was still empty but the dust of the pursuing British Army could be seen rising in the distance.  The cavalry was galloping at full speed, following what they believed to be the trail of Washington’s retreating army.  Along the diversionary path, the rear guard had seeded the road with debris that a soldier might expect to find along the route of a retreating enemy.  Equipment that might have fallen off a wagon or been discarded had been deliberately left on the road.  Particular attention was paid to littering the trail with artillery paraphernalia.  A cannon ball, a spark bucket at another, a broken caisson wheel and a linstock littered the road.  Piece by piece, a false trail had been left for the Dragoons to follow.

    Michael and Frederick agreed on a plan to make the best use of the Militia and artillery.  They hoped that in one bloody ambush they could make their small force strike with the power of a regiment.   If the plan worked, the battle on Barbadoes Neck would buy more time and give General Washington's retreating army more time to make its escape.

                                                                                -*-

     From the barricade on the River Road, Michael could see the Continental Army weaving its way south on the opposite bank.    The river was still, even tide, its surface perfectly smooth and reflecting the marching column.  To the north, he could see the dust cloud raised by the following British Army.  An arrowhead pointing directly at the false trail they had left.  He turned and addressed Sergeant Leopold.

 The man brought himself to attention.  "Yes Sir."

"I want you to take command of four, five and six guns.  Withdraw them to the top of Copper Ridge.  On the road you will meet militia forces under the command of Captain Van Aulin.   Place yourself and the guns at his disposal.  I'll join you at mid-day.  Mr. MacIntyre, come with me."

     Michael spurred his horse away from the barricade and galloped up the road toward the Kingsland Manor.  
As their commanding Officer road away, the Artillerymen crowded around Sergeant Leopold to listen to the plan.  “We can’t stand against the brunt of the British Army,” he said, “so, when they mass for assault, number two and three guns will hold this position and support the militia until ordered to retreat.   Then ride like the devil is on your tail till you catch up with Lieutenant Fields.  Number one gun will be withdrawn

    A murmur of disapproval rose from the men.  "Scuttled?"  The question came from the Number one gun commander.

 "Its part of the bait," said Leopold.

                                                                                -*-

    Michael rode along the farm path.  It had been heavily traveled over the past two days and now, as he examined the road, it looked like an army had retreated over it.  The militia had worked diligently all night, creating what they thought a retreat route should look like.  Conveniently placed for the pursuing Dragoons and their Hessian hirelings was debris showing that soldiers and artillery had been over the road.  The evidence, strewn before him, showed, even to the untutored, that a large number of wagons and artillery had gone this way.  Back and forth he rode, inspecting the trail.  MacIntyre growled, “It looks good to me, Lieutenant.  If I were Cornwallis, I’d follow it.”  Satisfied, Michael spurred his horse forward to check the ambush site.

                                                                                 -*-

     The Indian Trail begins on the shallow west face of Copper Ridge where it comes out of the orchards and rises slowly with the land till it comes to the Kingsland Manor House.  There it branches right, through a gateway of set stones to the Manor House, and left to the meticulously maintained roadway for the balance of its run to Schuyler’s Manor.   Michael paused at the beginning of the surfaced road and marveled at the splendor of the Kingsland House.  It seemed more beautiful than he recalled.  He put spurs to horse and galloped down the trail, past the stone portal and up to the house.

    The Manor house had been the center of his childhood and Michael recalled the sounds of music and laughter that had drifted from the windows in better times.  Today, the lawns were filled with people milling about.  Michael dismounted and left MacIntyre to tend the horses.  He walked to the Manor House steps where a young militiaman stood, rifle at his side and requested to be presented to Master Kingsland.

 “Michael Fields!"   The voice rang out in surprise from inside the house and Master Kingsland strode through the parted double doors.  He was as tall and muscular as in his youth.   A man used to getting what he wanted by sheer physical strength.  Nearing fifty, he still had the energy of a man half his age and the foresight of one twice as old.  "Michael," he said again as he stepped onto the porch and embraced him as he would have his son.

    The mid-morning sun streamed through the windows and warmed the library.  Kingsland sat and beckoned Michael to sit with him.  Both wished there was more time for talk of the past but the conversation was forced to center on the present and the approach of the British Army.

 “Master Kingsland, General Washington sends his compliments and this dispatch,” Michael still felt the need to address him as such. “A hungry and foraging army is approaching!   Your people must hide their food and fodder, least it be confiscated."

"That is already being done.”  Kingsland mused as he read the letter.  “Is there anything else we can do?"

"Yes Sir, General Washington thanks you for directing the Militia to work with us and requests they continue to harass the British after we have passed.  Anything you can do, felling trees across the road, digging trenches in their path and, in particular, ambush will be appreciated."  Kingsland nodded in agreement.  

    A manservant brought a draft of ale for each of them and Kingsland insisted that Michael catch up on what had become of his home and family.  The first news he revealed was that Elizabeth had remarried and moved to Pennsylvania, nearly a year ago.  Her new husband was Gerald Van Cleft, the cabinetmaker.   Michael recalled him and with a feeling of loss he inquired about his sister, Anne.  "She has also left,” said Kingsland.  “She and her husband, Philip and their baby boy, left westbound, with the first wagon train of the spring."

 Michael nodded his head sadly and rose to leave.

"Before you go, Michael, there's someone here I think you want to see.  Please, follow me."

     Kingsland led the way through the hall to a stairwell hidden behind a broom closet which Michael had heard about in his smuggling days.  Down they climbed to the sub-basement where the oily light of lamps and candles illuminated the smuggler's keep.  It had been turned into a hiding place for a more valuable commodity, people.
 Michael ran his hand along the impossibly smooth walls of the cellar.  They were like a piece of pottery and on the surface he could see, under layers of whitewash, the outlines of symbols that had no right being in the home of an Englishman.   Lenapi power symbols, earth symbols, the face of Masingua, sky symbols depicting alignments of stars and land, telling of events long ago.  They had been whitewashed over but still they peeked through.

    A stench rose out of the chamber.  It was the smell of death!   Even Kingsland recoiled from it before forging onward.  The cellar floor was covered with wounded Continental soldiers and militiamen lying on litters.  Women from the nearby villages were caring for their broken bodies and torn limbs.  These were their friends, their relatives, their husbands and their children!  Blood stained the floor and walls and moans of agony and despair welled up to a level just under human hearing and spilled over into the soul.  Michael shivered and followed Kingsland down to a second sublevel and then to a third beneath that!   The smell was nauseating, the light level dim and the sound overwhelming.  Near the ladder leading to still another lower level, he recognized one of the women.  It was Mrs. Van Winkle, the midwife who had birthed him.  Old now and bent, but still ordering her assistants around with the demeanor of a general.  Michael introduced himself and after a brief greeting, Master Kingsland directed him to the far corner where a young woman was kneeling beside a cot.  He recognized her immediately.  Faith Dowd was sobbing uncontrollably, clutching the body on a litter.   Her white dress was splattered with blood and her hair disheveled.   He knelt beside her and touched her shoulder, "Faith," he whispered.  She stirred, turned to see a Continental Officer.  Blinded with tears, she didn’t recognize him at first, and then breathed his name as if it were a prayer.

 "Michael."  She fairly slumped on to him and buried her face in his chest.  Michael looked down at the body before her.  It was his childhood friend, Wilhelm.  A cold chill went through his heart.  He staggered and whispered a silent prayer.  Wilhelm’s red hair was tied in a tight tail at the back of his head.  His eyes were closed.  His chest was covered with blood from a gun shot wound.  His body was cold. 

"We were to be married," she said and broke into open tears that flowed down her face as spasms of grief wracked her body.   Michael took her by the shoulders and pulled her up.   Their eyes met.  Her crying was a torrent of torn emotions.  “I’ve no one left,” she moaned and clutched at her hair.   "Michael, my whole family is dead!"  She sobbed, holding herself close to him, "And now you're back.  Why is this happening to me?”  In tears she hugged him.  “Oh, Michael, I'm alone."

"Faith,” he whispered in her ear, “I thought I had lost you.   I won't lose you again."  For long moments they clung to each other, and then she gently pulled away.  “Michael, take me away.  There is nothing left for me.  Take me with you.”

“I’m a soldier, Faith.  The army is in retreat.  You are safer here.”

“No!  I don’t care.  I’ll live with the women following the camp.  I have nothing here.  Take me with you,” she begged.
His heart ached.  She was the love he had left behind and now that he had returned, he found her in need and without support.

“Master Kingsland will protect you,” he offered.

“No,” she whispered, “he has his own battles to fight.  Take me with you.” 

He could not help himself as he held her and nodded his agreement.   "First, there is something I must do."  He touched the lobe of her ear with his lips and whispered. 

"When this madness is done, General Washington's Army will be safe and on their way to Morristown.  Meet me at the Presbyterian Church and I will take you with my troop.  It will not be easy, there will be much hardship.” 
She trembled in his arms.  “I know,” she said, “but there is nothing left for me here."

    He held her tight and felt her hug him back with fire, fiercely clinging to him, unwilling to release her embrace.  "Michael, I want to stay with you."

"No," he whispered.  I'm meeting the British in ambush.  I can't allow you to place yourself into that.  Meet me at the church.  Then we will join General Washington’s army."

"No!"   Her eyes burned with crazed and confused emotions.  “I go where you go.  I have been through hell in the past week.   I won't let you go and never hear from you again."

    Michael looked at her, emotions screaming that he should not leave her behind again. “Collect what ever you can take and meet me at the church.  Today, we are wedded in love and death.  Soon, my men will close a trap on the British and extract some measure of vengeance for what they have done.  Then we shall be off.  Together.”

                                                                                   -*-

     They came up from the basement hand in hand and walked out of the study, into the strong sunlight bathing the porch.  Its brilliance, though filtered through the yellow, dying maple leaves, nearly blinded them.  The air around them was sweeter than they ever recalled.  A sob wracked through Faith's body as they stepped out and turned to meet Master Kingsland.   He smiled as they approached and remembered a gentler time, so many years ago, when he had watched them walking hand in hand.  He rose from the wicker chair and embraced Faith like a daughter, then turned to Michael.

"Take this letter with you, Michael.  It's to your old friend, Frederick Van Aulin. He is our local militia commander."

"Yes sir, I have already met him and we are working on an ambush."

“Very good.  These are directives for protecting the residents when the British arrive.  Until then, he'll give you all the help he can.  And now, God speed to both of you."

    Faith sobbed back a tear as Michael mounted his horse and rode with MacIntyre down the cedar-lined path leading to the Indian Tail.  Kingsland looked to her as she preyed.  "God preserve him and bring him back to me."

“Be off, now, lassie,” said Kingsland.  "We both have serious business to tend to." 

                                                                                    -*-

    Michael returned to his men, with his spirits brightened.   The tragedy of Wilhelm's death was outweighed by the joy of being reunited with Faith even though her tragedy bore heavy on his mind he was determined to sooth and comfort her.  Strangely, he felt himself brighter and lighter having found her again and with the thought of her in his mind, he no longer wanted to fight.   The thought of fleeing the war and the killing with the woman he loved and starting a new life and family sent a flush of comfort through him.   The ambush plan ran through his mind and he shivered.  “Am I beginning to enjoy the killing?”  The thought ignited a horror in his mind as he thought of Calik and his clan fleeing west.  He questioned himself, could he turn his back and leave the cause of independence behind?  By sundown, the fight would be done and he could take Faith west to Sumnytown where they could meet up with Calik.  The thought troubled him as he rode to the Indian Trail. 

    Numbly, he handed Kingsland’s letter to Frederick who read it and grunted.  "The worst is yet to come," he said. 
 In the neighborhood of their childhood, Frederick and Michael chose the best spot for their ambush.  They set the scene along the steepest edge of the cliff, where the road rounded a bend.  A spot, where as children, they had fought innumerable battles.   Today, they laid out the battle again, but this time, in earnest.  

    The plan was to roll two cannon up behind the advancing British force and trap them between it and three guns emplaced in a barricade blocking the road in front of them.  The militia would fortify the blockade and the British would be trapped between them and the sheer cliff.  Their only escape would be into the forest where an entrenched company of militia would be waiting.

"It's a good plan, Michael; I hope they fall for it,” said Frederick.  “But when this is done, the weight of reprisal shall fall upon us here on Copper Ridge."

"If it fails,” responded Michael, “there will be reprisal on a grand scale.  The General and his staff will be hanged and the army killed or sold into slavery.  This is a desperate hour, my friend, if we fail, we'll all be dead, including this new nation of ours.”

    Frederick led Michael to the camouflaged bunker where number three and four guns would be hidden.  It was a wall of freshly cut, still green oak saplings woven together and set into the forest about 100 feet from the road.  At that distance, it blended into the woods and would concealed the guns, their crews, supplies, two dozen militiamen and the building materials needed to construct the barricade behind the British force.  Michael saluted.

"Excellent,” he said. “Is the front end of our trap in as good a condition as this end?"

"Probably better.  Shall we inspect?"

"Lead the way," said Michael.

                                                                                                 -*-

     The roar of the three cannons greeting the advance force of the British Army could be heard across Barbadoes Neck.  The crack of rifle fire bristled through the air and the people shivered.   The British Army was at their doorstep!  For nearly a half-hour, the firing continued unabated as the rear guard held the pursuers back from a quarry they could almost taste.

    Eventually, an overwhelming force gathered before the roadblock and threatened to over run it.  At the last possible moment Frederick gave the order for his militia to withdraw into the forest and cover the withdrawal of the artillery.  Sergeant Leopold directed the wagons hauling number two and three guns onward. They rumbled past him as he stood beside cannon that had been run off the side of the road.  The moment was rapidly approaching. The number one gun crew was prepared to explode the gun's barrel by filling it with mud and firing it.

    He inspected their work and stepped back.  A long fuse was set into the touchhole and at his order they touched a linstock to it and took cover.   The crew ducked behind trees and rocks and waited.  The explosion tore the gun open like a ragged wound and broke the carriage.  Leopold barked at the men to hide the gun, knowing their deliberately half hearted effort to hide the ruined gun left a clear path to it.   Sergeant Leopold shook his head and ordered the men away.  "Such a waste," he thought.

                                                                                     -*-

    Major Thornsby led his troop up the well-worn farm road, wary of another ambush yet anxious to overtake his prey.  A young lieutenant rode up and saluted.  "Sir, flankers have found a scuttled eight pounder and it's caisson in the woods.  The metal is still hot!"  Thornsby smiled, "We're on them now."

    The lead element of his cavalry mounted the crown of Copper Ridge without further incident and took the right fork leading to the Kingsland Manor.   When the column reached the gates of the Manor House they found the citizens of Barbadoes Neck gathered behind the walls, not huddled in fear, but angry, armed and determined to resist the invading army.  

    Edmund Kingsland, in a repeat of his actions some ten years before, stood in the front line of the citizens wearing a brace of pistols across his body and holding a drawn saber in his hand.  He stood squarely in the gate barring the column’s advance.

"Major, your soldiers are not welcome on Barbadoes Neck and certainly not in the homes of her residents.  The Manor House before you is a symbol of our rights as British Citizens.   Violence here will be seen by my people as an example of what will happen to their homes.  Your assault will be met with resistance and the deaths of many of your troops and,” his voice trembled, “many of my people."

     Kingsland stood firmly in front of the advancing cavalry and then took a step forward to address the Officer at the head of the column in a lower voice.  "I am begging you, Sir.   Do not do this thing."

     Again, as had happened years before, a British Officer charged to conduct his duty, faced the determined leader of a rebel host.  Rifles, some with bayonets, bristled over the wall surrounding the mansion.  Behind each was an American, a citizen determined to defend his home.  "These Yankees,” he thought as he surveyed the line before him, “they fight like savages, from behind trees and walls."

    Thornsby looked around him and conferred briefly with his adjutant.   "Our mission is to pursue and engage the retreating rebel army, not to skirmish with armed farmers," he said loudly.  Then in a lower voice, to Master Kingsland, "Particularly, if they are holding a fortified position."

    He knew his troops were tired.  They had been in hot pursuit of the rebels for two long days and now that they were closing in on the trailing element, he could not delay.  There was a strong chance he could overtake the artillery at the Aquacknunck River bridge near the Presbyterian Church and cut off the rebel army.  But every moment these sympathizers delayed him, his quarry moved farther away.

 "Bypass them," Thornsby said to his second in command.   "We must overtake the rebel artillery."

    He raised his arm, stood in the stirrups and waited for the Sergeant Major to call the detachment to attention and then signaled the column to follow him.  In perfect formation, the mounted soldier’s turned their horses and rode off the estate and back to the plank road along the edge of the forest.  As they rode back down the trail, Thornsby wondered, how many more men with rifles were hiding in the forest around them. 

    Kingsland stood in front of his home and watched the cavalry ride away. Then the fear he had tried not to show overtook him and he shook so violently he couldn't sheathe his saber.  As he walked back to the manor house, words of thanks and approval from the people relieved his fear that the mansion might become a battleground.  He paused and whispered a silent prayer, "God have mercy on you Major, for this day your duty will be your doom."

                                                                               -*-

    The mounted troop cantered past the hidden position, unaware of the danger.  As the last trooper passed the thicket where the guns were hidden, green branches dropped to the ground and the crews rolled the cannons forward, onto the road and prepared them for firing.   More men, some in buckskins, others in farmer’s clothing, moved out of the forest carrying notched logs, which they quickly assembled into a barricade.  Within minutes, they had built an emplacement that barred the road and fortified it with the two eight-pound guns and their supporting Continental infantry.  The Militiamen primed their rifles and settled into their firing positions.  The only thing left was to wait for the retreating cavalry to charge into their position.

                                                                                -*-

    The Dragoons rode along the edge of the cliff, their horses making a rumbling, thunder on the plank road.   Thornsby was confident they were closing the distance on a Battery size element of the rebel army's artillery.  The troopers were almost jovial as they admired the beauty of the well-tended gardens and homes on their right and the steep cliff overlooking the Hackensack basin on their left.    

    A cold shiver went down Thornsby’s spine.  He didn't like what he felt.   There was something wrong!  The road they were on was almost perfect for an ambush.  But he lacked experience fighting either Indians or Colonials and recognized his fear just a little too late.

    Three cannon in a fortified position blocking the road opened fire.  Their words of death tore into the column at nearly point blank range!  Grapeshot ripped into the leading mounted troops, tearing men and horses to pieces.  Men in the middle ranks were splattered with the blood and gore of their officers and comrades.  Rifle fire erupted from the forest and tore into the still dazed ranks. Horses brayed, standing on their hind legs, trying to flee the smell of death.
 Sergeant Leopold ordered the number six gun to fire.  Their roar sent chain shot and nails into the column.  The number four and five gun crews reloaded in precise military cadence, and then fired again.  Grapeshot ripped through the cavalry, shredding flesh and bone.  The Dragoons fell like summer wheat, cut down in a smoking instant.  Rifle fire erupted from the forest and sent horses over the edge of the cliff.  Their riders desperately clawed at the sheer rock face trying to save themselves.

     At a sharp command from within the shattered ranks, the Dragoons turned in a disorderly retreat, galloping back down the road, out of sight and range of the guns, seeking cover in the defilade of the forest, desperately trying to buy time to regroup and then turn and flank through the forest.  

    Another cannon fired.  This time from in front of them!  More troopers were torn from their mounts and thrown to the ground like bloody rag dolls.  The horses panicked as a second cannon fired, then rifle fire volleyed.   The private soldiers called to their officers, "Which way?  Which way?"

    The mounted troop had been dramatically reduced by the ambush.  Nearly half had been unhorsed and massacred by a few rounds of cannon shot and a volley of well aimed rifle fire!   Thornsby held the saddle as his mount reared up in pain and panic.   "We can't go forward, we can't go back," he screamed to the sky as the cannon roared again.  This time pain tore through his body.  A ball of grapeshot took his arm off at the shoulder, lifted him out of his saddle and threw him to the road in disbelief.

"Into the forest," called the Sergeant Major.  The remaining men spurred their horses into the thickets and squarely into the teeth of the entrenched militia waiting for them. 

    Thornsby lay in the dust beside the plank road as two men carrying rifles approached.  The sky spun over his head and he looked out over the edge of the cliff to the salt meadows beyond.  He ordered his body to stand and draw his saber but found himself strangely sleepy.  He looked for the arm that used to hold the saber and found it no longer there.  Instead, a ragged stump, spilling his life's blood down his tunic and onto the rutted planks, refused to answer his command.

    He tried again to stand but the effort made him sleepier.  He rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head, hiding from the Nanny sent to wake him. "Come now, Master Thornsby or you will be late for school."  Her voice drifted down a long corridor and faded away.  The stream of blood pumping out of his shattered arm ran over the planks and pooled at the edge of the road, until a thin trickle ran over the cliff and blended into the red clay of Copper Ridge.  In the distance, he heard his Nanny, coaxing him, "Get out of bed, Lawrence, or you will be late."  But it was so comfortable and warm, he just couldn't rouse himself.   The sun set, the stars came out and it grew darker...and darker.

"This one's a Major,” called Frederick as he took the saber from the severed arm and admired it.  “Looks like we hurt them real bad."

     Michael shook his head.  Nearly fifty men had been slaughtered in a matter of minutes.  Torn pieces of their bodies lay scattered across the road.  The planks were slick with blood, bowels and brains.  Pieces of flesh and uniforms hung from the roadside trees where they had been scattered as if by some insane and vengeful deity.   Cries of agony rose from the wounded soldiers and animals as their blood slowly seeped into the dust.  Michael surveyed the destruction.  This was what he had planned.  He trembled at the precision and effectiveness of his plan. So many men, no different than himself, had been slaughtered in only a few minutes.  His hands shook as he slowly trod through the ambush site.  Dying soldiers raised their hands begging for mercy.  He thought of Faith. "When this day of madness is over I can resign my commission as easily as I accepted it.  I don’t want to do this any longer.  No more of this.  No more!"

                                                                                   -*-

     The Bergen Militias delayed the pursuing British Armies by using every conceivable method and tool available.   Repeatedly, they blunted the leading point of the British forces but the main body inexorable pressed on.  For the remainder of the day, Michael’s company wheeled their five cannons about Barbadoes Neck lending support to the militia, presenting the appearance of a larger and better equipped force than they actually were.  

    Across Barbadoes Neck desperate fighting took place between men defending their homes and a professional army intent on crushing a rebellion.  The militias engaged the invading army at every house and shop, and then faded into the forest.  The residents burned their fields of winter wheat and hid live stock and grain, leaving nothing for the invading army.  Their sacrifices bought precious time and miles for the main body of General Washington's army.  

     As daylight waned and evening descended over the Aquacknunck Valley, Michael watched from the top of Copper Ridge.  From his vantage point on the ridge above the Schuyler Mansion, he watched as his artillery rolled down the west face of Barbadoes Neck to the bridge and then across it.  He looked east, to the marshlands and north to the Kingsland Manor house and judged the progress of the British Infantry column advancing on the Plank Road toward them.  Before him was the Presbyterian Church and Faith.  If all went well, she would be waiting there for him.  He spurred his horse forward, just as musket fire broke out in the forest behind him and MacIntyre prompted him to go faster.

    He galloped down the hill and reined his horse to a halt at the bridge where Frederick and a handful of his militiamen waited.   The five pieces of artillery had joined with the Belleville Militia force holding the west end of the bridge.  

"Michael, this is as far as we can help,” said Frederick.  “My men are spent.  One in four has been wounded or killed."  His voice almost broke as he took a deep breath and continued.   "On the west bank, there are more militia covering the retreat.  They are waiting for you.  But in the meantime”, he gestured to six red uniformed men sitting on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs.  “We cannot hold these prisoners.  Do you have any suggestions on how to handle them?"

    He started to speak, then caught himself as murmurs of "Kill them” rose from the militiamen standing nearby.   Each of the prisoners was a battle hardened soldier and all were wounded, two seriously.  He shook his head, "I'll have no murdering of prisoners,” he said.  “Take their uniforms and let them go."  The magnanimous gesture lightened his heart, then he saluted his old friend and said, "May God keep you and your family safe through the coming storm, Frederick." Then he spurred his horse across the bridge thinking only of Faith and a new world for both of them.

    On the far side of the river he found his guns had been entrenched and the defenders were steeled to hold back the British forces massing to storm the bottleneck.  He dismounted in the churchyard and called orders to the men, alerting them to be prepared to fire, destroy the bridge and flee at a minute’s notice.

     In the knave, Michael found Faith waiting for him.  She wore a riding cloak over her dress and lying on the floor was a small bundle of her possessions.  They clung to each other for a few sweet seconds, hiding from the horrors outside the church door, safe, for the moment, in each other’s arms.  "Marry me,” whispered Michael, “here in this church. Now."

"I love you, Michael,” she whispered.  “I take you as my husband till death parts us."

"I take you, Faith, as my wife.  Forever,” he responded

 Their lips met as they entwined each other in their arms.  For a few seconds the noise outside drifted away as they held each other and drifted gently, swaying to the beat of their hearts.

"When the guard retreats, we can take the forest trails north to Gothern.   There we can pick up the Aquacknunck parties moving west and join them.  I'll never leave you again, I promise."

    The warnings called out by lookouts in the church tower echoed through the red stone building.  "Infantry approaching in column formation!"  Rifle fire barked from the uppermost levels of the steeple and soldiers in the stiff ranks of the advancing army fell dead or wounded.  Coldly, riflemen in the tower fired and then stepped back to allow another marksman to fire while they reloaded.   The range advantage of the Pennsylvania rifle was three to four times that of the musket and with the extra benefit of being high in the church steeple they were taking a toll on the approaching British infantry.  The marksmen fired with utter impunity at targets arrayed before them, picking out the officers and slaughtering them, exacting a heavy toll on the leading edges of the British force.  Officers, who thought themselves out of range, fell dead under the withering fire, their orders dying with them.  The army slowed its advance, hesitated and then fell back, out of range of the deadly hail.  Delayed again!   A few more precious minutes of life and hope, bought for the Continental army by the determination and accuracy of men who called themselves Patriots.

     Hand in hand, Michael and Faith left the church and prepared to mount their horses but half way across the churchyard they stopped.  Fifty yards upstream shadows moved and Michael squinted into the growing gloom.  A squad of British soldiers were crawling out of the river, bayonets fixed, drying and priming their muskets, preparing to flank the barricade.  Michael screamed an alarm for his men to meet the new threat.  Just as they fired, a musket ball struck him in the left knee.  The leg gave out under him.  He tumbled to the ground with a scream of agony, blood gushing through his fingers as he clutched the shattered leg.  Faith screamed in anguish as he fell to the ground and dropped down beside him.  Frantically she pulled his hands from the wound trying to examine it.  Crying his name, tears blinding her, his blood running through her fingers, she tried to bind the wound with a strip of cloth torn form her dress.  MacIntyre came to his side and dragged him to his feet then hoisted him over his shoulder.  The big man grabbed Faith’s arm and pulled her along with him. 

    Militiamen ran forward to engage the infiltrators and cover the evacuation of their wounded officer.  Two men took his arms over their shoulders and lifted him, his scream of agony echoed down the valley and tore through Faith's heart.  MacIntyre hefted his rifle and fired. Then drew a pistol and fired it at the squad of British soldiers charging them.  Regulars with bayonets came to his side and engaged the British.  Muskets crossed and clattered, the well trained British soldiers parried their thrusts and ran the Continentals through in close quarter’s combat.  MacIntyre waded into the fray and slashed out with his knife.  Blood burst from his opponents as he killed one soldier and smashed his tomahawk into the skull of a second red coat.  Close range musket fire erupted and killed another of the attackers as he grappled with a bearded sergeant and rammed a knife into his chest.  MacIntyre let the body fall and turned to meet the next soldier as a bayonet was rammed into his chest. Blood gushed from the wound as he sank to the ground and musket fire finished off the last of the attackers.

    Through eyes filled with tears, Faith watched as men loaded Michael and MacIntyre onto litters and carried them up the hill to a place where the wounded were being tended.  Pain like white hot fire shot through Michael’s leg when the men picked him up.  Fighting back the agony, he called out through a gathering red haze, "Faith."

"I'm here," she said and took his hand as they carried him away from the gunfire and into the forest.

 There were dozens of wounded men lying on blankets under the nearly naked trees.  Some were quiet, others moaned in their pain.  Women moved among them administering rum, as an anesthetic and changing bandages where they could.  Most of the wounded wore some remnant of the Continental Army uniform, as did the men caring for them, and carrying them to carts and wagons, preparing only the lightly wounded for evacuation.  

    The surgeon's hut had been the home of a notorious Tory.  Michael remembered how in years past, he had delivered    goods here.  But the family had fled in the face of the battle leaving their home to the patriot militias.  From inside the house came screams of pain and anguish, as shattered limbs were set or amputated and torn bodies were sewn together.  Faith helped carry the litter into the hut and then stood by, holding his hand, feeding him rum as fast as he could drink it till he became incoherent and slurred his words with intoxication.   Then, it was his turn to be taken to the surgeon, groggy but still conscious.  

    The doctor was a woman, probably a midwife, working today to save some of the lives she had delivered into the world.  She looked at the leg, probed the wound with blood caked hands and said, "He’s lucky!   The kneecap is gone and part of the joint with it but if it is kept immobile, it will heal.  The best we can do is bind the wound.  When it heals, it will be stiff but he'll still have it.”  Michael wavered between dream and reality, as Faith called his name.  Through the fog of his pain he watched as the next litter was placed on the table.  MacIntyre’s head rocked back and forth as the doctor examined him and shook her head in despair.  “Hot water,” she called and began removing the bandage.

                                                                               -*-

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE SURVIVORS

     Through the night and into the next day, Michael lay on a thin pile of straw in a lean-to hidden in the forest.  He slept fitfully but only when the totality of exhaustion overwhelmed the throbbing pain in his left knee.  Faith stayed with him, tending the wound, foraging for food and when she thought he was asleep, she cried in the darkness, unable to relieve his pain, unable to comprehend her own.  Rifle shots, distant shouts and screams echoed through the forest, adding an edge of terror to his pain.  He drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by gunfire and anguished screams, some of which were his own.

    Throughout the second day he slipped in and out of reality, sleeping and waking, drifting on an opaque cloud of alcohol and tobacco.  The cold of night came all too quickly, after only the briefest warmth of daylight, and he shivered uncontrollably till he felt Faith’s body nuzzle up next to him, gently wrapping herself around him, sharing her body heat and whispering encouragement in his ear.

     In the early morning hours before sunrise on the third day, people came and placed him onto a litter.  Barely awake but aware of Faith’s presence, he allowed himself to be lifted onto a wagon with other wounded soldiers and militia.  He bit back the pain in his leg and tried to talk to the other men as the wagon rumbled along a rough trail through the forest.  Lying on a litter beside him was MacIntyre.  He looked pale and thin.  His breathing was shallow and he made no sound at all.  The wagon bounced over the rough road, causing the wounded passengers to cry out in new pain.  MacIntyre whimpered as a bump tossed him in the air a few inches and slammed him back onto the hard wood bed of the wagon.  His wound broke open and the red stain on his bandage spread and began dripping onto the wagon bed.  Michael cried out at the same bump as did most of the wounded but by the time they arrived at the Presbyterian Church and the bridge, he didn’t have to be told to be quiet, he had passed out again.

    Half way across the bridge, Michael roused from his delirium.  In the distance he heard a guttural, accented voice ask for tax papers.  He felt the pause and heard the change in the soldier’s voice and manner.  He knew a bribe had been paid to allow their passage and his days as a smuggler passed before him, as if in a dream.

    Up the Plank Road to Schuyler’s Manor, then down the east face of Copper Ridge, into the rays of the new morning sun, the wagon rolled on until it reached the mouth of Schuyler’s mine.  Men and women from the Schuyler and Kingsland communities lifted the litters from the wagon and carried them into the cave and deep into the tunnels beneath Copper Ridge.  Behind them, the walking wounded were escorted in and shown to the branch where dozens more wounded Continental soldiers lay in the dim light of a few flickering candles.  Deep down in the cold bowels of the earth, in a place where his nightmares had come to life, Michael huddled with his wounded neighbors and comrades while British soldiers scoured the countryside, searching door to door, with their Hessian hirelings, for wounded men.  Whispers of atrocities came to his ear.  Reports of mass arrests and summary executions circulated in the cave.  The British army was making Bergen an example to the rest of the colonies.  What was happening to his neighbors was meant as a warning to the American rebels; “This is the price of rebellion.”

    Deep inside the mine, away from the warming rays of the sun, Faith tended his leg, fearing it would turn gangrene.  In the pale light of a few candles, she cleaned the wound with fresh water and replaced the brown caked bandages with fresh ones and coaxed him to eat some of the soup sympathetic neighbors brought to them.  Hourly, she inspected the wound, cleaned it and tried to make him just a little more comfortable as fever wracked his mind and body.  

    The moaning and wailing of the wounded tormented Michael’s sleep.  At odd hours he woke to the same dull light, the stench of rotting flesh and the cries of the dying.  Next to him MacIntyre woke from his own sweating nightmare and called to Michael.  His skin was pallid and his breathing rapid.  The blood soaked bandage wrapped around his chest slipped as he pushed himself up on his elbow, revealing a purple wound.

 “Lieutenant, I’m not going to make it out of this tomb.  The price is too high,” he coughed and fell back onto his cot.

 “You will make it. Mac.  Keep swimming. I won’t let you drown.”

 Five days later, as a cold, north wind blew across Barbadoes Neck, the British Army returned to their winter quarters on Manhattan Island, their work done.  The rebel army had been routed and the population chastised.  General Clinton was supremely confident That General Cornwallis would run the rebels to ground and ordered his command transferred back to New York City where they could rest easily through the winter.  By spring, the rebellion would be just an unpleasant memory.

                                                                              -*-

     When the invaders departed, the wounded, who had survived their injuries and the cold hiding places, were taken from the mine and a dozen other keeps and brought out into the sun. The few wagons and carts that remained to the people of Barbadoes Neck came to the mine and helped return the wounded to their homes and families.  Faith and Michael waited another two days, until the sun shone and the wind turned mild before beginning their trek to the Dowd household.  They knew the journey would be long and painful and Michael need to muster all his strength before setting out on a journey that in his youth would have taken little more than an hour.  With a crude crutch to support him, he hobbled along the plank road, stopping often to catch his breath and give the pain welling up his leg and into his back a chance to recede.  When, at last, they entered the tumbled down remnant of Faith’s home, Michael collapsed onto the floor and cried with pain, anger and frustration.  The beautiful cottage that had been built by three generations of the Dowd family had been looted and ransacked.  The colored glass windowpanes had been smashed and hardly a piece of furniture or a utensil had been left behind.  A torch had been thrown into a corner of the cottage but failed to start a fire, miraculously sparing the building as the British Army looted its way across Bergen.

    Through the winter, Michael and Faith struggled to put the house back into some sort of order and reopen the ferry.  Reestablishing the service would provide them with a means to support themselves until they could move west.  The rampaging army had destroyed two of the three barges the Dowd family owned.  The third was barely serviceable and leaked heavily. On each trip across the river, Faith labored tirelessly to bail out the hold and keep it afloat.  After dark, she spent hours in the bilge caulking the planks by the light of a single candle.  Her efforts were rewarded and the barge held through the winter.

    Simple chores were an effort for Michael but each day he pushed himself further, pressing himself to do the tasks required to maintain even the most impoverished of households.  Day by day, he drove himself to exceed the previous day’s accomplishments, least they perish in the frigid depth of winter.  Every night, Michael and Faith sat together in front of their fire, warming themselves, nursing his leg and massaging the sore muscles Faith accumulated during her long work day.  Together, they slept huddled under a blanket that somehow had escaped the looting army and whispered their plan to find a place of peace away from the madness of the war.

    In January, the weather turned bitterly cold.  Snow piled up to a never before seen depth and the residents of Barbadoes Neck struggled to keep their hearth fires burning.  Storms of unparalleled ferocity pummeled the Atlantic coast through the winter of 1777, dumping unimagined amounts of snow on New York City and freezing the harbor solid.  Behind the shuttered windows and doors of the British Headquarters, the army warmly housed in their winter encampment, celebrated their victory and laid plans for a spring offensive.

                                                                                     -*-

    The howling wind woke Faith.  She rolled over to find Michael had thrown off his blanket and was lying nearly naked, sweating and mumbling on the bed.  She touched his forehead and pulled the blanket over his shoulders as he tossed about.  The temperature outside was below freezing and though the wind was whistling at the eves, he was burning with fever.  She placed a wet cloth across his head and listened as her husband called out to men long dead and gave orders to “Man the guns and prepare to fire.”

                                                                                -*-

     The first visitor to their home was Eric.  He brought a slab of smoked venison, a sack of potatoes and sad tidings.  His brother James and his wife, Sara, had died during the winter.  Their home had been damaged by the army and collapsed under the weight of built up snow.  Sara’s legs were broken and crushed in the collapse and she developed a fever that killed her only a few days after the accident.  James died only a day later of like injuries.  Eric and his wife, Carol, took the orphaned girls, Catherine and Elizabeth into their home and treated them as their own.

    Eric tried to console Faith on the loss of her fiancé, Wilhelm, and broke into tears at the mention of Frederick’s name.  The British had searched Frederick’s home and found a saber belonging to one of their officers.  He was hung from the tree in front of his house while his wife and family looked on.  Neighbors they both knew had starved or frozen or just given up and died over the winter.  The price Bergen had paid for rebellion was devastating.  Hardly a family was spared the ravages of retribution and the worst winter in memory.

    Spring broke none too soon for Michael and he took his first unaided steps outside the cabin to sample the fresh air and warm sunshine.  As the crocus bloomed, people came out of their winter hiding places and began to put their lives back together.  The farmers brought out what little crops they had hidden from the looters and took them to market to trade for seed.  

    The ferry, once an important part of the livelihood of Barbadoes Neck, returned to its former prominence as a means of enabling trade.  As the days steadily warmed, the traffic across the Hackensack grew and lines of impatient travelers stood on both banks demanding passage.  Soon there was enough profit to contract with laborers to repair the damaged barges and put them back into operation.  

    Word spread quickly that the ferry was back in operation and the traffic returned to the level where they were able to hire back two of the ferrymen who had worked for Faith’s father.   Neighbors with whom Michael had bartered and traded were once again able to use the ferry to move their produce to the New York market.  As his neighbors traversed the river, most expressed their joy at finding him alive; others told their own tales of woe, while a few simply inquired if he would be taking over the ferry operations.  At the end of each day, the work load they shared left both Michael and Faith exhausted and barely able to finish eating their evening meal before falling into a deep justified sleep.

                                                                             -*-

     Edmund Kingsland stepped down from the carriage as he waited for the barge to return and engaged Faith in some happy talk of better times.  On the voyage across, he detailed for Michael, in deep and somber words, the story of the rape of Bergen.  He told how farmers who had hidden their crops shared with those whose food had been taken.  Merchants had their entire inventories confiscated, the Manor house, itself, had been invaded and looted.  He named the residents who had paid the ultimate price of rebellion.  Wilhelm had died of wounds. Frederick had been hung.  And James had died from his injuries.  A dozen more had been executed for harboring wounded rebels and another dozen had been taken off in chains.  The story confirmed what Eric had told him, hardly a family on Barbadoes Neck did not have one of its number killed or wounded protecting General Washington’s retreat and defending their homes.

    With excruciating difficulty, Michael’s ability to walk returned as his knee healed.  The wound completely scarred over and the leg healed rigid and unbending.  Accepting the fact that he had to walk with a pronounced limp, he began hobbling about to visit his neighbors, plant a garden and work increasingly long hours on the ferry.  He stood upright and squared his shoulders with a determination that exuded form him like an aura.  He took his steps a little slower, concentrating on moving in the way his injury dictated, pulling the unbending leg forward with each step and wearing his wound like a badge of honor.  

    As the spring blossomed into summer, Michael and Faith, once again, stood in the Presbyterian Church and swore their vows before the minister and congregation, binding themselves together in Holy Matrimony.  But there were those in the congregation who did not celebrate their happiness.  A Tory, Mrs. Anderson, whose name was not even known to Michael, recalled that he had been wanted by the military for various crimes, including smuggling and treason.  When the ceremony ended, she stopped off at the home of her friend, whose husband was a leader of the “Tory Riders,” a loyalist militia, and had him take down the name of Michael Fields to be reported it to his commander.

                                                                             -*-

    With his strength fully returned, his conversation returned to their plan to move west and start a new home on the frontier.  Their hard work had returned most of the value of the Governor’s Charter, which granted a monopoly to the Dowd family to ferry people and conveyances across the Hackensack.  Michael and Faith agreed it was time to sell and circulated word through the community that the charter was available.

    The sale was made quickly and quietly to a trio of brothers, who gave the Fields a Jersey wagon and team, several hundred pounds of trading goods, two rifles and food supplies for a month.  The proceeds of the sale were delivered to the Ferry on the agreed date and with a small amount of hard cash were exchanged for the charter.  The consummation of the sale brought tears to Faith’s eyes as she bravely mounted the wagon.  Michael put his arm around her shoulder and started the team moving toward Newark, where the first wagon train of the summer heading west to Pennsylvania, was forming. Eric and Carol decided to move west and since there was nothing left in Barbadoes Neck for them they joined Michael and Faith on their journey. 

                                                                               -*-

    Information traveled slowly through the Tory channels and nearly a week passed before it was received by the Military Governor of New York.  A search of old registers took more time because of the sheer number of names on the lists.  Eventually, the name surfaced on a list that was four years old.  As had been done before, Michael’s name was added to a roster of others wanted for Treason and dispatched to the Tory Riders for execution.  The warrant was not specific whether, or not, he was to be brought back to New York for trial.

    Word of the warrant reached the Committee of Correspondence in Newark and a rider was dispatched to warn Michael.  Just hours after the wagon train had departed, the rider caught up with it and rode the length of the train till he found him and reported his message.

 “Master Kingsland’s compliments, sir,  I bring news.  You have been named on a death warrant.  “Tory Riders” are on the road searching for you.”

 Eric and Carol told the children to wait and walked to Michael’s wagon where they listened quietly as the rider delivered his message.  The news nearly panicked Faith.  The “Tory Riders” had been sowing terror throughout Bergen ever since the retreat.  Michael kept calm, thanked the rider and sent him on his way.  For the next hour, he concentrated on calming Faith and explaining to her that he had gotten through worse roadblocks as a smuggler.

     Michael and Eric conferred quietly and agreed they had to leave the train, quickly, but without making themselves obvious.  Michael reasoned that the best plan was to stay on the side of the road and feign a problem with the wagon.  As the last wagons approached, they rejoined the train, drifting farther behind till they cut out at the next crossroad.  In the bustle of the traffic, no one gave them a second glance.

That night the two families camped in an apple orchard.  Faith and Michael excused themselves from the small fire and walked into the darkness.  The beginning of their conversation was filled with fear the “Riders” might catch up with them but soon turned to the thoughts of a new life.  They held each other and kissed deeply.  The warmth of Faith’s body in his arms stirred him and they made love under the stars.

     For the next two days they followed the trail over farm roads and barely beaten animal paths, till they met the Burlington Turnpike and headed south on its wood plank surface.  Another day along the highway and they felt safe enough to breathe easily and when the road turned west, they turned east and headed their wagon to the only safe haven left to them: Chestnut Neck.

    The smuggler’s haven was no longer the quiet little forest hideaway it had once been.  The village had spread out into the surrounding woods and the RED WATER INN had doubled in size.  A new warehouse, twice the size of the one Michael recalled had been built and in the harbor, a dozen merchantmen rode at anchor.  Their arrival created a stir among the friends and compatriots Michael had left behind.  Captain Van Arsdale stood in the door of the RED WATER INN as Michael drove his wagon into the village and greeted him with a hail, then warned him Stella had cried when she received his letter telling her he had joined the Continental Army.  Michael introduced Faith to the Captain and asked if Stella were at the inn.  Captain Van Arsdale nodded his head and advised him to make his peace with her.
The light level inside the “RED WATER INN” was dim and Michael had to wait a second for his eyes to adjust.  He saw a figure behind the bar halt in mid stride and heard his name whispered.  “Hello, Stella,” he said. 

“Michael Fields,” the words dripped with sarcasm.  “You’re still alive.”  She stepped up to him till her nose touched his.  

    Michael started to make an apology but she threw her arms around him and kissed him deeply.  Then pushed him away and started to berate him for not coming back from his last trip.  Only a few seconds into her tirade, she stopped.  “Oh, what the hell, Michael, I can’t be angry at you.  I fell in love with Bill Henderson while you were gone.  We married just a few months ago.”  Michael tensed as Faith entered the Inn.  “Stella,” he announced, “This is my bride, Faith.”  The two women cautiously approached each other, sizing each other up, then embraced courteously.  Stella broke the silence.  “Faith, congratulations.  Michael is a wonderful man.  I wish you all the luck in the world.  Come on, I’ll show you around our little town.  The two women stepped outside, chatting in a joyously girlish manner about everything from clothing to Stella’s pregnancy.   Michael breathed a sigh of relief, their meeting had been warm and it look like they were well on their way to becoming the closest of friends.

    Count Rhordon was summoned from his farm and in a surprise introduction at the RED WATER INN found himself reunited with his protégé who had risen to the rank of Lieutenant in the Continental Army.  Scarcely able to contain his emotion, he saluted and then embraced Michael, like a son.  Faith stepped forward at her husband’s introduction and the Count bowed deeply, kissed her hand and confessed to being totally charmed.  Drafts of wine and ale were passed around the Inn and a press of people cornered them demanding they recount the details of the part they had played in General Washington’s retreat across New Jersey.

    Michael’s forest cottage remained as he had left it and with little more than an airing and a sweeping, Faith accepted it as her own and moved in.  On their first night in their new home, Michael led her into the forest with the full moon as their only guide.  The silvery light cast sharp shadows of the pine trees against the glowing white of the sandy soil.  There was no need of a lantern to guide them and Michael walked unerringly to a small tree in a sandy glade and dug it up.  A few feet down, tangled in the root ball of the tree, he retrieved the small fortune he had buried in a wood box coated with pine tar.

     Moonlight struck gold coins when he opened the box and a squeal of joy slipped from Faith’s lips.  Michael inspected the contents and breathed a sigh of satisfaction.  He had forgotten how large his fortune was.  Sitting in the sand, they ran their fingers through the coins and laughed as Michael placed gold coins on faith’s shoulders and laid a necklace of Spanish dollars around her neck.

                                                                              -*-

    A committee of local Patriots and Militia came to their cabin a few evenings later and over cool cups of cranberry juice laced with sugar and rum, welcomed him back.  Their new leader was a well-spoken gentleman named Robert Hanlon, who expressed a hope that Michael would be willing to work with them and take a leadership role in their organization.  They had heard of his involvement in the Battle of the Hudson and made it plain that they considered his combat experience to be of great value to them.  Hanlon made no secret of the fact they needed his experience but more importantly, his voice and reputation, to convince the smugglers and people of Chestnut Neck that they needed to build a fort to protect their town from attack.

                                                                                -*-

    The community of smugglers and free booters extended a warm welcome to an old compatriot, especially one with hard money.  During his absence, Michael’s reputation for honesty and determination had not died and it wasn’t long before he was fully assimilated back into the gangs, privy to the captured cargoes and welcome to bid on the choicest booty.  Faith found herself entranced by the richness of the loot brought into the port and insisted that Michael buy certain lots for their own inventory.  Wherever Michael went, people bought him drinks and asked him to retell the story of the fall of Fort Lee and the Retreat.  Quickly, the story became codified in Michael’s mind, so he could tell it without adding unnecessary detail or changes.  His tale became a part of the oral history of the war, told and retold but never written down.

    Because of the war, there were more ships than ever anchored in the secret cove.  War ships captured on the high seas were brought in and reworked.  Their guns were taken off and placed on unarmed merchantmen or sent to help Washington’s Army.  Rich cargoes were unloaded and sold off.  Fresh crews of volunteers clamored to sign on and put to sea in search of new prey.  At times, there were so many ships waiting to unload, they had to anchor in the Great Bay and wait their turn at the Chestnut Neck wharf.  The number of ships returning as prizes increased daily and with it, the small navy of Privateers grew and became more daring as their experience increased.  Small fleets of captured vessels sailed to the far corners of the world, attacking where they could find treasure and bringing the loot of the British Empire back to Chestnut Neck.

    The smugglers were anxious to institute a regular trading agreement with the new Continental Army.  On an almost daily basis, military supplies were unloaded from captured freighters or brought in by French Merchantmen.  For a price, they proposed to move military supplies north, south and west to General Washington’s army.

    The military supplies Michael bought were stored in the main warehouse where he inventoried and evaluated them.  He then contracted with wagon masters to haul them to the Continental Army garrisons in Morristown and Philadelphia.  Michael recalled that Alex Hamilton had told him that carrying shot and powder was important work and so he threw himself into it wholeheartedly.  It was the smuggler’s route across the Pine Barrens that outflanked the British naval blockade and provided Washington’s besieged army with the supplies needed to conduct a war against the mightiest army in the world.

    Michael’s business again evolved and he found himself more in the business of transporting military supplies and information to Washington’s army than smuggling.  His duties took on the nature of Quartermaster, selling the bulk of his goods to the army for a mix of hard currency and the now infamous Continental Dollars.  On the road, his convoys no longer diverted around barriers or blockhouses, they traveled with armed escorts who were more anxious to assault the turnpikes than go around them.

    As the volume of cargo reaching Chestnut Neck increased, more auctions were held and were regularly attended by representatives of the Continental Army who were authorized to make purchases with hard currency.  Usually, they bid on military stores but it was not unusual to have them bid on consumer goods they were sure would bring a tidy profit for their own enterprises.

    By mid-summer, construction of a fort on a rise above the Mulica River  was well under way and nearing completion, thanks mainly to the tireless efforts of Count Rhordon and Robert Hanlon.  It was their pleadings and warnings that finally convinced the smugglers to pledge part of their profits to the construction project.  The redoubt rose above the river at the mouth of the harbor and dominated the approach with three guns.  From the gun emplacements at the top of the stronghold, Michael and Count Rhordon marked off the range to target zones and calculated the firing trajectories.  Daily, they drilled their gun crews and supervised the men as they measured out the charges and packed cartridges of shot and shell, racing against the day they knew was soon to come.  Meanwhile, in the forest, the militia intensified its training and modeled their tactics after those used by the Iroquois, Cherokee and Delaware. 

                                                                             -*-

September 3, 1778
General Washington’s Headquarters
Morristown, New Jersey

    The movements of the British fleet were always of interest to General Washington.  The fleet had the unchallenged power to blockade the country’s essential ports and starve the rebellion into submission.  But the fleet had failed to follow up on its victory over the Hudson River forts, and found the colonies stubbornly united and themselves without the location of the bases used by the smugglers and pirates.

    The information building up on Colonel Hamilton’s desk could no longer be ignored.  Daily, he struggled to make sense of the rumors and reports brought to him.  Now, he was sure that what had come to him as a thousand bits of unrelated information was in fact the intent of the British Navy.  The accumulated news and rumors reported by hundreds of patriots still living and working in New York City had taken on an ominous tone.  The evidence told him a major offensive was to be made against “Smugglers Wood.”

    He stood and stretched his back.  “Smugglers Wood.”  That single phrase was reported over and over again. It referred to the forests extending from Perth Amboy to the Jersey Cape.  Riddled with warrens and lairs, the smugglers brought everything from rifles and powder to uniforms and shoes to the young army through half a dozen ports.  They were an indispensable resource to the new nation and a worthy target for the British Navy.  But the strike could take place anywhere along the coast.

     Hamilton dipped his quill into the ink well and began the letter General Washington had directed him to address to Count Kasamir Pulaski at his headquarters in Trenton.

“My dear Count Pulaski,

 You are called upon to move your legion to the Jersey coast with all possible speed.  Hold your men on station at Tuckerton and wait for the alert…”

                                                                                   -*-

     The young Polish officer leapt to his feet. “At last,” he cried and crumbled the letter in his fist.  “Captain,” He called to his executive officer.  “Call the legion to ready.”

     He sat down and poured over the map on his desk, evaluating the distance and terrain to be covered, “We can be in Tuckerton in two days,” he said to no one.  “From there we can move to reinforce the militia at any of the likely targets, Toms River, Brigintine Island or Egg Harbor.  At last, we are going into battle!”

    An hour later, Count Pulaski ended his staff meeting with a toast of strong blackberry brandy and wished them all good luck.  He saluted each officer and shook his hand as they left to tend to their duties.  The legion left under cover of darkness, at a walk.  At dawn, they broke into a trot, moving east along the plank road to the ocean.  Four hundred and fifty men, each splendidly uniformed and heavily armed at his own expense.  Each mounted legionnaire carried a short rifle, a horse pistol, a saber, knife, tomahawk and perhaps a club or whip.  In addition, each carried three day’s rations, which would be supplemented along the road by foraging.  Pulaski’s Legion was a match for any European Cavalry and perhaps even better.  They could move nearly fifty miles a day in good weather.  But on their second day out, the gods of war frowned and the weather turned foul.

                                                                                      -*-

    Captain Hanlon had been born in the Pine Barrens and grew up in Batsto.  During the French and Indian War, he had fought with Colonel Washington in the wilderness of the Ohio Valley and it was rumored he still had personal access to the General.  Early in the war he recognized the need for a Jersey militia and was a prime mover in the formation of the force.  His business as an Ironmonger had grown as the hostilities with Britain escalated and his products changed from plowshares to cannon.  The militia officers were gathered in the Red Water Inn waiting for him to address them with the news they expected and dreaded.

 “Gentlemen, we are to be the target of His Majesties wrath.  General Washington’s spies have learned that the Fleet will set sail with the tide in two days.  Their assignment is to destroy Smugglers Wood.”

    Hanlon paced back and forth in front of the gathered officers as he delivered his orders.  His hands clenched behind his back to keep them from shaking.  He knew Count Rhordon’s battery and Lieutenant Fields were his greatest asset.  They were the core around which he had organized the defense of Chestnut Neck.  It was their diligence and experience that shaped the redoubt and the morale of the militia.

 “We must move our military stores and families to Batsto and prepare to meet and counter the British Navy’s strike.  

    General Washington has dispatched Count Pulaski’s Legion to reinforce us.  We can expect them within hours of the fleet’s arrival.  Our task, in the meantime, will be to harass and slow the assault.  We are to make life in the Barrens as miserable for them as we can.  Remember!  At all costs!  We must avoid a direct confrontation with the regulars.  Ambush and run.  That is your standing order.  Only when Pulaski’s Legion arrives will we have the strength to meet them on the field of battle.  Till then, Gentlemen, return to your stations and prepare your defenses.  Good Luck.  Dismissed.”

                                                                                  -*-

     Michael took his turn standing watch in the look out tree, swaying in the waning breezes of summer that gently blew across the forest.  The tree was the tallest for miles around; a cedar of immense proportions and hundreds of years old.  From its top most branches, anyone who dared the climb had an unhindered view of the coastline and the shipping lanes beyond.  The crow’s nest that had been constructed there was large enough hold two persons comfortably and from that height a watch could be kept on the horizon over five miles away.

    The gentle rocking of the tree lulled Michael’s senses and he allowed his mind to wander, to review the course his life had taken and how he had arrived at this place on this day.  He had wanted to head west with Faith and join up with Calik and his clan.  He wanted to lead a quiet life.  He wanted peace.  He deserved it!  He had already paid his share.  His knee was ruined; his friends and family were gone.  But he wasn’t headed west.  He was here, standing watch in a tree, waiting once more for the tyrant’s army to launch an attack on all he loved.  “What will I loose this time,” he anguished?  “They have turned my path!  If only they had let me be!”  Life had not worked out the way he wanted.  “When they come, I will meet them.  I will not turn aside.  I will not flee.  I will accept their violence and their killing.  I will embrace it, and they will embrace me.  They will accept my violence.  They will accept my killing.”  He trembled with fear at the approaching fight.  “God, help me,” he prayed. 

    Faith climbed the rope ladder and hand holds to the top of the lookout tree, bringing Michael a meal of cold chicken, vegetables and wine.  Giddy as a child, she clung to her husband and stood with him looking out beyond the edge of the land, across the green expanse of the forest and the blue of the Atlantic Ocean. The tree swayed gently with their weight as they talked of their plans for the future and fears of the coming battle.  They held each and rocked gently in the breeze, murmuring their love and caressing each other while in the distance, beyond the horizon, dark clouds gathered and turned the afternoon cold under its overcast. 

    The October wind turned from south to north and brought with it a cold soaking rain.  Those who knew this kind of storm knew it might last three or four days.  Count Pulaski was not one of them and had no inclination to wait for the weather to clear.  He drove his legion on.  Lost in the downpours, they felt their way east along unmarked paths while he ranted at each wrong turn.  “The British fleet is moving unhindered toward their target while we plod along this muddy cow path!  Gods in heaven,” he screamed, “why do you curse me so?  Captain, you must move the men faster.  At Tuckerton we can find shelter and await news, but now we must move faster.”

                                                                                  -*-

OCTOBER 6, 1778
CHESTNUT NECK

     The autumn sky finally cleared and the sun warmed the sandy forest glades just enough to bring out a cloud of immature mosquitoes destined to die when the wind turned cold again.  After three days of cold rain and lead gray skies, the sun was a welcome relief.  Mists rose from the forest as the sun beat down on the bogs and over the ocean, the sky was clear all the way to the horizon.

     As the sun rose brilliantly out of the Atlantic, the lookout squinted into its burning face and shaded his eyes against the direct glare with his hands.  Blocking out the burning orb, he saw a blotch on the horizon.  He looked through his telescope and marked the clear outline of sails.  He called out his warning, “Three sails, due east.  More! To the south. At least three.  More to the north.”

     The expected invasion fleet was closing in from the sea, blockading the mouth of the Great Bay.  Their tactic was to cut off escape and set up a field of fire to catch or sink any ship foolish enough to challenge them or attempt to flee.

    But their net was empty.  The advance warning from the Committee had allowed the ships in port to leave during the storm.  The only vessels remaining in the harbor were two small schooners and a ketch.  Riders, who had been standing by, waiting to take their ill tidings to the countryside, were unleashed.  “Ride like the wind,” they were told by friends and family as they set out to find Pulaski’s Legion and guide them to the impending battle.  Their mission might take a day or more just to find the Legion and then another day for them to arrive. In the interim, it was up to the Militia to hold the invading army at bay.  The drills and games they had played were now to be tested in earnest.

     Word of the impending attack was brought to Michael’s door along with orders to bring the guns at the fort to the ready.  The three eight pound cannon had been moved undercover when the rains came and had to be reinstalled.  Michael acknowledged the rider and set about collecting his rifle, powder horn, shot bag and saber.  Faith busied herself about the cottage collecting items of value and prepared to flee.  As he stepped to the door she took his hand and stopped him.  He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her deeply, feeling the warmth of their emotions flow, he lingered and parted slowly, fearing the worst might come and praying for the best. 
 
                                                                                 -*-

     Michael stood at the top of the fortification reviewing the battle plan.  Set on the south bank of the Mullica the fort consisted of three firing platforms for the cannon located at the top of the rise.  Below, were two lines of trenches designed to be manned by one hundred defenders.  The gun platforms provided overlapping fields of fire and were targeted on the path the assault boats would take as they approached the town.  The trenches provided good protection for the men against bombardment and firing ports from which to meet the assault.  The cannon emplacements were dug into the top of the rise, out of the line of direct fire; with ramps to allow rapid evacuation should they fail to stop a determined attack.  In event of a withdrawal, the cannon would be removed and used to support the militia in the forest.

BRITISH FLAGSHIP
HMS ZEBRA

"Captain, you may begin loading the assault boats."   With that order, Captain Henry Collins, commander of the flotilla, ordered Captain Patrick Ferguson to lead three hundred British regulars supported by one hundred Tory militia over the side of HMS VIGILANT and HMS NAUTILUS and into the long boats.  With a precision honed by long training, the soldiers pulled the oars and began rowing toward the mouth of the Mullica.
 
    They glided silently through the morning mist, slipping along the forested river and creeping gently across the deceptively still surface of the Mullica River.  Their target was the inland harbor they believed to be a stronghold of rebels, pirates and smugglers.

     The 5th Regiment, British Foot, augmented by the 3rd Battalion, New Jersey Volunteers, pulled at the oars, riding the incoming tide to the smuggler's den.  The "Volunteers" reinforcing the assault wore no uniforms and were little more than ruffians, rowdies and brigands recruited from the jails and prisons of East Jersey.  Most cared little or nothing about the meaning or strategic importance of the assault; They had been promised a part of the pillage and loot to be had in exchange for their service.  The long boats moved smoothly and swiftly up the river carrying the invading troops to their target.   But as they rounded the bend and entered the harbor, they found their surprise attack had been compromised.  The Chestnut Neck Militia had already manned their fortifications and were steeled for battle.
 
    Michael stood by the number two gun, mounted in the middle revetment at the top of the rise, a smoking linstock in his hand, waiting.  Count Rhordon stood a few feet behind him, well within shouting range of number one and three guns.  The eight pounders were set to cover the bend of the river as it entered the anchorage, the route an attacking navel force must take to avoid the shallows.  In the week’s prior, Michael and the Count had carefully triangulated the area and placed range markers along the expected attack path.   Their forethought was about to pay off.

    The first rounds of grape and chain shot were seated in the guns.   The crews stood by, waiting for the order to fire, nervously watching the enemy approach.  Most were untested in battle and their eyes darted nervously from the river to their comrades to Michael and Count Rhordon, standing stoically, seemingly unconcerned, discussing the impending scrimmage in quiet tones.  The first long boat came around the bend and turned directly into the field of fire.  The officer standing at the bow called coordinates to his signalman and the man jumped out of his boat, waded ashore and scrambled up a small rise.  From his position he could see the cruisers and began waving signal flags.  

    Sweat broke out on Michael’s arms and forehead.   His thoughts turned to Faith.  "She should be collecting our valuables and hiding them away in the forest, he thought, leaving nothing for the invaders."  Lost in thought, he didn't hear the order to fire but his arm moved instinctively and the cannon roared and jumped in front of him, spitting out its load of death with a belch of fire, a blast of heat and a cloud of sweet smelling smoke.  Automatically, his training moved him to reposition the elevation chock, depressing the barrel to shorten the range while the crew swabbed the gun barrel.  Michael held his thumb over the touchhole as the crew pushed the prepackaged cartridges of gunpowder and shot into the mouth of the gun and rammed them home.  The charge seated neatly under the touchhole and he poured primer powder into it, then stood back and waited till each man was standing at his ready position, their tasks complete.  He touched the linstock to the primer.  The cannon roared again and the crew leapt forward to swab the barrel and reload.  "Number one gun, change to chain shot," Rhordon called.    The guns barked and the crews jumped forward to load them with, a new mix of gunpowder and iron death. White clouds of smoke rose from the entrenched gun positions and geysers of water leapt up, out of the river around the long boats but they did not turn.   The screams of men, their bodies torn and ripped by flying steel, rose from the river; their blood tinted the red water a muddy brown.

     Rhordon turned his spy glass to the east.  Two British cruisers were making their way up the swollen Mullica.  “If they are able to maneuver for a broadside, we are in serious danger,” said Michael.  Rhordon acknowledged him and turned his attention back to the assault boats.

    They had not faltered under fire.  They kept coming, relentlessly forward.   From around the bend came a second wave to reinforce the first.  The red coated soldiers pulled at the oars in long, deep strokes, racing through the exploding bombs.  Hanlon held his infantry in check till the longboats passed a range marker, then ordered, “Riflemen.  Fire!”  Their hail of bullets fell on the British soldiers thinning their number further.

    Cannon fire from the British cruisers tore through the air and fell short of the fort.  Rhordon turned his telescope on them and yelled.  “The lead cruiser has run aground!”  A cheer went up from the men in the trenches. Luck was with them.  Rhordon watched the guns on the grounded cruiser fire again.  Two shells burst in the sky but they were wide and short.  Rhordon shouted for the men to hear.  “They can only bring their forward chase guns to bare.”  The next volley burst above the fort.  Sounding like a horde of angry bees, jagged pieces of hot steel rained down on the defenders.  The burst above Michael's head was drowned out by the roar of his own gun and sounded to him like a distant rifle shot.  When the breeze cleared the smoke he found blood dripping from his cloths but he was unscathed.  The gun crew however lay scattered at his feet, torn to shreds by pieces of jagged steel.

    Count Rhordon's voice carried over the din of the rifle fire.  "Lieutenant Fields.  Direct your fire on that man on the ridge with the signal flags."  Michael put his back to turning the gun toward the man directing the fire from the cruisers.  The Count hunched over the gun directing Michael, “Left.  More!  More!  Hold there.” He elevated the barrel while Michael pushed the charge and shell into the muzzle. Another volley burst overhead, pieces of steel sang through the air and bounced off the gun.  Blood ran down Rhordon’s face as he touched the linstock to the primer powder.  The gun roared.  Michael held his breath as the shell flew.  Seconds passed then the bomb burst over the signalman and he toppled from his perch.  

    Musket fire from the trenches broke out in fiery volleys as the assault boats approached the limit of their range.  One invader after another slumped over the oars or slipped into the water.  The first boat hit the beach and the soldiers tumbled out dropping to the ground, wounded or dead, under heavy fire.  The second and third boats beached and the red coated soldiers marched forward, at a quick step.  

    The Count and Michael turned the gun back to the river, depressed the barrel for minimum range, finished reloading and touched off another charge.  Number one and three guns roared again as their crews reloaded and poured steel death upon the assault troops. Through the smoke the defenders heard a shrill order called in German and the red line broke into a trot, bayonets fixed and leveled at the defenders.   The upward slope slowed their charge slightly as the militia poured a withering volley of rifle and musket fire into the approaching ranks.

     A drum roll called out and the line stopped.  More boats were landing.  The soldiers in the lead ranks took cover where they could find it and reloaded.   A second rank formed on the beach and gun number one fired into it.  The rank reformed quickly and commenced a regular drill of firing and reloading in support of the first wave.  Twice they fired and reloaded, then from behind a cloud of white gun smoke so thick it hid the red uniforms, they charged!

    Michael completed reloading the gun and touched off the primer again, just as a cry rose from the British soldiers and they charged the breastworks.  Up the steep face of the revetments they came, screaming and yelling, bayonets fixed and sabers flashing.   They flooded over the mound and engaged the Chestnut Neck Militia in close quarters combat, cutting them to pieces.

    Man after man fell, run through with bayonet or clubbed senseless with the butt of a Brown Bess musket.  Indian war cries broke out among the militia as they used tomahawks and knives in the narrow trenches.  The third wave of Infantry landed amid a volley of cannon fire, the rifles were almost silent, and charged up the hill to reinforce their comrades.  The Militia held valiantly but outnumbered and inexperienced, they were over run and forced to withdraw. 
The guns were hitched to teams of horses just as the British mounted the top of the barricades.  Artillery fire from the Cruisers tore through the air again and Gun number one was lifted into the air by an explosion and smashed to the ground, its carriage broken.  Michael cracked his whip and the horses bolted forward and down the back of the fort.  The gun swung wildly as he turned the team for the forest, disconnected from the caisson and flipped over, breaking a wheel.  Michael pulled the team to a halt and cursed darkly.  He looked up to the fort and saw gun number three had been captured. 

    The British Infantry established their hold on the fort and spread out from the middle sweeping the rebels out of their fortification.  The survivors ran, abandoning the fort to the invading army, fleeing to the safety of the forest, while the British relentlessly pursued.  The wounded, left behind on the field were taken prisoner or killed where they fell.
A Militiaman ran past Michael and tossed a rifle to him as he headed for the shelter of the forest.  Michael kicked angrily at the wrecked gun as Captain Hanlon trotted up to him. “The fight is just beginning, Lieutenant.  Spike the gun and gather your company.  Form your skirmish line at Huckleberry Creek.”

“Aye,” he responded, then added, “Good luck, Captain.”

    The militia withdrew in a covering formation, scattering in front of the British onslaught, then reformed in the depths of the woods.  The survivors linked up by ones and twos and merged into ambush groups, each dedicated to harassing the invaders and never allowing them an hour of peace.

     As the last of the assault boats landed at the foot of the fortifications, the officers formed their men into columns.  Their drummers beat a marching cadence and fife players piped a high pitched tune.  The music carried across the forest chilling the residents as the column moved down the path to the village.  Along the route, every house and barn they passed was looted and then set on fire.   The officers made no effort to stop their men from running off after whatever trinket caught their eye.  From the warehouses and barns the troops carried out chests of fine cloth, tea, whiskey and spices, booty the residents of Chestnut Neck did not have time to hide or destroy.  They stacked their prizes along the road to be collected by the reserve force and carried back to the boats.

    In the cluster of houses and taverns making up Chestnut Neck, the troops looted what had been left behind and set up their headquarters in the Red Water Inn.  From there, Captain Ferguson engaged his plan to fan out across the marshes, following the maze of paths and strike at the smugglers, destroying them in their hiding places.

                                                                            -*-

    A band of militiamen huddled close to the boughs of the cedar trees.  In the distance, smoke rose from the direction of the town and sporadic gunfire echoed through the forest. Captain Hanlon counted up his strength.  His men were rattled and dirty, many of them had never faced combat before, but they had fared well in the initial assault.  Now they were regrouping, following the plan and attacking with stealth, from ambush, not risking direct contact.   The strategy was calculated to keep the militia beyond the range of the British bayonets and delay them till Pulaski’s Legion arrived.
 Michael sat on a sandy knoll, his back against the trunk of a scrub oak, absently chewing a piece of deer jerky, his rifle cradled in the crook of his shoulder.  He listened to the distant guns and thought about Faith.  "She should be well into the forest by now."

    Reports from scouts kept the militia apprised of the British movements.  They were sweeping through the forest following deer trails and paths to their conclusions, looting the homes they found but finding few residents.

    A group of four militiamen entered the clearing and linked up with Captain Hanlon’s party.  They reported ambushing a raiding party of ten Tories, killing two and wounding two near the Batsto Road Ford.  They had warned several nearby families to flee and helped more to carry their belongings to hideaways deep in the forest or up the river.  Captain Hanlon called his officers together and gave them their assignments.   Michael was detailed to take ten men north toward his home and set up ambushes to harass the invaders.  

    Their first ambush was at the crossing of two trails.  The men set themselves in positions giving them a command of the crossroad.  Behind their hiding places they established fall back positions along the trail over which they would lead their pursuers. Their plan was for two men to ambush the red coats as they came into the clearing, then withdraw, leading those who pursued them into a second ambush.  The tactic worked well and by late afternoon, the British had become less headstrong and refrained from blindly pursuing the militia into the forest.  Their actions became more deliberate and by nightfall, the advance into the woods had ground to a halt. 
 
     Throughout the night, the militia infiltrated the British lines killing sentries, setting fire to their supplies and scattering or killing their horses.  By morning, the smell of smoke was thick in the forest as the weary British troops broke their campsites and prepared to press their assault with increased trepidation.

    Michael's band advanced quietly through the pine and huckleberry underbrush near his home.  He had directed the party in this direction so he could inspect the damage.   The undergrowth around the cabin was blackened and charred, he had expected that but the scene they found as they stepped out of the undergrowth, shocked the patriots.  Michael stood stunned, not only was the house burnt to the ground but scattered about were the scalped bodies of his friends and neighbors!  His home had been the site of a desperate battle.  His neighbors and a few militia had fought from behind the defensive wall of his home as it burned.   Everyone could read the signs.  They had fought desperately, till they were burned out of their stronghold and overpowered.  Then they were murdered.  Tears streamed down the faces of the militiamen as they searched through the rubble and found the bodies of six of their friends, who had been shot, stabbed or clubbed to death. Their hands tied behind them.  The carnage horrified them and turned their stomachs. 

    The sound of a weak moan directed them to a survivor.   An old woman, Mrs. Salisbury, Michael's nearest neighbor, was still alive.  She had been shot in the back but had managed to crawl into the underbrush to hide while her family and neighbors were murdered.  She was almost dead when they found her.  She recognized friends and revived enough to tell the story of Tories, not men in uniform, who had done this.  As the wound ebbed her life and blood filled her lungs, every breath became a torture.  She spoke her words carefully.

"Michael."   The word was lost in a gurgle of blood foaming out of her lungs.  She coughed blood onto the sand and tried again, "Michael!"  He bent over her as she spoke, "They took Faith.  In the forest.  I heard her calling for help.  You must find her!"

"Faith?"  A shock of adrenaline flowed through his body, his skin itched and his scalp tightened.  His vision dimmed almost to black for a second and he crashed off into the forest, frantically searching the area around his home for a trail.  He found it.  Footprints in the sand, broken twigs, a strip of cloth caught on a blackberry thorn.  He followed it to the sandy glade where he had hidden his fortune and found Faith's body lying in a tangle of bushes.

     She was lying face down, unmoving, at the edge of the glade where they had spent summer afternoons basking in the sun.   The knife wounds in her back ran red into the white sand.   She was dead!  Murdered by the invaders!  A moan of agony welled up in his throat. Tears filled his eyes and his knee buckled as he realized she had not died easily.  Her naked body had been cast aside like an unwanted scrap and showed the marks of an extended beating.  Leather thongs still bound her hands and had cut deeply into her skin.   Brown caked streaks of blood ran to her elbows where flies were already feasting on her flesh.  He quivered as he touched her shoulder; it had been flayed with a whip.

    He cut the leather binding on her wrists and sank to the ground beside her.  An uncontrollable whimper of agony and horror shook him as he turned her over.  Her breasts were slashed and torn.   The insides of her thighs were bruised and purple.  Teeth, human teeth, had torn her tender skin.  Her face!  Her beautiful face had been beaten almost unrecognizable.   He cradled her lifeless body in his arms as tremors shook his body.  Tears ran down his cheeks, her blood stained his deer skin clothes.  The ache in his left leg was forgotten as a new pain overwhelmed him.  

    He buried her where he had found her, not wanting anyone to see the horror that had been visited upon such a gentle and beautiful woman.  He dug a shallow grave with his hands and pushed sand over her silent form while dark thoughts filled his mind and he labored his last duty to Faith.  

    Michael returned to his home dragging his rifle behind him.  His mind numb, his body aching, his hands and face caked with dirt and blood.   The dark fire of vengeance had been rekindled in his heart.  His soul demanded retribution against the savages who had done this.

    The old woman was slipping away fast but she held jealously to life.   The wound had been bandaged and she sat, propped up against a cedar tree.  Her skin was growing pale and cold.  Michael staggered out of the forest and rejoined the band.  The men had only to look at his face to know he had found his wife.

"She told us they were Jersey Volunteers, not regulars,” said Morgan.  “We're going after them.  Can you make it, Michael?"

    His response was little more than a nod.  "I buried her," he said and collapsed down in front of the old woman.   “Can you recognize the ones who did this to Faith?"

    Her eyes clouded, death was near.  Michael put his ear close to her and listened to her labored voice.  "Yes.  I marked them.  One has a red turkey feather in his tricorn and the other has a blue scarf around his neck.  The called each other by name, Raf and Fred.  They were animals.  They killed one of their own who tried to stop them."
 Michael trembled as her last breath drifted out of her lungs.   He stood and looked at the carnage around him.  "No man should be allowed to live after committing an act of barbarism like this.  I shall have vengeance,” he swore and waved his men to move down the trail.  “We all shall!"

    From deep in the forest sporadic rifle shots rang out and bullets flew out of the gloom to strike their marks.  Regulars and Tories alike fell as word spread through the forest; "Find the men with the red feather and blue scarf."

                                                                                   -*-

     A runner from Captain Hanlon's command post arrived at the scene of the ambush.  Michael's band was now twenty strong and lying in wait for the approaching column to come into their range.  The messenger trotted to a halt at the edge of the group and was directed to Michael.  Seeing an ambush was about to be sprung, he settled down and waited to be recognized. 

"Our target approaches,” whispered Michael.  “I'll be with you in a moment."  The coldness in his voice chilled the runner.  He primed his rifle and took up a position.   Michael detached himself from the runner's presence and returned his concentration to the approaching column.  He lay prone under a covering of mulberry branches, behind a fallen log.  He rested this forehead on the stock of his rifle and used his arm to wipe the sweat from his eyes.  Looking down the barrel of his rifle, he watched as a red uniformed soldier stepped into the clearing.  He lined his sights on the man's chest and squeezed the trigger.   The hammer fell and struck flint against steel.  A spark touched the powder and the rifle recoiled against his shoulder with a bang.  Almost simultaneously, a cloud of white smoke erupted and obscured his vision.  From next to him and from further away, other rifles fired.  When the air cleared, three British soldiers lay dead or dying on the pine needle covered ground and the soldiers in the column were firing wildly into the forest. To the left, one of Michael’s militiamen sprang to his feet, turned and ran.  Four British soldiers lowered their bayonets and charged into the brush in pursuit.  They crashed through a thicket and into a sandy clearing where half a dozen Militia were waiting for them.  At close range the British soldiers were gunned down and the forest fell silent again.  The officer leading the column called to his men.  There was no response till a rifle fired from atop a tree and the officer fell from his horse, dead. The column closed ranks, waiting for the militia to charge.  A rifle shot from the opposite direction struck a trooper and the column broke, throwing the red coats into panic and disarray.  Michael slid back from his cover and turned to the messenger.

"Captain Hanlon's compliments, sir.  We have stopped a body of about 70 Tories and Regulars.  They were escorting prisoners to the rear.   We have them holed up in the stone circle at the spring, about two miles away.  They are surrounded and pinned down but we need more men to complete the encirclement and force the matter in our favor.  Captain Hanlon requests you bring your men to his aid."

"Very well,” responded Michael.  “Lead the way,” then added. “Tell me, did you see a man with a red feather or one with a blue scarf among that group?"

    The messenger paused and gazed into the middle distance, remembering.   "Yes, I believe I did.  Do they mean something to you?"

"Yes,” said Michael in an almost absent tone, they mean something special to all of us."

                                                                               -*-

    The British Officer in charge of the column had ordered the prisoners to be placed as a human shield around the perimeter of the circle facing the forest.   Soldiers and Tories stood behind them, while at the center of the circle, preparations were under way to hang the prisoners.

    The Officer stepped to the perimeter and called out to the forest, "Disburse or we will hang these rebels in front of you."

    A hundred yards from the circle, Michael could just make out the man with the blue scarf.  "They're with them," Hanlon heard him say.  Another militiamen pointed, "I can see "red feather."  He is on the south side, crouching down by the cairn."

    Hot anger boiled up inside of Michael as he reported the details of the massacre at his home to Captain Hanlon.   He paced back and forth in front of his commander, waving his hands in the air as he demanded the right to exact vengeance.   Hanlon acquiesced and stepped aside allowing him to step forward to address the British.

    Under a white flag, he walked toward the circle of soldiers behind the walls of an abandoned Delaware village and addressed the Officer.

"Be warned,” he said, “if the prisoners are killed, your path back to the coast will be littered with the bodies of your soldiers.  Release them now and you have my word you will pass unmolested."

    The officer scoffed at his words and insisted the rebels withdraw.   "If you hinder my progress any longer I shall begin hanging the prisoners until you think better of it."

"Do not take my words lightly,” Michael snarled!  “Every minute you delay, more patriots arrive.  Soon there will be enough to destroy this invasion force.  Do not press my good will.  You have until mid-day to make your decision.  When the sun begins its descent we will attack."

    Michael strode across the open ground till he was only a few steps away from the perimeter and stopped directly in front of his adversary.  His eyes blazed as he growled, "Captain, you have among your men, murderers and rapists.  They are not part of the offer."  He stood facing the officer, looking into his eyes.  "Passage is granted only to soldiers, not to the men who murdered my wife."  The officer’s jaw clenched.  "You can identify them," he asked?

"Yes,” he snapped, “and you know who they are!"

    The officer choked on his response but regained his composure.  "The King shall administer justice in his own time.  As you have presented yourself under a flag of truce, I shall allow you to depart unmolested.  Take this word to your commander.  At your appointed time I shall hang the first of the prisoners.  If you continue to hinder our progress, I shall hang the remainder, one after another.  Now, flee while I still have some respect for your flag of truce."

    Michael turned his back on the Officer and his blood ran cold with the fear a saber would be plunged between his shoulder blades.   None came as he took his first step in the long walk back into the forest.  He set himself down behind a stone wall, well out of the range of their muskets and grimly checked his rifle.

Around him, from their positions behind stone cairns and walls, Militiamen watched as a drama unfolded in the camp of their enemy.   Their peers singled out the two men they had marked.  A struggle broke out and they were knocked to the ground and subdued.  The officer walked to the edge of the circle holding a white cloth and stood on the stone wall.   Michael stood and walked forward to meet him.  The officer offered his condolences and stated flatly, "These two have confessed their crimes and under military law will be hanged.  The sentence will be carried out at His Majesties pleasure.   As for your friends, I regret, we cannot release them."

"So be it," snarled Michael and as he turned he called at the top of his voice, "The killing begins!"

    Rifles fired and bullets flew into the circle as if by the same mind.   The two who had been singled out were lifted off their feet by the impact and flipped over in midair, twisting and jerking.   Their bodies slammed to the left and then right, each pierced by a score of shots and then dropped to the ground, torn and mangled.  But the shooting did not stop and the corpses danced a spasmodic jig as they were dismembered and splattered by rifle fire.

    A volley of musket fire erupted from the British line as Michael dropped to the ground, rolled over the crest of a small knoll and crawled the remaining distance back to his friends.  The musket fire created a cloud of thick white smoke hiding him from their view.  Their shots fell short and ineffective; the patriots exposed themselves with impunity, took careful aim and fired into the defensive position.  The barrage of Militia rifle fire ripped the British soldiers from their firing positions, dropping them to the ground with gaping wounds.  

    The cries of the wounded filled the air as the Chestnut Neck Militia settled into their siege positions and poured withering fire into the circle.  They carefully chose their targets, avoiding their friends, neighbors and compatriots who stood as defenseless, human shields, chained to the wagons.

    The soldiers and their Tory allies reloaded and fixed their bayonets, preparing to charge out into the forest and take the rebels in close combat.  The order never came.  Their commander hesitated.   Most of his men huddled were around the perimeter of the circle, pushing rocks up onto the walls and stacking them into crude fortifications around themselves, taking cover where they could find it. Some huddled around the prisoners, not close enough to allow themselves to be taken but close enough to discourage shots being fired at them.

    Slowly, the gunfire from the forest died away.  The Officer sent scouts to penetrate the forest and find the rebels.   They found none.  He breathed a sigh of relief and gave the order for the column to resume the march back to ZEBRA.
 One of the rebel prisoners laughed out loud and called to the officer.   "You will be the first to die, red coat."   A soldier stepped forward and clubbed the man with his musket.  "Keep your mouth shut, rebel," he screamed.  But as he turned to accept the approval of his commander, he saw the officer slump to the ground, a blot of red spreading over his white tunic.  Panic swept over the soldiers and they fired their muskets blindly into the forest.  A Sergeant, the last of the senior commanders, snapped an order to the men, "Hang two of the rebel prisoners...” Before he could finish the command a rifle shot rang out of the forest and his head exploded as a bullet smashed into his brain.  The soldiers could find no targets.  They fired their muskets wildly.   Without their leaders they were lost.   Michael called from the forest, "Release the prisoners and flee."

    Cries of "Cut them loose" and "Let them go" rose from the soldiers but they continued to mill about, unable to make a decision.  They needed someone to take command of the situation.  One of the Tories bent over a dead Sergeant, took the shackle keys from his belt and unlocked the chains.  Freed, the men hobbled and crawled away from the wagons and into the forest where their friends met them and helped them away to safety.   When all were freed, the soldiers began to walk, tentatively, back down the road leading to Chestnut Neck.  Afraid of an ambush, they walked hunched over their muskets, hiding behind their bayonets pointing them into the forest but no attack came.   The rebels kept their word.  No shots were fired as the column retreated back down the road to the smoldering ruins of Chestnut Neck.

                                                                                 -*-

     Captain Ferguson reviewed the reports of the dead and wounded.  "This punitive strike is getting expensive,” he thought.  Now the storm tide we rode in is receding.  ZEBRA has already run aground and VIGILANT is in danger of foundering!"  A young officer entered the tavern and presented a packet of messages to his Commanding Officer.  Ferguson looked over the dispatches, picked up one and read it again. "Damn.  Another report of Yankee cavalry reinforced with artillery, headed into the battle zone.  How much worse can things get?"

                                                                               -*-

     Count Pulaski's Legion arrived at Chestnut Neck on the morning of October 8, 1778 and engaged the British and Tory forces.   His cavalry charged madly into the British lines, turning their flanks into the Mullica River and forcing them to withdraw.  The British cruisers fired their cannon into the forest in a desperate effort to keep the ever-tightening ring of rebels at bay but inexorably, the circle tightened.   

    On the river, the situation was just as bad.  The flood tide that had allowed the cruisers to sail within range of Chestnut Neck had receded leaving both ZEBRA and VIGILANT grounded.  Captain Collins impressed nearly a third of Ferguson's infantry, withdrawing them from the battle and forming them into work gangs to try and refloat the cruisers but as the tide ran out, the task deteriorated from desperation to futility.  When the tide returned, VIGILANT finally slipped off the sand bar but ZEBRA remained stubbornly caught.  Refloating her became more hopeless as the rebel cavalry pressed against their outer perimeter.  The decision to scuttle her was forced upon Collins when the lines broke and the force fell back, retreating to the beaches they had come over only two days before.

    Bitter skirmishes between small groups of British troops and Militia were motivated by the story of the massacre at the Fields home.  The determined militia attacks, supported by Pulaski's cavalry units, broke the momentum of the invasion force and turned their withdrawal into a route.  As the last assault boat prepared to pull away from the landing, the Demolition Officer lit the fuse.  Suddenly, his assistant screamed.  Blood gushed from a bullet shattered hand and splattered across his torn and dirty uniform.  Sniper fire from the edge of the forest had increased as the British perimeter shrank and the troops were withdrawn.  Only one boat remained and the soldiers waiting for the Demolition Officer crouched down trying to stay out of the rebel sharpshooter’s sights.   The Officer lit the fuse and pulled his crying assistant to the last boat and together they fell in.  The fuse burned strongly as the uniformed men pushed off the beach, pulled at the oars and prayed loudly to their creator, begging for protection from the bullets humming through the air around them.

    The gunpowder charge buried in the fort went off with a mighty blast that demolished it with an ear ringing bang.   An orange fireball rose to the sky and clods of earth and rock pelted the boat as it pulled around the bend in the river.  The soldier’s prayers had been answered.

    The rebels, in their ambush positions along the Mullica, turned in the direction of the explosion and watched the black mushroom shaped cloud with a fiery heart rise into the sky.   As it dissipated, they returned their attention to the long boats fleeing back to the transports.  The invasion force had carried away nearly half of the booty stored in Chestnut Neck but had left behind nearly one fourth of their force, dead or captured.

    The British troops retreated past the smoking ruins of the Bass River Salt Works, past the scuttled hulk of ZEBRA, away from the forest, out onto the Great Bay.  Their mission was a failure.  They had met a force of rebels, determined to protect their homes and galvanized by the horrors visited upon their neighbors.  They had expected little or no resistance, but had met a force that was surprisingly well armed and organized and reinforced with cavalry of unmatched daring.

                                                                                    -*-

     Pulaski's Cavalry and the Chestnut Neck Militia paralleled the retreating long boats as they fled down the river, pacing them, continuing their harassing fire.  They carried on a running gun battle with the long boats until they entered the Great Bay and finally pulled out of rifle range.  Cannon fire from NAUTILUS, VIGILANT and the transport fleet struck back at the pursuing cavalry but their fire was ineffective and fell harmlessly into the forest.  The gunners were firing wildly, without coordination, at any target that appeared.  The sight of a rider on the beach was enough to prompt them to bombard the dunes, lashing out in frustration at their defeat and humiliating loss.  Count Pulaski led a detachment of his cavalry, at a full gallop, down a forest path leading to the ocean.  His guide was a young man of intense fury and a stiff left leg.  Pulaski marked him and noted that despite the infirmity, he was a passable horseman.  It was also his idea to set up an ambush on Monahunk Island at the mouth of the Great Bay.   From there, he said, riflemen could fire upon the British as they came out of the Mullica and retreated across the Bay.

    Their horses thundered across the Sheepshead bridges, across the sand dunes and down to the rolling Atlantic. But their mad ride was in vane.  They arrived in time to see the last of the long boats being raised onto an assault barge and the sails being unfurled.   The assembled cavalry cheered their victory from the beach and watched until the last of the fleet disappeared over the horizon.

    Darkness fell across Chestnut Neck and huge bonfires were built on the beach and in the remains of the Red Water Inn.   The victory celebration carried on into the late hours as the Smugglers and their Militia reveled in the courage they had displayed in standing eyeball to eyeball against King George’s professional army.  But Michael could not celebrate.  There was nothing left in his heart that could hold joy.  Stella found him that night sitting at the edge of the ocean with Count Rhordon, drinking rum and crying.  She sat down next to him, her eyes were red and sore from crying.   She took the mug of rum from his hand and drank deeply.

"My husband just died," she said and rested her head on Michael’s shoulder.  Tears and sobs poured out of her.  He touched her face and tried to whisper words that would sooth her heart but found he could only cry.  Count Rhordon stood and left them sitting together on the beach, sharing each other’s grief.

"Is your daughter all right?" he asked between ragged sobs.

 Stella nodded her head, "Yes.  We were together, deep in the forest."

 They sat side by side, without speaking, watching the ocean pound the beach.  The rum eased their pain but did not remove it and they drank steadily, until Stella fell over and slept.   But the despair and agony in his soul would not let Michael sleep.  He covered Stella with his coat and staggered to the water’s edge and let himself fall into the rolling surf.  His drunken grief overwhelmed him; he intended to breathe the ocean's icy water until his soul separated from his body in the warm embrace of death.  But instead of embracing him, the rolling Atlantic tossed him up back up onto the beach. He choked on salt water and spit it out.   Suddenly sobered, his mind cleared and he knew exactly what to do.  He wanted to taste his enemy's blood.  Anger flushed the rum from his brain and Michael made his way to Pulaski’s camp where he connived an audience with the Legion’s commander.  Standing before him, he tearfully told his story and ended by crying out for vengeance.   The Count remembered him.  "You have the fire that makes a soldier or kills him.  If you want to kill the British then the Legion is the place for you,” he said.  “Tomorrow, we return to Trenton.  I understand you were an officer before your wound."

    Michael nodded his head in the affirmative.

"You are welcome to join with us, if you can keep up.  When we reach Trenton, I'll consider a commission.  But if you fall behind, we will leave you.”

                                                                                -*-

HMS NAUTILUS
CAPTAIN COLLINS’ QUARTERS

    Captain Collins sat transfixed at his desk digesting the news Captain Ferguson had just delivered.  Casamire Pulaski was in command the rebel cavalry!  Pulaski, the Regicide!  Wanted for his part in a plot to assassinate the King of Poland!  His uncle, the Duke, would pay handsomely for Pulaski's head.  Yes, this was just the sort of gift that would help solidify the Polish cousins.  Not to mention make the news of this defeat a little easier to deliver.  There was still a chance to pull victory out of ignominious defeat!

"Turn the ships around,” ordered Collins.  “We're going back!"

                                                                              -*-

    Michael sat at the table in Stella's home.   After talking with Pulaski, he half dragged and half carried her back to her cottage and lay her in bed to sleep off the rum.  By the light of a single candle, he composed a letter leaving everything he owned to her and wishing her well.  Rhordon walked with Michael along the moon lit forest trail back to his home and helped him assemble the essential equipment a cavalry officer would need.  Rhordon added a saber he had picked up and horse pistol to the tomahawk, knife and rifle Michael already had.  He would obtain a new uniform in Trenton.  Rhordon nodded his head with satisfaction and gave one final gift to Michael, a good horse.

                                                                               -*-

    Pulaski had bivouacked his Legion in a grassy vale on Monahunk Island between the Sheepshead Channels that created the two islands at the mouth of the Great Bay.  The men pitched their tents on the leeward side of the knoll out of the incessant wind blowing off the ocean.  The horses were corralled in a stand of scrub oak and pine. Sleep came quickly to the exhausted men who were lulled by the gentle roar of the nearby surf and soon the camp was still and quiet.  But not everyone had surrendered to sleep.   Count Pulaski was disappointed his legion had not gotten into a full engagement with the enemy before they retreated.  He was furious they had not arrived earlier and was determined to find why and fix blame.

     Michael was invited to sit in on the Officers meeting and listen as the Count reviewed and dissected their actions.  The Officers listened raptly as their commander's analysis devolved into ranting about bad luck and then swung to congratulating the men on their valor and back to cursing the luck that had not given him an outright victory.

                                                                                 -*-

    Just after midnight, the British fleet returned and put 250 men ashore.  The assault boats landed in the dark on the ocean side of Monahunk Island and the raiders moved unseen across the sand dunes using the fires of Pulaski's encampment to guide them.   At the bridge between the two islands, they paused.  Stealthily, the regulars stalked the drowsy sentries and quietly killed them.  The troops moved across the bridge and on their Officer’s signal, slipped undetected into the bivouac and began the dirty business of murdering men in their sleep.   The regulars moved from tent to tent slitting the throats of the sleeping legionnaires but their filthy work could not be done in complete silence.  Slowly, the Legion came awake and faced the danger.  A clamor of voices rose up from the tents, waking groggy men to defend themselves.  Gun shots broke out.

    Pulaski stopped in mid stride and looked around.   "Do you hear that,” he asked?  “It sounds like a riot in the bivouac."  He threw back the flap of his tent and cocked his head in the direction of the encampment.  His eyes widened like a trapped animal turning to fight.  His teeth clenched.   “To arms,” he called.  “We are under attack!  To horse!  To horse!"

     Pulaski scooped up his pistol belt and saber as he bolted from the tent and mounted his horse in a single leap.  The startled animal reared up on its hind legs before recognizing its rider.  He dug heels into the animal’s flanks and charged saddleless into the growing commotion.  Michael and the Officers were on their horses only seconds behind the Count, following him into the fray.  

    The bivouac was madness on a scale Michael had never imagined possible.   Clusters of half dressed and naked men were fighting uniformed British soldiers hand to hand, wrestling over rifles and slashing each other with tomahawks and knives.  They fought with bare fists, rocks and sticks, anything they could lay their hands on to defend themselves from the nighttime intruders.  Pulaski charged into the middle of the battle.  Slashing with a saber in his right hand and swinging his pistol like a club with his left, he called to his men, rallying them, organizing defenses.   He plunged into the skirmishes, trampling British soldiers under hoof and striking out with his saber to turn the tide here and save a trooper’s life where possible. Within minutes, Pulaski's efforts had stabilized the fight in the tent area.  The legionnaires rallied into formation and organized their efforts as their officers led the counterattack.  

    Michael followed the Count’s lead and charged into the battle without saddling his horse.  Brandishing Count Rhordon's saber, he rode into a battlefield boiling with clashing soldiers and picked his first target.  With a war cry and a scream, he charged into a knot of three soldiers preparing to slit the throat of a half-dressed man tangled in a collapsed tent.   His horse rode over them, stamping squarely on the foot of one.  Michael swung his saber in a wide arch, slashing a second and throwing the third off his prey.

    He slashed left, then right, again and again, thrusting his saber into the bodies of red coats as he waded through the battlefield.  Madness blurred his mind. Blood ran down the length of his saber as he held it high over his head.  He reveled in the feel of the warm liquid seeping into his sleeve as he brought his horse around for another charge.  He saw the trapped man scramble to his feet, draw a horse pistol and discharge it into the face of a charging infantryman. Michael let out an Iroquois war cry and charged his horse into a line of regulars.  He leaned forward on his mount, holding his saber out in front of him and ran it through the neck of a Red Coat infantryman.  He pulled the sword loose and reined his horse around to attack another knot of soldiers when his vision exploded with a fiery, white light.  He sat numb in the saddle for long seconds, then slid silently off his mount and crumbled to the ground.  He struggled to gather his feet but the sound of the battle drifted into the distance and sleep sucked his mind down into a warm sea of tranquility.

                                                                                        -*-

    Michael’s body fell to the ground as the British line broke and began retreating.   They withdrew back across the bridge and formed a skirmish line.  Their first volley cut through the Legion's counterattack and threw them back to regroup.  The British held firmly to the bridge, repulsing the legion’s repeated attacks, while the main body of their force retreated back to the boats.  A young British soldier brought a pail of lamp oil up to the defenders at the bridge and turned it over to the sergeant in command of the rear guard.  As his men fired their next volley, he doused it over the bridge and set it on fire.  The flames roared up consuming the highly volatile fuel and setting the dry cedar planking ablaze.  The fire spread quickly driving the Legionnaires back, cutting off their attack and giving cover to the British retreat.  As the flames consumed the bridge, Pulaski screamed curses at his prey and sent riders along the bank, searching in vain for a ford.   He sat on his horse screaming in his native language at the attackers who had withdrawn across an impenetrable barrier.   The flickering tongues of fire consuming the bridge painted an evil glow to his face and struck a deep fear into Captain Ferguson.    

    Pulaski’s pursuit was barred.  On the mainland he saw the flash of artillery and grunted approvingly as the shells roared over head and impacted on the beach where the British boats were loading.  To his left and right, Legionnaire sharpshooters took up positions and began firing on the beach, continuing the toll they were extracting.  

    Ferguson’s retreat was successful but not safe. As the sun rose, his troops hastily boarded their assault boats for the second time and desperately rowed out of range of the killing rifles, licking their wounds; frustrated again.  In the early morning light, the tide receded and Pulaski crossed the channel with his Legion, anxious to fight, but only to find the invaders had slipped away.  Behind them they left the spoils of war strewn across the dunes.  Pulaski surveyed the scene and realized the attack was not a small-scale raid.  The British had abandoned a huge amount of military equipment, food, clothing and arms; enough to supply the legion for a year.

    The remainder of the day was spent gathering up the supplies, inventorying and loading them onto wagons for the trip to Trenton.  But first, there was the matter of the wounded and dead.  The raid had been devastating.  Nearly one third of Pulaski’s Legion were casualties; 30 dead and 100 wounded.   The legion was broken.

                                                                                  -*-

    When he awoke, Michael found himself lying on a bed.  Slowly, his eyes focused and he recognized Stella's house.   He tried to raise himself up but a throbbing pain in his head, worse than that in his leg when it was first injured, blasted through his brain.   He moaned and fell back.  Stella was immediately at his side, tending him.  "Michael, lay still,” she said.  “You have been unconscious for three days!  Lay back and rest.  I'll get you something to drink."

"Three days," he murmured!  The memory of the battle flooded over him and he lay back, trembling with the searing pain in his head, till he slipped back into a deep sleep.  As he slept, demons tore at his soul and haunted him with nightmares.  He was plagued with visions of Faith’s torn and broken body, rising from the sandy grave where he had buried her, calling out for vengeance.  He woke drenched in sweat and spent the day wracked with a renewed ache in his left leg and the constant throbbing of a headache from a musket ball that had torn open a line of flesh in his scalp and exposed the skull.

    As the days progressed, he soothed the pain in his leg with rum and, if he drank enough, the pain in his head also receded.  But the emptiness in his heart dragged his spirit into the depth of a depression and he found himself crying uncontrollably at odd times. 

SPRING, 1779

    Michael never rebuilt his cabin and in the months following the raid on Chestnut Neck he remained in Stella's home.  Rum was the only balm for the incessant pain in his head that threatened to consume his world.  Stella and her infant daughter, Andrea, tolerated his stupors and supplied him with drink till he slept.  It was not until he found medicinal powders in the loot from a ship back from the Indies, that he was able to gain some measure of relief.   With these new medicines to ease the pain wracking his body, his dependence on rum slackened till he eventually drank no more.

    With his days and nights clearer, he found the tenderness he had once known in Stella to be waiting for him to renew.   Andrea became a joy in his life that filled his days with a happiness he had never before known and as spring warmed the Pine Barrens, Stella and Michael married and swore to begin their lives anew.  Michael returned to the business of shipping arms, ammunition and clothing to General Washington’s army.   Despite the raid, the number of privateers sailing from the Great Bay to prey upon British shipping increased.  More loot than ever was coming into Chestnut Neck and the number of auctions grew along with the volume.  The importance of Chestnut Neck to General Washington’s Army and the revolution itself, was never more apparent.  The fortifications were rebuilt and the militia reformed, but now with a core of battle hardened veterans carrying a grudge and a taste for British blood.  Hard lessons had been learned and more cannon were put in place, beach defenses were shored up and their coordination with other militias was refined.

                                                                                         -*-

    Stella surveyed the contingency from the Continental Army. The purchasing agents were notoriously short on hard currency and were reduced to trading paper promises for the war materials needed to make the dream come true.  Their latest buying trip seemed to be of somewhat greater importance than earlier missions, they were bidding on everything from cloth and medicines to gunpowder and shot, leaving Michael to speculate that a major offensive was coming. 

    Stella was directing a gang of workmen who were razeing the roof on the new RED WATER INN when one of the Continental Army Officers in the buying contingent caught her eye.  He approached, doffed his hat, bowed low and introduced himself.  Stella blushed, brushed his advance aside and returned to her duties, thinking to herself that he was fair and handsome but not her type.  As he was trying to strike up a conversation, another officer called to him.  "Colonel Hamilton, the French shipment has arrived.   We must hurry and accept it."
 The bidding, as usual, was lively and the prices paid were significantly below the true market value.  The problem with the insolvency of the paper Continental Dollar was creating a resistance among the smugglers to part with their goods for promissory notes.   Nevertheless, the purchasing expedition had done reasonably well and secured goods which would find their way to Washington's army.

    Hamilton left the warehouse and headed for the purser to pay the agreed sum and arrange for transport to Virginia.   It took two men to lift the chest full of paper money and carry it into the RED WATER INN where the final arrangements were to be made.  Inside the newly roofed building, he placed his tricorn hat on the table in front of the man hunched over a ledger book and said, "Good day, Citizen.  I'm here to pay for lots 304, 305 and 310."
 The purser looked up and the Colonel's chin dropped.   "My god!  Michael?  Is that you?”

    It took a second for Michael's eyes to focus as he looked up from the book and into the face of an old friend.   "Alex?   I didn't know you were here.  If I had, I would have looked you up."

"Lieutenant, I heard you were killed in the retreat!  I had no idea you were still among the living.”  He extended his hand and clasped Michael's.  “It's so good to see you have been spared."

"Spared but not unscathed,” he said as he rose stiffly.  “Enough to keep me in port.  Though I must say, I'm not completely disappointed.  I've recently taken a wife."

"Michael.  I'm pleased for you."

"Thank you, Alex.  We were married only a few weeks ago and we're just settling in together."

"Well, congratulations are in order.  You must introduce me."  Hamilton paused for a second and then continued, "Tell me, is it possible that you and your bride could join me for dinner this evening?"

"I should think so,” responded Michael, “Stella will be charmed to meet you."

"Very well then, tonight.  At the warehouse.   Dinner will be served promptly at dark.  I'll be expecting you both.  But for now, let us conclude this transaction so we can clothe our army and provide the shot to insure our freedom."

                                                                             -*-

     Colonel Hamilton sat on a cot in his tent speaking with Albert Trent, a representative of a private corporation financing the war.  “Albert, I can’t believe it!  This man has been through the very gates of Hades and still he fights on!  Did you see the esteem in which he is held?  Did you hear the stories of what he has done?  This man is truly a hero in every meaning of the word!  Rewarding him for his service is too little.  We need to make use of him.  Set him loose to fight on a scale commensurate with his skill and daring.”

    Trent nodded his head in agreement.  “If we can believe half the tall tales we heard today, this is just the man VENGENCE CORPORATION is seeking to tend their investment and return a profit.”

 “I can vouch for what he did to save the army in our ignominious retreat from Fort Lee, and the good citizens hold him in reverence for his loyalty and courage in fending off the attack last fall.  I have no doubt of my decision.  I want him named as our candidate and after hearing of Mr. Fields accomplishments the directors of VENGANCE CORPORATION will abide by our decision.”

  “I agree, Alex.  He is a good and sound choice.  All the required characteristics are in place.  We can make the presentation tonight.  In the morning, you take the supplies back to General Washington; I will meet with the directors.  Have no fear, you have made a solid recommendation with which I concur.”

                                                                             -*-

 The warehouse was filled to capacity when Michael and Stella arrived.   Almost immediately they felt the crowd greeting them was more lively than usual.  Their friends seemed to address them with an elevated respect.  People they had met only in passing greeted them warmly.  The warehouse was swarming with military officers, ship’s captains and representatives of the forge at Batsto.   A tankard of ale was pressed into Michael's hand and a mug of warm wine, spiced with cinnamon and apple, was pressed upon Stella as they were conducted to the table reserved for Colonel Hamilton's party.

    The Colonel and his Officers rose as the couple made their way to the table and presented themselves.  Hamilton shook Michael’s hand and gallantly kissed Stella’s and introduced them to the dignitaries seated with him.  Dinner was served as the conversations around the table turned to the conduct of the war.  Roast pheasant with wild rice, fresh vegetables and wine were set at each place to the hardy approval of the guests.  Alex engaged Michael in conversation and described in broad terms the strategy General Washington was using to lure the British into unfavorable tactical situations.  Then he described how the American Privateer fleet in the Caribbean and around the world was damaging the economy of England, weakening their military and limiting their ability to wage the war in America.

    The conversation eventually turned to Michael and he was asked to describe the circumstances leading to his reported death while protecting the retreat from Fort Lee.   The Colonel listened attentively as he and Stella related their sad story and the events that brought them together. When their tale and the meal were completed, Colonel Hamilton rose and called for the attention of all in the room.  In a voice that could be heard by those outside, he told of the new alliance with France.  "This means that the skill of the smuggler will become more necessary as the flow of goods to our army increases.  We will need more men to transport war materials to our army.  Smuggler is no longer your name!”  He lifted his tankard in salute.  From this day onwards, you shall be called Patriots."

    Applause and whoops filled the warehouse in response to Colonel Hamilton's words. He drank deeply and then stood surveying the gathered residents of Smuggler's Woods with satisfaction.  He was an emissary from the new government, addressing a powerful neighbor, courting the smugglers into an alliance.  He raised his hands for quiet and began again.

 "With us today is a man to whom I wish to draw your attention.  I have known him since we were boys playing the game of war.  Not long ago, he reentered my life and sought a commission with our artillery batteries on the Hudson River.  The training he received here, under Count Rhordon, served him and his country well."

    The crowd seemed to part around Count Rhordon and Hamilton raised his tankard again.  "Count Rhordon, we are in your debt."

"Here, here," called a voice in the crowd.  Applause and a murmur of recognition traveled through the hall as all eyes turned to the one armed man sitting at a table at the back of the room.  The colonel paused, sipped again from his tankard and continued relating the story of the Haerlem River raid and its result.

"The confusion that struck the British Army when they were not paid came close to mutiny."  Again the crowd roared its approval, banging their wood and pewter plates on the table.  Screaming their approval and calling insults on the British Army.

    Hamilton continued, "The private soldiers in pursuit of General Washington’s force quickly developed a surly attitude.  They just didn't want to do the job without being paid!"  The gathered crowd roared, laughed, whistled and stamped their feet.  "It was this single event that slowed the pursuit to a crawl.  But there is more.  In the retreat from Fort Lee, the man I am speaking of exemplified himself, repeatedly, while protecting the rear flank.  Yet, if this were all he had done, it would still be sufficient enough to earn our accolades.  General Washington knows of the British raid here last year and the massacre inflicted upon your community.  This man, a leader of your Militia, fought beside you to repulse that dastardly attack.  Then, not satisfied, he pursued the invaders with Count Pulaski’s Legion and fought valiantly through the massacre on Monahunk Island."   The gathering hooted and howled their approval.

    Hamilton raised his tankard high again and in a ringing voice presented a toast.  "Ladies and gentlemen of Chestnut Neck.  I drink to a man whose courage and loyalty are matched only by the beauty of his bride.  Three cheers for Michael Fields!"  

    Michael leaned back in his chair, his stiff leg aching and took Stella’s hand.  His headache seemed to abate as the cheers rang through the warehouse.  A tear glistened in Stella's eye as she looked into his.  Her whispered, "I love you," was drowned out by the thunderous cheering in the room.  When the clamor died down enough for the colonel to be heard and the crowd settled down, Alex spoke again calling for Michael to rise.  "Michael, more than cheers are due you."   He removed several folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket, unfolded them and read the proclamation.

 "In the name of, and by the authority of the Continental Congress and the Navy of the United States, you are hereby presented with Letters of Marque and Reprisal."

    A collective gasp went up from the assembly.  The Letters were a license from the government to raid British shipping with impunity.  They were a guarantee the crew would not be hung as pirates.  They were not lightly issued!  Hamilton continued, "But more importantly, I also hold a letter that commissions you as the Captain of the Frigate purchased this day, in the port of Chestnut Neck, by the partners of the VENGEANCE CORPORATION."

    The crowd went wild with their cheering, knocking over tables, spilling drinks on each other, banging tankards on the tables and chanting Michael's name.  In the deafening noise, he put his arm around Stella and hugged her.   Ignoring the pain in his leg, beaming with pride and satisfaction, he stood before the cheering guests as the ruckus went on ceaselessly.  Michael raised his hands to quiet the revelers but they only cheered louder.  Deafened by the din, he turned to Colonel Hamilton and saluted.

"Thank you, Alex.   I shall repay this generosity many times over."

"I have no doubt you will,” said Hamilton!  “Tell me, Captain Fields, what will you christen your first command?"

"She carries the name VENGEANCE,” Michael said, “and although I seek vengeance, I do not wish to sail under its sway."  He paused, his eyes swept over the crowd and up to the rafters.  "Yes.  There is a name I like.  A name I would like to revive.  PASSAIC FALCON."

                                                                            -*-

     Michael woke in the middle of the night and listened to the sounds around him.  An owl called somewhere deep in the forest and the moon cast its thin light through the stern windows of the PASSAIC FALCON’S cabin.  Stella lay peacefully by his side.  Andrea's tiny cradle, suspended from the ceiling, swayed gently with her movement.  He could hear her tiny breaths as she slept.  The ghosts of dead friends visited him again but this time without malevolence.  Calik blessed his journey and Frederick wished him good luck.  He turned and gently stroked Stella's hair and thought briefly of Faith.   Her tortured ghost no longer called for vengeance.  He lay back on the mattress and drifted back to sleep, lulled by the gentle rocking of the PASSAIC FALCON, as she rode the incoming tide on the Mullica River.

                                                                            -*-