River Of Triumph 4k6m11

Copyright © 2011, by Ken Cascone MCMXCVI, New York, New York All rights reserved. ISBN: 9781483504360

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Contents

CHAPTER I - THE OUTSET

CHAPTER II - TWO VILLAGES

CHAPTER III – DISCOVERY

CHAPTER IV - ORIGIN UNKNOWN

CHAPTER V - COLONIAL YALE

CHAPTER VI - LATER COLLEGE YEARS

CHAPTER VII - INITIAL UNRAVELING

CHAPTER VIII - THE RETURN

CHAPTER IX - THE ADVENTURE BEGINS

CHAPTER X - WAR IN THE VALLEY

CHAPTER XI – HOMEFRONT

CHAPTER XII - THE SEARCH CONTINUES

CHAPTER XIII - A NEW MISSION

CHAPTER XIV - OPERATION OF A SPY RING

CHAPTER XV - NEW HAVEN BOUND

CHAPTER XVI - A SLIVER OF ENLIGHTENMENT

CHAPTER XVII - COUNTERATTACK

CHAPTER XVIII - TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

CHAPTER XIX – RETRIBUTION

CHAPTER XX - THE ENIGMA RENEWED

CHAPTER XXI - THE DEFECTION

CHAPTER XXII - SABOTAGE AND KIDNAP

CHAPTER XXIII - COHORTS IN CRIME

CHAPTER XXIV - THE VEIL RISES

CHAPTER XXV - DENOUEMENT

CHAPTER I - THE OUTSET

The morning mist shrouded three birch-bark canoes, each manned by a young brave, as they glided upriver along the western bank, rafts in tow. Above the green-shaded mountains on the opposite shore, the sun rose. Piercing rays and a stiff breeze soon stripped the airy cocoon to expose them. Amidst full daylight, smooth crystal waters mirrored their age with slight distortions. It was early June in the year of Our Lord 1768.

In the lead craft the oldest and brawniest vigorously set the pace. Again and again this tall, swarthy boy-man at 18 years old swung the long wooden blade from side to side, plying one arm, then the other as a driving force. Every paddle thrust in the river propelled the canoe forward in a surging motion.

His Algonquin name was Swift Fox, a testament to his athleticism and intelligence. Yet he had a Christian name, which matched the duality of his upbringing: Luke for the physician-disciple of the Christian Bible and Davidson, the adopted surname of an errant trapper who had once befriended his father. The two younger boys were a brother Little Hawk, or Matthew Davidson, and Young Wolf, the son of a favorite uncle. Unlike Swift Fox’s father, the uncle did not hold with English names or Christianity for that matter.

Always competing with Luke, though seldom a serious rival, Little Hawk strove to sur him in his canoe. But because of the differences in size and strength, those efforts failed. Instead of putting pressure on the flotilla’s leader, he only frustrated their cousin, who lagged further behind despite struggles to keep up.

The young braves were returning from the Newburgh landing where they had delivered the tribe’s excess beaver, fox, and raccoon pelts. The pelts were sold in

the colonies or shipped to England through Manhattan. Furs represented valuable and stylish commodities to the Europeans and white Americans, who considered them luxury items, fashionable to wear as hats or coats. The Native Americans saw them in a different light, as necessities of life to shield them from a cold climate.

In exchange for furs, the agent at the shipping terminal had given the braves trade goods. Haphazardly stacked on the rafts were muskets, gunpowder, knives, axes and tools, iron pots and copper pans, woolen blankets and broadcloth. Most were destined for their village in the Shawangunk Mountains.

As the canoes and rafts sliced upstream, they ed a flat, almost treeless spit. Once an arena for native rituals and war dances, the desolate site, now known as ‘Dans Kammer,’ a Dutch term, jutted out from the river’s western shore. Though ordinarily in good spirits, Swift Fox became somber when rounding this point. Years earlier, Indians had captured a married white couple in a boat on the river and slowly burned them at the stake there.

Long regarded by whites as an act of wanton cruelty, the incident greatly upset Swift Fox. How could his people have committed such an atrocity? As a member of both cultures, he remained highly sensitive to each one’s fears about the other. He tried to change the distorted notions of white friends about Indians. To his own people, he portrayed the European settlers in a humane and amicable light as he had come to know many of them.

Through the morning hours, the canoes proceeded upriver. Just before noon, Swift Fox spotted a whaleboat far ahead in its course south. Initially, he paid it little mind, but curiosity at last stirred. He ceased paddling, letting the canoe slip forward on its own momentum, then wiped the sweat off his brow. From the pocket of linen leggings, he pulled out a new spyglass, a gift the agent gave him that dawn, to focus on the whaleboat, two hundred yards north. The backs and partial profiles of two men rowing downstream grew visible. Seated nearer the

bow, the younger one had red hair and a clean-shaven face while his companion sported a hat and bushy brown beard. Swift Fox resumed paddling and recalled the advice of Henri Keppler, his father’s business partner and a man wise in the ways of the world.

“When transporting furs or trade goods, be wary. Indians will always be targets for scoundrels. Avoid strangers altogether and never give anyone an excuse to rob you.”

The braves had been spared anything that foul, but this offered Swift Fox little comfort. Despite his trust of whites, his instincts told him to prepare for the worst. In the Algonquin tongue, he relayed his suspicions to his brother and cousin. They readied firearms but kept them out of sight.

As the rear guard, his cousin toted an English flintlock called the `Brown Bess’ that hit targets up to a hundred yards. Outfitted in brass fittings and a walnut stock, its smoothbore barrel stretched more than three feet. An iron ramrod drove the lead ball home. Having been trained by his father, Young Wolf handled this musket like an expert. From Little Hawk’s American rifle, a recent birthday gift, protruded a long, grooved barrel inserted into a dark maple stock. In his hands its lethal prowess reached over two hundred fifty yards.

Out of the horn draped over a shoulder, Swift Fox dribbled powder into the flintlock’s flash pan and down the barrel before loading it with lead from a leather pouch. The ash-framed canoe moving again upstream, he smiled faintly at the musket’s bizarre nature. Its flared muzzle possessed a larger bore than the other guns, yet it was shorter. The weapon’s name, the ‘Blunderbuss,’ sounded humorous, but the damage its scattering shot could do at close range should not be taken lightly. Angled upward beneath a woolen blanket in the bow, it stood poised for instant action. His brother and cousin signaled their readiness just as Swift Fox finished his own preparations. They hoped the approaching craft would sufficiently to starboard so not to pose any threat. As the whaleboat

continued downstream, it angled toward them bit by bit, then more directly until the last thirty yards it blocked their path. Now, with no easy escape open, the boys felt trapped. Still they prayed the men in the boat would not be hostile. Twenty feet away the young braves stopped paddling and came to a halt.

The older bewhiskered man standing near the stern addressed Swift Fox.

“Where’re you lads going in such a hurry?”

“To New Paltz, sir.”

“We’re headed to the general store at Balmville, you know, where that big tree grows. How far’s it from here?”

“Quite a piece. About six miles downstream, sir, on the west bank.”

The old man took in the contents of Swift Fox’s canoe.

“Where’d you get all those trade goods? Did you steal ‘em?”

“No, sir, we swapped furs for them. We work for Mr. Keppler, the merchant from New Paltz. These are his goods.” Swift Fox kept his voice steady, and gradually moved his left hand along the canoe’s bottom, under the blanket, until he grasped the Blunderbuss.

“By Satan, it’d be most sensible if you boys swung those rafts over here. I am watching ya real close, so no tricks.”

“Yeah, and be quick about it,” said the younger, freckled-faced oarsman. He spat a wad of tobacco into the water. “I ain’t got all day.”

The canoe’s bow shifted toward the whaleboat.

“We want no trouble,” Swift Fox said, “but we cannot obey you. Mr. Keppler would scalp us if we did.”

The bearded man raised the weapon to shoulder-level and took dead aim at Luke. “Better do as I say, boy. Damn Injuns.”

Swift Fox pointed the Blunderbuss at the two men and pulled its trigger. Shots exploded simultaneously. Just as the ball from the white man’s musket hurtled toward Luke, the force of the recoil, caused by the Blunderbuss, drove the canoe backward, and the lead fell short of the mark.

Buckshots from the Blunderbuss hit the younger man in the right bicep. Pellets struck the older man in the shoulder and upper chest, and he toppled into the river. The falling musket smacked the boat’s bottom with a thud, and a brimmed hat flew off to float on the watery surface. The suddenness of events stunned these travelers so randomly tossed together. Only cries of the injured white men shattered the silence. The redhead picked up an oar and awkwardly thrust it over the side to help his wounded friend.

After he grasped the oar, the older man pulled himself toward the boat. He reached up to grab the oarlock, then flung a leg onboard. Water dripped from head and beard. While the younger one steadied the boat, the man yanked himself upward and rolled into it, bloodied, battered and soaked.

The Algonquins watched silently, savoring their triumph. Swift Fox raised his right arm, motioning for his brother and cousin to paddle upstream. He stood guard with the reloaded Blunderbuss until the other canoes were safely out of musket range. Moments later he lowered the gun and hastily pushed on. From time to time he glanced back over his shoulder at the whites. The younger man was struggling with the oars, trying to maneuver the boat toward the shoreline. His friend slumped over the side. Both of their guns were out of sight.

The young men paused to eat roasted chicken prepared by the shipping agent’s wife, then pressed on. Hours ed without incident. The rhythmic paddling of the canoe that warm sunny afternoon began to mesmerize Swift Fox. He cultivated a special relationship with the river, a oneness that made him feel part of the gently flowing waters. To him it seemed eternal. The river had existed long before the Algonquins had settled in this valley and would continue long after they were gone. How much his people valued this lifeblood for their land. Abundant and ever constant, fleshy sturgeon, striped bass, herring and shad filled its waters, and succulent oysters lay in its shallows. Between the ocean and the great northern mountains, it stretched for more than two hundred fifty miles inland with no barriers to thwart man’s age.

The Algonquins called it ‘Muhheakunnuk,’ which means always moving big waters or waters flowing two ways. For years Swift Fox had listened to the river’s many voices and its tributaries, roaring, rushing, streaming, coursing, splashing, chopping, gurgling, lapping. These voices, he realized, echoed the history of his people, the white man’s invasion and settlement, their wars and disputes, finally the Algonquins’ western migration. His tribe envisaged the river, whether salty, brackish or pristine-fresh, as a god to be esteemed if not

worshiped.

Of all the Algonquins still in the Hudson Valley, Red Feather, the father of Swift Fox and Little Hawk, had adapted most readily to the white men’s ways. Because of his own father’s insistence, he had attended their school during youth where he had learned to read and write English as well as handle simple mathematics. Exposed to a large dosage of Christianity in the church at New Paltz, he had become a true believer. Not forsaking Lenape customs, he had learned to straddle these two cultures with the agility of a bobcat.

Once made chief or sachem on his father’s death, Red Feather used his knowledge of the white world to prepare his people for their changing circumstances. From a mountain village, he fashioned a critical partnership with Henri Keppler, an old schoolmate and good friend. The son of a French Huguenot mother and Dutch father, Keppler had inherited his parents’ general store in New Paltz and had extensive s for trade goods and furs with the merchants and shippers in New York City.

While Keppler nurtured white fur buyers, Red Feather created trading alliances with other Lenape clans further west and different tribes in Canada. In these fertile regions, Indians trapped or hunted bears, otters, foxes and beavers almost year round. Red Feather sent braves into the interior to swap trade goods for such precious skins.

Between them, Keppler and Davidson dominated fur-trading in the lower Hudson Valley. They never reached the business done further north by the Dutch merchants at Albany or Sir William Johnson along the Mohawk Valley, but their profits still made them rich.

Unlike Keppler, Red Feather reserved little money for himself or family, but

conferred his share on the tribe to foster new opportunities. He applied European know-how, tools and training, enabling his people to operate grist and saw mills, a forge yielding skilled metal work, and a freight business. So great were Red Feather’s powers of persuasion that he convinced the tribe to construct a new schoolhouse in their village and hire a white schoolmistress. In the past, just a few Indian children benefited from a formal education since the ten miles to the schoolhouse in New Paltz remained too far for daily travel, and room and board with the white families in town were scarce.

Like his father before him, Swift Fox went to the white man’s school. Though Red Feather had merely obtained rudimentary learning, his son progressed further and excelled. Always the brightest and most accomplished of students – white or Indian – Swift Fox became a source of pride in both communities where everyone expected him to attend college.

By the time the young Indians neared their destination, the sun was already sinking. For a while, it glowed like a brilliant ball of red fire against a yellowish aura before retreating behind the greenery of the distant mountain ridge. Bathed in the dwindling light, the canoes slid steadily toward a low-slung dock in a small cove on the river’s western bank. On the dock stood a plainly-dressed white man, who waved enthusiastically, as if awaiting their arrival. His name was Carter Daniel and he was one of Keppler’s employees. The boys’ deft paddling brought the canoes and cargo to a graceful stop at the jetty’s edge. Receptive hands carefully guided them along the wharf’s length into an open boathouse.

Once inside the boys slipped out of the canoes onto the landing’s solid floor. They exchanged friendly greetings with Carter, detached the rafts, then carried the canoes to the far end of the boathouse. A lit torch, angling out from the wall, shed barely enough light. Once belongings had been removed, they placed the boats in a series of racks that protruded from the back wall. Carter tied the rafts to the landing and transferred the trade goods to a secure corner of the boathouse.

The Keppler mansion rose from a bluff above the dock. After trudging up the steep path, the young men ate a hearty meal in the kitchen, then wandered off to different parts of the house. In a bedroom on the second floor, the two younger boys, exhausted from the day’s exertion, soon slept soundly, but Swift Fox went to Mr. and Mrs. Keppler in the library where they had retired sometime earlier after dinner.

Among his tribe, he was known as Swift Fox. But here, in this place, he was called Luke. The Kepplers had become his second family. As his Christian godparents, Henri and Marie, had virtually adopted him. During the school term, he boarded with them in the smaller stone house amid the growing village of New Paltz and was a frequent guest at their river mansion. While Henri kept abreast of Luke’s progress in school, Marie made sure he was well fed and clothed, tutoring him and her own children together in French.

ed in a glossy light walnut and embroidered with elaborate molding, the library ascended to two stories. Its floor-to-ceiling shelves embraced thousands of leather-bound books. Gold-framed oil paintings of land and seascapes hung in the few bare areas of wall space. An ornate green marble fireplace dominated the room, lit by candles in rounded chandeliers that dangled from the ceiling. Fluffy sofas, high-back armchairs and finely-crafted tables combined to create a comfortable opulence.

The Kepplers were conversing there when Luke strolled in. Standing before the fireplace, Henri, a thin, sandy-haired man of average height, smoked a briar pipe. Azure-eyed Marie, a buxom woman with long limbs and ash-colored hair, was ensconced in an armchair. Renee, their blond daughter, was curled up on the pink sofa next to her brother, Paul.

Mr. and Mrs. Keppler had always fascinated Luke. Henri concentrated much too

much on business, and in spare moments he preferred to be alone, reading books in the library, sailing his gaffed rigged boat and swimming in the river. More outgoing, Marie, in need of people around her, often enlivened family and social gatherings with her penetrating wit. Despite their differences, they blended well to and care for each other.

Luke greeted all and handed Henri the bills of lading from the agent at the Newburgh landing. Henri browsed through them and smiled with satisfaction.

“You did very well, my boy. Safe and efficient delivery of the furs and return of trade goods in the right amounts, excellent.”

“Thank you, sir, but …,” Luke paused, “the fact is there’s something else.”

Henri looked up and saw Luke’s expression. “Upon my soul, what’s troubling you, lad?”

“Yes, tell us about your trip,” Renee inquired.

Luke reported the details of the clash with the white men that afternoon. He saw Renee’s eyes widen with amazement.

“Not to worry,” Henri said. “I’ll speak to the local constable about those rogues. We’ll catch them and put them in jail for a while. That’ll teach them!”

“You were wonderful, Luke,” Marie said. “We’re all very proud of you. Those men certainly got more than they bargained for.”

“Whites still take advantage of Indians,” Henri declared. “They drove them from their land. That should’ve been enough. Now, stealing their possessions!” He shook his head in disgust. His face reddened with anger.

“You always see these incidents in of Indians versus whites,” Marie observed. “But let’s be savvy. Here were two evil men preying on seemingly weaker people. It would’ve been the same if three white boys paddled those canoes, except –” she winked, “for the outcome.” She gave Luke a warm smile and instructed her husband, “Dear, in honor of Luke’s feat, please serve some refreshments.”

“Yes indeed,” Henri exclaimed. “It’s something to celebrate.”

He went to a small serving table in the corner and poured Madeira into crystal glasses for Marie and himself, and sweet apple cider into pewter mugs for the youngsters. Henri raised his glass to propose a toast, but his blond son, bigboned and still sprouting, spoke first.

“To my good friend Luke,” Paul offered. “His bravery and valor were clearly evident today in defense of our property. For this we are very thankful. Clever and resourceful, he proved, above all else, that no one can outfox … Swift Fox.”

They laughed and drank.

Henri announced. “Tomorrow, Paul, Renee and I will take you to your village. It’s been too long since I last saw your father. We’ve much to discuss now that he is back from the west.”

“I am glad you are finally paying us a visit,” Luke said. “But why isn’t Mrs. Keppler coming too?”

“Because there are heaps of chores to do around here,” she explained. “But please convey my sincerest regards to your parents. I can just see myself on a horse clambering up that steep mountain trail. I would probably fall off or the animal would collapse under my weight.”

“Nonsense, mother,” Renee said. “You’ll do just fine.”

Luke chuckled. “But Mrs. Keppler, we have these beautiful mountains for you to paint. Such worthy subjects for your talents.”

“Ah, now you want me to lug all my paints, brushes and easel. That poor horse will die of fright even before the trip begins when it sees the total load.”

The news of the trip invigorated Luke. He had always wanted to offer the Kepplers Indian hospitality. Over the years they had been so generous. He looked forward to the chance to show Paul and Renee his favorite haunts. Besides, a visit by Mr. Keppler would surely please his father. They enjoyed each others’ company but, because of the miles separating their homes, rarely got together.

Later, Paul and Luke sat on the front porch, smoking cigars, as they enjoyed the night’s fresh breezes. From the encircling woods and meadows, they listened to an orchestra of crickets and katydids, then the syncopated croaks of a bullfrog.

“I’m anxious to see your village,” Paul said. “And what you do there.”

“I hope it doesn’t disappoint you.”

“It won’t, I’m sure. Can we do some hunting there or on the way?”

“If you want to. Are you still going to London in the fall?”

“Most definitely,” Paul tapped his cigar. “I’ve always wanted to see England. We’re all Englishmen,” he added, oblivious to his friend’s and his own ancestry. “I expect to be itted to Oxford.” He glanced at Luke. “What are you going to do, now that we’ve finished at the schoolhouse?”

“I don’t know.”

The question made him uncomfortable. Something in his nature stubbornly resisted any suggestion of leaving home. Yet, in reality, that had been the point of his schooling, hadn’t it? To prepare him to do what no one else in his tribe had done. Sometimes, he felt weary. Much too much was expected of him as the oldest son. His father was urging him to make the most of talents and opportunities, not for his own sake, but for that of his people. As the chief’s eldest son, he had to lead, to put others’ concerns before his own. At times that

meant doing something he wouldn’t have ordinarily.

“They all want me to go away to college,” he said with exasperation.

“And you don’t want to go?” Secretly, Paul hoped he would not.

“No, I don’t, but it’s not that simple.” Luke had never disappointed his father before. He shuffled his feet, a sign of indecision.

“Why not?” Perhaps if Luke refused to attend college, thought Paul, he would sur him, and Henri Keppler would esteem his real son more. Envy lingered within Paul or was it merely a rivalry for a father’s affection and praise?

Luke shrugged. “I want to stay with my people and with my friends, I love this land. I see no reason to leave.” Red Feather envisaged his eldest son donning the mantle as chief and running the tribe’s businesses. Higher education, he believed, would enable his son to deal better with both White and Indian worlds. Luke could not let him down. Yet in dreams the boy vaguely pictured himself in another role, even teaching at the new Indian schoolhouse. Torn between the clearness of a father’s vision for him and uncrystalized, personal ambitions, he hesitated, bewildered as to which path to take.

“But you must be curious about other places?”

“I can read about them in books,” Luke tentatively offered, aware he might soon be forced to leave this comfortable terrain.

“It’s not the same as going.” Restlessness seeped into Paul’s words. “I must see cities, foreign countries and the people who live there. We’ve stayed in the same place all our lives,” he complained, puffing on the cigar and blowing smoke rings between the large white columns into the ebony mixture of stillness and insect chirps.

After mid-night the door to Luke’s upstairs bedroom creaked open. His body tensed as he instantly awoke. A ray of light greeted half-closed eyes. With a lit candlestick in one hand, the shapely figure of a young woman floated nearby. Tresses of golden hair loosely tumbled down the back of her white night dress.

Beside the bed, she towered over him and now at sixteen had grown taller than her mother.

“Are you awake, Luke? It’s Renee,” she whispered. A blend of honeysuckles and roses freshened the air.

Slowly he sat upright rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing here, Renee? It’s improper for a young woman to be in a man’s room alone, especially so late at night. Your parents will be furious at us both.”

“Stop being so fastidious. I’m a grown woman, and will do what I please,” came her firm reply. “Anyway, you’re more a brother, not like the other boys.”

Always confident and outspoken, Renee acted nothing like the Indian girls in the village or the White girls at school. Luke had known her and Paul since they

were small. After so many years in the same school and household, he regarded her as his friend and sister. Though on occasions like tonight, this girl’s natural radiating beauty and softness sparked a concealed desire within him.

Still Renee’s changeable moods confused Luke. Sometimes headstrong and stubborn, then yielding and alluring, next aloof and standoffish, she traveled up and down the emotional scales with the practiced dexterity of a skilled musician. Was she a spiteful tease or was this a complicated courtship ritual far beyond the feeble grasp of an inexperienced Indian boy? Immobilized, he had never physically touched the girl nor itted true feelings to her or himself.

On the edge of the bed, she sat, glad for precious moments alone with him, to ask about the day’s confrontation on the river. “Were you scared?” She loved to pry.

“It happened so quickly. There was no time to think or feel. I just reacted,” he stammered. A fierce aggressiveness had always burned inside him. Taught to suppress this instinct save for hunting wild animals, he had willingly succumbed to its urgings. The speed of events contributed little to his violence.

“What did they look like, these two awful men?” Her blue eyes caressed him.

“Big and ugly, I dare say.” He tried to make light of it despite the gravity.

She giggled and fell silent for a long moment. Delving into a titillating unknown, her curiosity persisted. “Mercy me, how does it feel to almost kill a man?”

“I had never seen him before, and he was trying to kill me.” Luke faltered in groping for an explanation. “I’m not sorry for what occurred. You do what has to be done, then and there.” Yet on a conscious level he had baited these men all along. Having suspected their intent far in advance, Luke could hardly plead self-defense. Subconsciously, he sought this clash as a legitimate excuse to unleash caged hostilities.

“I ire you so! I know if I were ever in danger, you will always protect me, my brave Indian,” she exclaimed, then blushed. In that instant she imagined him a hero, ready to do battle for both her honor and life.

Unexpectedly, Renee clasped Luke’s face with a free hand and kissed him hard on the lips — not the usual sisterly peck on the cheek. Absorbing her body’s natural fragrances, he pulled the tempting goddess toward him. Before he could embrace her, she pushed him away and bolted from the bedroom to vanish in the night air Her conduct baffled many, contradictions cascading in whirlpools – come-hither glances and yielding femininity clashing with a stony coolness, welcoming smiles one minute dismissive scowls the next, effusive generosity pitted against a self-centered reticence.

Hard to reconcile, these extremes defied explanation. Still her parents had given this damsel almost everything she had ever desired. Her beauty triggered fawning from male peers and subtle envy from friendly females. Her personality, when at its amenable best, drew people to her, too willing to do her bidding and forgive any slights. Overindulged, she knew few disappointments nor any bounds or restraints, whim and impulse guiding her, ability dissolved in a sea of iration, maturity never truly attained.

Staring at the ceiling, eyes blinking, Luke stayed rigid. Buffeted between frustration and excitement, bewilderment and hope, he still delighted in their flirtatious encounter no matter how brief. Elated, he floated amidst conflicting crosscurrents, her magical aura and grace inflating his spirit. For the rest of that

night, he wrestled with emotions that whipped him back and forth from despair to rapture, ions flooded then subsided within a contorted vortex. In his sleepiness, he could only wonder—was this a perplexing dream or another twisted piece of reality?

CHAPTER II - TWO VILLAGES

After breakfast the next morning, the Indians and Carter rigged a team of horses to a large wagon and loaded it with the trade goods from the Newburgh landing. Ten minutes later Mr. Keppler and his children ed them in the barn. While Luke, Paul and Carter each saddled a horse, Mr. Keppler squeezed one large leather valise and a covered food basket into the overladen wagon. The two younger braves rode with Mr. Keppler on the buckboard. Atop a pair of roan mares, Paul and Luke flanked the wagon on each side.

Ahead of the convoy Renee galloped off on a sleek white stallion. Earlier that morning Luke had tried to speak with her, but she had ignored him. She seemed to lapse back into one of her haughty moods. Yet thoughts of their midnight encounter persisted in her head and stirred renewed excitement and some shame.

Billowy, white cumulus clouds interspersed sunny skies, giving them pleasant weather at their journey’s start. But, far to the west, dark, ominous clouds rolled toward them. Not quite five miles, the trip to New Paltz, their first stop, would take just less than three hours at the pace they were traveling. At times Luke and Paul would dutifully ride alongside the wagon, but every so often they would dash off to chase a rabbit or challenge the other to a short sprint. To the north, rode the solitary figure of the self-absorbed, blond daughter as if her fellow travelers did not exist. In its meandering, the horse alternated between a prancing gait and a faster trot.

Almost simultaneously, Paul and Luke spotted a large buck with partially grown antlers still in velvet, nibbling on leaves of a grey birch tree. When the deer spied them, it froze for an instant before sprinting far ahead across their path through an open field. Both riders gave chase. Paul pointed a loaded musket while Luke readied a bow and arrow. With a reverberating sound, Paul shot first but missed the buck.

As he roughly calculated the distance, angle and effects of a northwest breeze, Luke took careful aim. The release of the bowstring propelled the arrow toward the moving target. The triangular head of chiseled chert smacked into the deer, the feathered shaft vibrating in the buck’s skin. Although hobbled, the stag kept running, wounded only in the upper-right flank.

The sound of another weapon, an American rifle, echoed across the expanse of fields, and the deer dropped in its tracks. Erect on the Keppler wagon, Little Hawk lowered a gun. In salute to his younger brother, Luke raised a fist and shouted in his dialect. Matthew grinned and nodded, breast puffing with pride. Yet Paul grimaced at his failed shot, as Henri slapped Matthew’s back to laud him on the kill.

Speeding to the downed animal, Luke leapt from his steed and landed squarely on both feet next to it. A sharp knife unsheathed, he pounced on the carcass to slit the underbelly, for the sooner he degutted and let its blood, the better tasting the venison would be. Within twenty minutes Luke hung the stag from the wagon’s rear so the remaining blood would drain before the journey’s end.

In the later seventeenth century, as the Dutch hegemony in New York ended and the British became the governing power, twelve settlers or patentees, all French Huguenots, related by kinship, had made a tripartite bargain to purchase a large tract of fertile ground along the banks of the Wallkill River. One party to this arrangement, the new royal governor of New York Colony, granted these settlers lands totaling forty thousand acres. The other party, the Munsees residing on this vast parcel, in the exchange were given two horses and trade goods such as axes, textiles, kettles, knives, blankets, needles, gunpowder, lead, awls and tobacco.

The village, founded on this land grant, was appropriately called New Paltz, after the German province where the Huguenots had lived when they fled

because of religious persecutions. The original stone houses of its first Huguenot pioneers still stood, neatly tucked along the Wallkill’s eastern bank. They were constructed of a dark aggregate ed by wide layers of white mortar and clustered along a single street. Having doubled as a redoubt, one dwelling featured small round loopholes for its defenders’ muskets. An imposing stone church stood on the same street. The descendents of the original patentees inhabited these houses. No longer just an enclave for French Huguenots, New Paltz had prospered with the influx of a large contingent of Dutch, English, Scotch and Irish homesteaders and farmers.

As the dark clouds engulfed the village from the west, the braves and the Kepplers arrived at Henri’s store along a side street. Hurriedly, they pulled the wagon and horses into the barn behind the store next to one stone house just before torrents of rain fell, and thunder and lightning violently shook the skies. Henri Keppler decided their trip to the Indian village would have to wait until the weather cleared.

Luke skinned the deer and hung the carcass in the barn. After washing up, he hastened off to see George Cartwright, his former schoolmaster. Drenched by the rain, he was relieved to find Cartwright and his wife, Sarah, at home. Inside the couple heartily welcomed him, gave him a towel to dry off and showed him into their warm study.

For more than ten years, George Cartwright had taught a mixed brood of Indian and European children, ages six to eighteen, in the local one-room schoolhouse. A gifted teacher who enjoyed delivering daily lessons in stentorian tones, he loved knowledge for its own sake, always striving to enlarge his intellectual grasp.

From Luke’s first school days, having recognized the boy’s intelligence and determination, Cartwright prodded him to higher and higher levels. Under his active guidance, Luke far outdistanced even the older students in school. A

younger partner in the quest for knowledge, he shared Cartwright’s intellectual pursuits. By Luke’s eighteenth birthday, he had already read Gulliver’s Travels, Robinson Crusoe, Moll Flanders, Don Quixote and Pilgrim’s Progress, and had mastered arithmetic, penmanship, English grammar, elementary Latin and geography.

Compared to the average man, George Cartwright seemed eccentric by any . After all their years together, Luke still could not tell if George acted oddly to fool people or was just naturally strange. Even his appearance and movements——tall, lanky, often awkward much in the mode of a praying mantis —-reinforced that impression.

Once in the study, Luke asked, “how have you been, sir?”

“Alive,” shot back this fifty five year old, “but only barely,” a bizarre answer in light of apparent good health.

After smiling and shaking his head, the Indian reported the details of the Newburgh trip and the return to New Paltz, but Cartwright appeared lost in thought. For a few moments an uncomfortable silence separated them.

“I received a letter yesterday, from those officials in Connecticut about you,” George blurted out at last. “.”

“Oh really, sir.” Luke shrugged, then uncomfortably shifted to another topic. “How many pupils will you have next year in the schoolhouse?” Usually, their relationship was direct and responsive, but on the touchy subject in the letter these two played cat-and-mouse with one another.

Cartwright explained in subdued tones, “Apparently, the reverend Pritcher from Danbury thought highly of your conjugation of Latin verbs and your translation of Caesar’s Gallic Wars. Even your grasp of the Old Testament impressed him. They want you to enter the college next fall.”

“That’s good, I suppose.” Luke glanced out the window to avoid having to decide.

“You seem befuddled. For God’s sakes, you are going to accept and attend,” George urged. He did not understand Luke’s hesitancy.

“I don’t rightly know. I’ll have to think about it and talk to my father and … perhaps Mr. Keppler.” Delay, delay, he stressed to himself.

“What’s there to think about or even to discuss? Are you weak in the head?” Cartwright raised his voice. “You will accept and go. Tis a great opportunity for you, lad. I only wish I could have studied at a college of this stature.”

“But I truly don’t want to leave my home, family and friends … or you, sir.”

“You won’t be leaving anybody here permanently.” The schoolmaster calmed himself and at the same time tried to placate the boy. “You’ll be back soon enough during vacations, holidays, and certainly after graduation.”

“I suppose you are right,” Luke conceded evasively. He was not ready for this.

“One of Sir William Johnson’s Indian sons will attend the new Dartmouth College,” said Cartwright reluctantly, fearing he might dissuade him further from what he envisioned as his best course. “Would you like being with the Indian students there? You’ll be the sole Indian at Yale.”

“No, that is not my concern,” the young man countered. “With all due respect, I hardly need other Indians around to make me feel good.” He took umbrage.

News of the college acceptance had confused and upset Luke. Leaving the schoolmaster’s home to return to the Kepplers’ house, he put it out of his mind. Despite occasional lulls, the rain persisted. Luke found Henri and Paul in the parlor.

“Looks like we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to continue our journey,” said Henri.

“That’s if the weather improves,” Paul added. “Which it better. I’m impatient to get goin’. My father doesn’t care about the delay.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” replied Luke.

“How is my friend George Cartwright?” asked Henri.

“Nothing has changed with him,” answered Luke. “He’s his usual self.”

“I never liked that man,” Paul remarked. “He mocked me in school and always made me feel stupid. Sometimes I wish he would leave this town.”

“In truth, he didn’t.” Luke laughed. “It was just his odd manner. He meant little by it.”

“He’s an arrogant dreamer,” Paul declared. “A most impractical man—-and those quirks of his! Papa, did you know he talks to himself out loud and constantly scratches his body parts?”

“Aren’t you being too critical, son?” Henri tactfully observed.

“No, not at all.” Paul’s voice resounded. “You didn’t have to stomach him like I did.”

“Academically, you owe him much,” Luke reminded his friend. “He taught you practically all you know.” The Indian grinned. “And he did amuse us with those funny stories. the way he would doze off in class when seated at his desk.”

“Yeah, it just shows how right I am about that man. He’s a strange duck.”

Early the next morning under clearing skies, the travelers headed west to the Wallkill River. Since no bridge spanned it, they would have to ford the waterway or take the ferry across. Henri drove the loaded wagon to the ferry, flicking a

whip over the horses. There he counted on help from Luke’s brother and cousin. At the crossing, still mid-stream, the ferry man struggled toward them, a pole clenched in both hands, his face contorted.

“I know a shallow section downstream, we could ford,” Luke said. “Who will me?”

“You two go with Luke,” Henri told Paul and Renee.

They needed no prodding to charge off on a separate path. With Luke in the lead, all three riders cantered along the riverbank for about a mile. Next to a large weeping willow whose branches touched the water’s surface, Luke reined in his horse and waited for his companions. That morning, as if she were an entirely different person, Renee acted gregarious and sociable.

Luke pointed to the shallows. “Paul, you cross the river first, then Renee, and I’ll bring up the rear.”

The Wallkill flowed north. Along this stretch it normally spread one hundred fifty feet wide and ran smoothly. Yesterday’s storm drove it wider and at a higher level. The current sped up as well. Gingerly, Paul’s roan stepped into the swollen water. Renee trailed on the frisky white stallion. Reins in his left hand, Luke coaxed the horse forward with pats on its flank, descending the bank just behind Renee. That morning, her blond hair piled neatly on her head, she looked taller and more prim than usual.

Despite the faster current plus greater depth and width, no obstacles appeared to hinder the crossing. At the Wallkill’s midpoint, Renee’s horse stumbled and

almost fell off the shoals they were traversing into deeper waters. Since it hastily righted itself to wade on, rider and horse would ordinarily have advanced without mishap. But Renee had not been concentrating. Instead she was iring two blue jays perched in a hickory tree on the opposite bank. A loose grip on the reins and the stallion’s abrupt, unexpected movement pitched her into the river. The horse merely kept sloshing onward without a rider.

As he glanced back at his younger sister’s plight, neck deep in the water, bobbing up and down, Paul broke out laughing. “I’ve warned you about how you ride,” he said, grinning. “You never pay attention, and you got what you deserved. Anyway, girls can’t ride stallions.”

Renee was infuriated. She safely treaded water in the spot where she had fallen, but the rapid current soon pushed her north. Luke leaned out over his horse and plucked her out. Drenched and trembling, she clung to him, head against his chest. For the rest of the crossing she wrapped her arms tightly around him, hands grasping the small of his back.

High on the sloping shore, Paul leaned out over the saddle and grinned at the pair atop the single horse. As they started their ascent from the waters, he shouted to Luke, “She’s nothing but trouble. Let her down so she can fend for herself.”

Luke gazed up at him. “If I do, she’ll just get another bath.”

Renee’s scolding voice shot back, “How on earth could you jest about your own sister in such distress?”

“It was mighty easy. You looked so silly. There you were, the very image of a wet goose.”

“You could’ve at least cast me as a swan.” A flash of militant pride, then ladylike indignation echoed in her tone. “Truth is only Luke cared enough to save me while my own flesh and blood was too busy heehawing like a jackass.” Renee turned to Luke. “Thank you, my dear friend.” She kissed him on the cheek.

Paul retrieved Renee’s stallion, which was trotting toward the ferry. Still together on his horse along the riverbank, Luke enjoyed their closeness. Renee only loosened her hold on him when they neared her father’s wagon. By then Paul had reported his sister’s troubled crossing.

Henri could not bear to castigate the children for any of their misdeeds. These unpleasant tasks he always left to his prickly-tongued wife to handle. Had he spoiled Renee? There was no question of guilt on that charge, and no amount of rationalization could alter the verdict. Running true to form, upon her arrival, he neglected to mention the incident and merely suggested she change into a dry set of clothes. For once, she took her father’s advice without argument, fetched another dress from the valise in the wagon, and changed in the nearby woods.

In the distance a lofty wall of light gray stone soon loomed against the western sky, foliage draped from upper and lower cliffs. Each revolution of the wagon’s wheels brought the prominent ridge, part of the Shawangunk Mountains, closer and closer.

Paul and Renee took the lead. Riding alone next to the wagon, Luke sought Henri’s advice. “I’ve been accepted at Yale for the next term, but I remain undecided about my future path. What would you recommend?”

“Yale is surely a superb school. You should attend. It presents a rare opportunity. Indeed, you will learn much and become truly educated.”

“Mr. Cartwright has told me that many times. But I still feel reluctant to go. I would have to leave all I know and love here.”

“With your intelligence and education, you’ll be unhappy living in your village for much longer. You will end up in a white man’s town. And how will you earn a living and a family? Of course, you could be a merchant like me or a trader like your father without going to college. But you are capable of so much more: law, medicine, or the ministry. These are higher callings, professions. And what about all the new friends you’ll make.”

At the base of the imposing ridge the travelers started to ascend a winding mountain trail. After a long, strenuous climb, they reached the outskirts of Luke’s village and ed through a grove of pines. A high stockade suffering from neglect and old age surrounded the settlement. As they approached the wooden palisades, they saw two groups of Algonquin boys, mostly in their teens, playing a game with sticks having curved ends and a ball. The travelers paused to watch. Devised by Indians, the game was called La Crosse by the French because the rackets resembled a Catholic Bishop’s crosier.

Before the visitors rode into the village, they saw farm fields, vegetable gardens and apple orchards intermingled. Some women were weeding patches of beans and squash with wooden hoes; others were planting planted corn on adjacent plots.

“Our women,” Luke explained, “are traditionally the farmers. The men do the

hunting and fishing, except for the planting and harvesting of tobacco. Since that is held sacred, they alone cultivate it.”

“I’ll that when Papa asks me to fill his pipe,” Renee said.

Inside the stockade, people waved and nodded to them. At the front of the compound, women shaped pottery and wove baskets. Beyond men made birchbark canoes and fishing nets. By the side of one Indian lodge, deer hides soaked in a huge iron kettle filled with a reddish liquid.

“The kettle holds boiling water and hemlock bark to treat animal skins,” Luke said. “We also utilize the brains of deer, the spinal cords of eels, or a mixture of eggs and cornmeal as tanning tonics.”

“How terrible they all sound!” Renee shuddered. “How do you tolerate it?”

Luke laughed. “That shouldn’t disturb you.”

As their first visit, Paul and Renee swelled with curiosity. All eyes and ears, they wanted to learn so much. Stories about this village, told by their father, had conditioned them. Reins in hand, they strolled among the Algonquins and scrutinized the activities as if they were hovering over a treasure chest filled with precious stones and metals. Luke explained every craft and gave them a tour of the tribe’s forge and cider mill.

By this time word of their arrival had filtered back to the lodge of Luke’s family,

and Red Feather came to welcome them. The two senior of the Keppler and Davidson clans embraced each other and smiled. Red Feather was tall and lean, slightly stooped, with a craggy face. He stood back and took a good, long look at Henri.

“You are well, my friend, I see,” Red Feather said.

“Yes, and you?”

“Very fine indeed, though the years have made me slower. My bones creak and body aches.”

“Nonsense, you look as agile as ever, but it has been a good six months since we last met.”

“It has, I regret to say.”

Red Feather had just returned from a visit to the Delawares, Senecas and Hurons in the western territories to solidify alliances. He turned to Paul and Renee. “You are no longer children but all grown up.” He shook Paul’s hand and patted Renee on the head.

“We are delighted to be here,” Renee smiled. “Even though that hemlock stew seems so ghastly.”

“We surely are,” Paul said. “I’ve always wondered what this village would be like. Now I have a good notion.”

Red Feather ordered two of his men to take care of his guests’ horses and carry their goods in the wagon into the storehouse.

“Come, my friend,” he beckoned to Henri, “let’s go to my lodge and celebrate your visit. I’ve brewed applejack more potent than that Dutch beer of yours. It will put fire in your belly and leave your brain addled. Meanwhile, our children will find ways to amuse themselves.”

“A splendid idea. I am anxious to try it.”

“I’ve much to tell you about my trip.”

Matthew and Young Wolf soon wandered off together, trailing the two older men. Just beyond the wagon, a dark-haired Indian girl of sixteen watched Luke intently and smiled. That spring they had begun their courtship. Though catching a glimpse of the girl, he chose to ignore her. Frowning, she turned away as he led his guests to a line of cliffs at the far end of the village.

A mountain lake gleamed below them, surrounded by high, gray rock terraces that descended to the shoreline. Hemlocks, pines and oaks, in concert with bellshaped mountain laurel in pink and white, adorned the top of the cliffs and the water’s edge. Across the lake, a waterfall spilled into an upper basis, then cascaded in a long graceful stream into a lower pool, encircled by huge, flat rocks.

“It’s so wonderful to behold.” Renee sighed. “The beauty simply captivates me. Why would anyone ever want to leave?”

“You’re the fortunate one, Luke,” Paul said, “to have this entire waterhole to play in.” Keppler hooked a thumb in his belt, expanded his chest and gazed out over this wonderland.

“You were so right, Luke. Mother would absolutely love to paint here,” Renee said.

“She could have brought the land and water to life on her canvas,” Luke said.

The village comprised about a hundred wigwams. These round shelters, constructed of wooden poles, animal skins and bark, were large enough to house two-families. Each wigwam had an opening at the top to allow the smoke to escape from rough stone fireplaces, used for cooking, heat and light.

The dwellings were laid out along pathways and lanes in an organized fashion. In the center two larger structures dominated the village. Originated by the Iroquois further north, these longhouses sheltered up to twenty families. Rectangular in shape, they were constructed of logs, bark and wooden poles. Light filtered through large doorways on either end and smoke holes in peaked roof. Inside, twelve stone fireplaces each served two families.

“Why did your tribe pick this place to settle in?” Renee asked Luke as they meandered back to his family’s lodge.

“That is a long story.”

“I would like to hear it,” she gazed intently at him.

“So would I,” Paul said. “You’ve always been so close-mouthed about your tribe and its history. And please show me your father’s collection of bows, spears and tomahawks before we depart.”

“My people, the Munsees of the Lenapes, once held all the land in the Valley on this side of the big River.” Luke gestured to the east, then north and south along the Hudson’s course, stretching out before them. “In the beginning when the whites first came, the two societies lived in harmony. But as more and more settlers arrived,” he added without rancor, “things changed. The whites’ thirst for more territory was great. They seized our land by force of arms or questionable purchases. By getting the Indians drunk, the whites inveigled them to sign documents they did not understand. The Indians gave up their land for very little, and in many cases were duped out of even the small sums they were promised.”

“That is so sad,” Renee said.

“But it was absolutely necessary for our advancement and growth as a society,” Paul said.

For several seconds, Luke didn’t answer. He had known Paul most of his life, but often found that he could not understand him and sometimes kept him at armslength. Was it because of a natural immutable division between Indian and white

man? He did not believe so. Was it something in him? Or was it something about Paul that offended him?

“To avoid further trouble,” Luke said, “most of my people migrated west to the Delaware River and beyond.”

“But your tribal branch stayed here,” Renee noted. “How did that come about?”

“My grandfather, who was chief, and the elders felt this place could be more easily defended and was unsuitable to the white men’s extensive farming needs. They were right. White settlers moved toward the west around these mountains. And no one ever bothered us.”

“I am glad to hear that,” she said.

By early evening, the three friends had reached Red Feather’s enormous log cabin. It had stone fireplaces and glass windows. Nestled within a cliff’s crevice, it overlooked the lake. Luke’s mother and his sisters had been at the hearth for hours, roasting the venison from the deer shot by her two older sons. A woman of medium stature, long black hair and a striking countenance, Luke’s mother had supervised the preparation of cornmeal cakes, succotash, hominy and pumpkins with maple syrup. For dessert she mixed fresh blueberries with corn bread.

When dinner was ready, the two families settled cross-legged in a large circle on cornhusk mats strewn along the wood plank floor. They numbered eleven, for Luke and Matthew had three sisters and one younger brother. Their oldest sister, White Fawn, who was seventeen, insisted on sitting next to Paul while Renee

and Luke were seated together.

“The food is very good,” Renee said, after taking several mouthfuls. “Is this how you eat everyday? Or is it just for company?”

“The occasion is special,” White Fawn said, “so our preparations tend to be more elaborate. But the basic ingredients are part of our normal meals. We rely mostly on the Three Sisters.”

“And who are they, may I ask?” Renee asked.

“Corn, beans and squash,” White Fawn laughed.

“We should send these boys out to hunt more often, Henri,” Red Feather teased. “Less studying books and more time in the woods with weapons mean more meat for our families.”

“How right you are,” Henri replied. “Yet it stands to reason their schooling makes them more useful in business.”

“God knows, you speak with wisdom. You’re always the practical one, my friend, though sometimes I long for the old ways.” Luke’s younger sisters, Little Flower and Bluebird, were giggling over Paul. “Hush,” Red Feather instructed. “Show some respect.”

“Can we hunt for wolves tomorrow?” Paul asked.

“It is taboo in our world to kill wolves, groundhogs, hares, wildcats and especially rattlesnakes,” Red Feather said.

“But we kill rattlesnakes all the time.”

“And snakes retaliate by biting white men, do they not?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Surely, if you left them alone, no harm would come to you.”

Toward dusk, everyone gathered in one of the longhouses to watch the tribal festivities planned in honor of the Keppler visit. To Henri, these were not new experiences; he had witnessed them before on previous trips to the village. For his children, he hoped, the exposure to Indian customs would enrich their lives and make them more tolerant and adept in dealing with the world at large.

Dressed in feathered headdresses and costumes, some wearing carved wooden masks emblazoned with painted designs of eagles and wolves, ten men appeared before the gathering. They performed the war dance, a thanksgiving dance celebrating a successful harvest and the feather dance for the sacred worship of the Great Spirit.

In their counter-clockwise movements around the dance floor, the dancers rigorously shook arms, legs and torsos to charge the atmosphere with energy. Strapped to legs, rattles made of deer hooves resonated loudly. The audience whooped and yelled. A chorus of village women chanted in the background, shaking turtle shells, clapping deer hooves and blowing ceremonial whistles. Deep thuds of the water drum and faint booms of smaller tom-toms punctuated the bewitching rhythms and sounds.

After the dances, the tribal elders retired to the rear of the longhouse, away from the hubbub caused by the chattering youngsters, to retell hunting and war stories and smoke clay pipes. As Henri and Red Feather ed them, Renee’s eyes followed her father’s steps across the floor.

Amazed by how well he mixed with the Native Americans and how relaxed and comfortable he seemed in their company, she recalled her mother’s stories about him. In his youth, Marie Keppler reported, her husband had spent many school vacations in this village. He had hunted, fished and swam with these people, becoming intimately familiar with their customs and beliefs. Her mother’s oftrepeated declaration that he remained the only white man this Indian tribe ever trusted took on new meaning. If that were true, what a powerful testament it was to her father’s worthiness.

Renee’s focus turned to where Luke had been sitting. He was no longer there. She discovered him talking to a statuesque Indian girl across the room. Next to them, Paul and White Fawn amiably chatted. Annoyed and disappointed at first, Renee soon grew envious of this girl who lured Luke away. Was he just a friend?

Over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, athletic arms and legs and a tapered waist, Luke cut a striking figure. His long black hair flowed to his shoulders, framing a full lightly tanned face with a flat nose, brown eyes and jutting chin. Many women – white and Indian – found him ruggedly handsome. It hit Renee that she did, too. She realized that her feelings toward him had changed. It was

more than friendship now. It was a strong physical attraction. Plus, an enduring emotional bond had grown between them over the years.

She went over to where he and the girl stood.

“Luke, dear, if you please, I’d like to be presented to your sweetheart.”

Luke inclined his head. “Renee, this is ‘Dark Eyes.’ When you speak to her, talk slowly.” He whispered for Renee’s ears only. “Her English is not very good.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes, but she is quite fluent in our Lenape dialect.”

“Can she speak French?”

“No. Where would she learn French? Not from your mother.”

Renee turned to Dark Eyes and over enunciated her words in English. “Are … you … Luke’s … woman?”

An instant exchange in their Indian tongue occurred between Dark Eyes and Luke.

“What did she say?” Renee asked Luke.

“I said: who is this foolish girl who asks such questions,” Dark Eyes reed in anger. “Did you think me his horse, or perhaps his cow or did you have some other animal lodged in that feeble brain of yours?”

Having watched Luke and Renee together in the Village earlier that day, she had grown possessive, and jealousy now ignited rudeness. She wrapped both hands around Luke’s arm and clung to him.

Flabbergasted and seething, Renee turned on Luke, “I thought you said she could not speak English!”

Luke and Paul, who had overheard them, howled with laughter.

An Indian elder stepped forward and gestured for the younger to be seated. Luke waved Paul and Renee next to him. To show she could be a good sport even if the joke had been at her expense, Renee complied. Not to be outdone, Dark Eyes quickly slipped between Luke and Paul. At gatherings, the elder, as the tribe’s official storyteller, would often convey the tribe’s legends and myths and its history. In grandiose style, he began.

“One day, Michado, the giver of light, was paddling a canoe in the blue sky far above the land. Down on earth, he spied a beautiful Indian maiden walking in the woods along a stream. Assuming the form of a great hare, he descended to the ground and stood next to her. When she gazed at him, his size startled her.

He calmed her fears and said he was the god of lightning. With no wife, he remained lonely. Her beauty was so enticing he desired to take her back to a great lodge in the sky as his bride. The maiden smiled and thanked him for the compliments, but she declined the invitation. She explained her parents had arranged her betrothal to a young brave in the village, and she could not go with the god.

“The next day, the maiden knelt by the same stream. Instead of her own reflection, she saw a great stag. But when she turned around, nothing was behind her. The stag, Michado in another disguise, spoke about her beauty and grace. Again, he tried to lure her to run away with him. He promised she could ride on his back through the skies, just like the wind. Yet she graciously refused these entreaties and repeated she was promised to another.

“Later, from his home in the heavens, Michado saw her holding hands with the brave she was to wed. The god grew angry. When they kissed, his jealousy erupted, and he hurled bolts of lightning at the couple. Though missing, the lightning hit a vast set of rocks and carved out a great basin. Our lake now fills it. The violence frightened the young lovers. So they clung to one another.

“Enraged, Michado launched still another salvo of lightning. This struck the brave and killed him. The young maiden became grief-stricken. In her sadness, she wept long and hard. So great were her tears, they became our waterfalls. When Michado asked her to elope again, she, chastising the god, still refused to go off with him. Instead she chose to wander on the other side of the lake until she died, then her rigid body became the snow and ice that clings to the caves for all seasons.”

It was late when Luke escorted Renee and Paul to a special wigwam set aside for them adjacent to the chief’s lodge. There the Kepplers spent the night.

After breakfast the next morning, the older children went for a swim in the lake. In makeshift bathing costumes they trooped down to the shoreline. From rock ledges, Luke and Matthew plunged into the cool waters. Renee and White Fawn cautiously waded in, complaining about the water’s coldness. Once immersed, the girls ceased moaning and began to enjoy themselves.

“My brother and I will race to see who can swim farther and faster underwater,” Luke said. “Paul, you’ll be our official starter, and the ladies will judge who wins.”

A few minutes later, Paul, relieved not to be competing, lined the two brothers up on a rock ledge and raised his right arm. “Get ready! Set! Go!” As his arm descended, the racers dove into the lake and instantly disappeared. At its edge, the girls watched this male rivalry with keen interest.

First, it seemed Luke was ahead, then Matthew. Emerging air bubbles and an occasional splash traced their course. Again, Luke moved in front. At last, after what seemed a full five minutes, Luke surfaced at the lake’s far end, but his brother failed to emerge.

Luke looked around for Matthew, concerned he might have been trapped underwater. He dove back into the lake to swim the path his brother had taken. Paul ran along the shoreline and swam to the place where he had last seen Matthew beneath the calm waters. Both explored different areas, rose for air several times and submerged. Now also concerned, the two girls rushed to aid them. Just as they were about to enter the water, the older boys resurfaced.

Subdued laughter surprisingly drifted from the shoreline where a ledge protruded over the water. Luke and Paul glanced at one another, stroked toward the sounds and found Matthew, alive and well. After swearing at him in their native tongue,

Luke seized the brother and said in English, “By gravy, let’s see how we can torture silly boys.” In faking a disappearance, Matthew had violated an unwritten Indian code. Though fooling them seemed a good idea, he now was frightened. Paul and Luke each grabbed Matthew by an arm and led him up a crude rock staircase.

On a high, stone terrace, Luke took hold of both his brother’s ankles while Paul held onto Matthew’s wrists. They began to swing his whole body to and fro. After counting to ten, they released him over the lake, and the figure fell twenty feet. Normally stoic, Matthew yelled in English and Lenape all the way down until his back and rear-end hit the water with a booming smack. He quickly reemerged, swimming to the lake’s far side to avoid any encores. Like an appreciative audience, the girls gleefully clapped.

At the waterfall and surrounding pool, they showered and frolicked in the cascade, sometimes splashing and chasing one another. Reminded of the Indian maiden’s tears, Renee paused to reflect, then grew more serious. Could that story be true, she wondered. No, of course not. But it sounded so tragic and romantic, nonetheless.

Tired, they lay on flat rocks along the pool’s edge to sun themselves and nap until the mid-day meal at Red Feather’s lodge. Afterward, Luke and Renee headed off on a tour of some caves. Paul, White Fawn and Matthew went to pick blackberries and taste the maple syrup.

The caves were located about a mile from the lake. As Luke and Renee walked together along a trail on the mountain ridge, she asked, “What is so special about these caves?”

“You’ll soon see,” Luke said.

“Come on, tell me,” she pleaded. “Why keep it a secret?”

“Well, for one thing they have ice in midsummer.”

“I don’t believe you!” She came to a dead-stop and folded her arms. “Luke, you’re always making up stories to fool me.”

“Please have faith in me. It is true. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

The half-smile she gave him made his skin tingle with goose bumps.

“We’ll see,” she said.

Sometimes Luke would run ahead, Renee catching up just as he halted. At the end of a narrow, steep trail that wound down through rocks and tall grass, they reached the caves where oaks, maples and shrubs flourished at the entrance in seemingly soil-less terrain.

When first told about them, Renee had imagined broad openings and long, wide tunnels, large enough to ride a horse. Instead, tight triangular portals between tan rock walls, covered with green moss and lichen, greeted them. Throughout the stony complex, drops of water percolated, tediously dripping on the caves’ floor. The dampness made her feel clammy.

Luke took Renee’s hand and led her through a series of dark stone ageways. During a stretch the v-shaped ceilings towered over them, but soon the pair had to stoop and creep along a shorter corridor. Sunlight filtered through cracks and crevices. As they moved deeper into the caves, the temperature dropped to almost frigid conditions. Crusty snow and opaque ice filled ledges and troughs off to the right.

“See that?” Luke pointed toward the frozen clusters.

“Yes,” she replied, embarrassed by earlier doubts.

“In the hot weather, we cut the ice up and deliver it in wagons to the white settlers.”

After an hour of twisting ageways, they entered a much larger chamber, illuminated by a shaft of light from above in the semi-darkness.

Limestone, the result of vast accumulations of seashells in an ancient inland sea, enveloped the swollen mountain cavity. Arrays of pointed stalactites hung from the ceiling like rigid icicles. Stalagmites protruded from the floor. Chemically, both were composed of calcium carbonate leeching from the limestone, the effects of dripping water. A large pool lay in the cavern’s center reflecting the skylight, as did the rocky outgrowths, to create mottled images with diverse tints and tinges.

Surrounding the chamber on a higher level loomed smaller alcoves.

Hand in hand up a flight of slate slabs, Luke and Renee confronted a set of dark vines. Luke stepped upon a stone, shifted the vines sideways to expose a crude oak door. Hinged in leather on one side and bolted in iron on the other, it was infested with mold and spider webs.

Tapping it, he observed, “This is one of my tribe’s secrets. A storehouse for our valuables. You must promise never to tell anyone about it.”

“You have my solemn word,” she pledged, then confirmed her promise with an index finger against pursed lips.

From a pant’s pocket Luke removed a candle and a tinderbox. The box held pieces of metal and flint plus two narrow pieces of linen. He struck the metal against the flint. After six tries he generated a spark strong enough to ignite the linen, then lit the candle. The door, now cleaned off and unlocked, opened. He ushered Renee into the inner chamber, lighting the way.

Wooden shelves, which bore crates and trays, lined the small room; strongboxes and chests littered the floor. Luke raised the lid of one chest to show Renee the contents – English gold coins stacked on edges. Never having seen or dreamed of such riches, she gasped. He unlocked a second chest. When opened, ornamented silverware gleamed in the soft candlelight.

“These are French,” he said proudly. “They came from Canada.”

“They’re so beautiful.” She ran her fingers over the scrolled designs of a pointed knife and a two-pronged fork.

“But here is our most precious possession,” Luke yanked the top of another strongbox upwards. A host of colorful beads instantly glistened. “This is Wampum,” he said, “made from sea shells. It represents Indian money. Sometimes, they are sown on garments to beautify them.”

“But where does all this treasure come from?”

“It is the fruit of our trading ventures, the mills, forge and delivery business. Both our fathers do very well. Surely you knew that.”

Back at the pool, the pair settled down together on a large flat rock. Dangling bare feet in the cool, clear water, they sporadically tossed small stones into it and watched the pattern of ripples emerge and fade. The air exuded coolness, the surroundings comfortable and serene. Undisturbed, they felt totally alone yet close to one another.

Stirred by her wholesome beauty in the chamber’s pale light, Luke clasped Renee’s up-turned hand and brushed his lips affectionately along her palm. This excited her. He kissed her exposed shoulder and neck, her arms wrapped around him. Their lips touched lightly, then pressed harder as ions grew. Still caressing, she gently traced fingertips along his face. Luke stroked her breast. Renee’s breathing quickened. Sounds of contentment and pleasure from the two young lovers wafted through the cave. When he undid the buttons on her blouse, a feeling of discomfort arose within. She pulled his hand away to break the spell of intimacy, and hastily buttoned and straightened her clothes.

“But, I am just sixteen,” she objected. “Only married people do such things. My parents and our minister would be so upset if they knew.”

Luke was frustrated, but understood. “Yes, I suppose we went too far. Let’s head back to the village.” He rose and gave her his hand. They strolled through the tunnels together until they emerged in the warm sunshine.

Luke was worried. Up until now, Dark Eyes had been the only girl to catch his fancy, but from here on, Renee would be his one true ion. Yet he doubted an Indian would be allowed to court a white girl.

The panorama of the Hudson and Wallkill Valleys stretched before them in three different directions. Under clear skies rolling farmland, woods and rivers striated the vast expanse. Overhead, a red-shouldered hawk floated on air currents, barely flapping its wings.

“This was the most perfect day of my life,” Renee said. “It’s just so beautiful and peaceful here.” She paused. “My father told me you might be going to Yale in September.”

“I hope not.” He gazed at her. “How can I possibly leave you?”

“I’m going to miss you if you do. I wish you could stay, but this college seems so right for you – hence you must go. With Paul off to England and perhaps Oxford later this year, I’ll be left all alone without companions or close friends. If you go, promise you’ll write me faithfully.”

Brave words, but he could hear the despair in her voice.

“You have my word on it,” he volunteered.

The following morning beside the Keppler wagon, fully loaded with a new batch of furs, the two families reluctantly bid each other goodbye. After hand shakes with Henri and Paul, Luke pledged he would soon visit them.

Renee embraced Luke and planted a sisterly kiss on his cheek. Then she whispered, “You better keep away from old Dark Eyes. I’m claiming you for my own.” These words caused both to smile.

Waving to the Kepplers, Red Feather and his family watched their descent along the steep mountain trail until they vanished from view.

Back among his people, Luke was again Swift Fox. That summer and before, the tribe’s medicine man, Great Healer, led Swift Fox through the woods surrounding the village to gather plants and herbs as curatives for their people’s ailments. By twisting a stone pestle in a wooden mortar, they ground the dried medicinal leaves, roots and inner bark, mixed them with boiling water, then, when cooled, treated patients. Often they recovered. The wise old man also skillfully set bones and mended wounds. Without any notes, he recalled a host of remedies. Swift Fox retained the knowledge, learned from Great Healer.

As a tutor in the martial arts, Swift Fox’s uncle, Running Wolf, had taught the young brave how to shoot arrows long and straight and throw a tomahawk, knife and spear with deadly accuracy. He insisted his pupil track a man or beast on any terrain and wrestle well. Mindful the advent of the white man’s gun had prompted many Indians to neglect the bow and arrow plus the spear, his uncle, a traditionalist, insisted Swift Fox skillfully handle all weapons at the boy’s

disposal.

During the waning weeks of summer, Swift Fox and Running Wolf were hunting deep in the woods many miles west of the village. Stocky yet agile, the more experienced uncle naturally took the lead, having tracked numerous animals here before. Swift Fox had never explored this region. That day, they searched for deer. About an hour earlier, a stag’s tracks and droppings had been sighted. Now on the opposite side of a clearing, a large buck nibbled on a shrub, its full rack thrust above the leaves.

Musket primed and loaded, Running Wolf aimed at the animal while the nephew readied a bow and arrow. Just as the uncle fired, a huge bear came out of the undergrowth. Annoyed at these noisy intruders, it growled fiercely. On hind legs rearing to a height of over eight feet, the massive mammal knocked the flintlock from the uncle’s grasp with one powerful swipe and clawed him with the other paw. Running Wolf fell to the ground. Too close to do any damage with the bow and arrow and in mortal danger himself, Swift Fox, dropping his weapon, retreated. To distract the lumbering creature, he banged rocks together, yelled, then darted at it threateningly. Gradually, he drew the bear toward him as he backed down the forest path. Once out of harm’s way, Running Wolf would rise and shoot it from behind, so his nephew expected. Yet the uncle failed to stir.

A pursuit ensued, the bear bounding ahead on all fours. Swift Fox raced along the path, stopped, and turned to throw a rock at it. Bull’s-eye, he hit the creature squarely in the jaw. Dazed for a few moments, the animal slowed its pace. The brave scaled a series of boulders to higher ground only to whirl and eye the bear continuing to charge toward him. Damn, stubborn animal, thought Swift Fox. Doubts about his survival gripped him. Both gasping for breath, man and beast climbed ever higher. The man stumbled once, but hastily regained his footing, the fear of being devoured pushed him to accelerate.

In the rush forward, Luke spotted two boulders leaning against one another

where just a man could squeeze through. In seconds he slipped between them to a sheltered spot.

Undiscouraged, the bear reared up and roared from beyond these rocks before thrusting paws into the narrow opening to claw at the brave.

Behind the boulders grew three maple saplings. A knife unsheathed, Swift Fox cut one down, sheared off the branches and sharpen the end into a spearhead. As the animal’s paws penetrated the opening, the brave moved closer, tempting it to overreach. When it did, he drove the knife in his right hand into an outstretched paw and pinned it to the rock. Howling in anguish, the creature jammed its snout between the boulders. In anticipation, Luke lunged with the spear in his left hand at the monster’s eyes but missed. Instead the weapon plunged into the bear’s gaping mouth to pierce the back of the throat. As a final punishment, he twisted the knife stuck in its paw. The animal’s blood gushed all over. At last released from this agony, it staggered backwards, collapsing in a heap, and died.

From the refuge Swift Fox ran through the woods to aid the uncle. When he arrived at the clearing, Running Wolf was sitting up, stunned but alive. Relieved Swift Fox knelt to care for the injured shoulder. Running Wolf shooed him away and pointed to where the deer was last seen. Swift Fox understood. On the far side of the clearing, he found the stag lying dead in the bushes. By the front legs, he dragged it over to Running Wolf to drop it at his feet. The uncle smiled broadly at the personal feat.

Swift Fox cleaned the shoulder with fresh water and leaves. He chewed aspen bark from a leather pouch, applied it to the wound, then wrapped it in a white cloth. On his feet, Running Wolf walked to test his balance while Swift Fox cut a branch from a larch to fashion it into a crutch for his uncle.

Having learned about the bear’s fate, Running Wolf looked disturbed. “You must appease its spirit immediately.”

“But, why?”

“It will come back to haunt you if you fail to.”

“You can’t seriously believe that.”

“Say you are sorry to it directly. Put tobacco between its lips and address it as ‘grandfather.’”

Swift Fox did not share his uncle’s beliefs, but he respected him and so agreed to do as he’d been told.

It took two hours for Swift Fox to degut and bleed both animals. After obeying Running Wolf’s wishes in its treatment, he covered the bear with rocks to protect it from scavengers. He would return later to retrieve his prey with other braves from the village. Hoisting the deer over his shoulder, Swift Fox escorted his uncle back home.

On the first night and for many moons afterward, the people celebrated the exploits of Swift Fox with stories and songs around fires in wigwams and longhouses. Day after day, little children trailed behind the young hunter, begging him to retell the tale of how he saved Running Wolf and killed the bear. When the old man was present, he reminded his nephew to recount the shooting

of the deer despite the bear’s attack for all to hear.

Having been summoned by Red Feather, Swift Fox crawled into the sweat lodge next to the bank of a stream just outside the village. Poured on heated stones, water hissed, and steam rose. There with Great Healer on the rough slate floor, Red Feather invited his son to sit beside him. Swift Fox held Red Feather in the highest regard, as both father and chief of the tribe with all his wisdom and wealth.

“I have arranged for your journey to Connecticut and this Yale College with Mr. Keppler,” Red Feather said.

“Father, must I go?”

“We have spoken about this many times before.”

“But I don’t want to leave. I wish to stay here with my family and friends.”

“You must go, for your sake and that of your people. You recall our trip to visit Sir William Johnson in the Mohawk Valley two years ago?”

“Yes, my father.” The sweat rolled off Swift Fox’s skin.

“Because you speak fluent French, you played an important role. You acted as the interpreter to the Huron warriors from Canada. You aided them in a

complicated negotiation on trade and politics. I was extremely proud of you. Education gave you knowledge, and you put it to excellent use. Consider going to this college in the same light. You will learn more, help your people and become powerful in their eyes. You may even exert great influence on white affairs.”

“Your father, as always, speaks with wisdom,” Great Healer said. “Go to this school and keep your eyes and ears open to new ways.”

Swift Fox knew he had no choice. Red Feather must be obeyed. His life was about to change, forever. “I promise I will do what you expect,” he said.

Until he left for New Haven, only thoughts of Renee cheered him. His mind skipped from one evocative idyll to another. Her image bedazzled his psyche, bejeweled in adornments designed to lure and entice, dreams of her bestirred desire and lust. Then a mist of uncertainty befuddled him while still poised to beguile her with inspiring words and gestures. Off in the future, behold his kneeling figure before her, their betrothal and marriage a seeming inevitability. Benumbed by the prospect of life together, begetting children – half breed, no less – hardly disturbed but rather invigorated him.

CHAPTER III – DISCOVERY

When the sun set in Newburgh that Saturday, May 18, 1996 would rate as one of the strangest in the life of Brad McClain. He regretted and resented the day even before it began. Yet it would become a day that reshaped his life, arousing an intense curiosity and interest as no other had. From this day forth, he became the victim of an obsession that over time compelled him to abandon his family and business.

Earlier that week he had committed the firm to a rush excavation job at the Springdale Country Club. He had personally assured Byron Whithers, the club manager and an old high school friend, the work would proceed straight through the weekend and finish the following Tuesday, just before the first round of the Member-Guest Golf Tournament, scheduled to start Wednesday morning. Vital to the club, this popular event generated much-needed revenue for its restaurant and bar.

Regret and resentment stemmed from the recent illness of Ted Bache, the firm’s top bulldozer operator. Since Ted was unable to work, there remained only one qualified operator of earth-moving equipment the firm could muster on short notice – the boss, Brad McClain himself. At fifty, Brad did not relish working any Saturday operating a bulldozer, but this Saturday, in particular, bothered him even more. That day his son, a senior, was pitching his last high school baseball game at home. The inevitability of missing the game because of the club job eroded Brad’s spirit.

At 5:30 a.m. he opened the back door of a large colonial and stepped into his backyard, shutting the inner door behind him and letting the outer screen door close by itself. Amid the nearby woods the birds chirped in a rigorous competition to see which of them could be the cheeriest at that hour. On a branch of a sugar maple, a robin redbreast claimed the top prize. Oblivious to their

whistling and song, Brad trudged through the yard.

In the unattached, two-car garage, Brad opened the door to his brand-new pickup truck, propped himself up on the running board, then sluggishly slid into the driver’s seat. Once the engine started, he backed out of the open garage, turning around in the driveway before driving off down the road.

Despite hard-earned wealth, Brad’s personality had a blue-collar side. Perhaps that came naturally with the business of contractors and their personnel. A love of trucks, especially the pickup, marked him indelibly. Fancy luxury cars, the typical trophies of successful peers, he shunned as if afraid of contracting an infectious disease. A propensity for beer, boots and flannel shirts, an avoidance of business suits, gaudy wristwatches and elegant attaché cases had all become a part of his personal style. Actually he eschewed watches and rings in every form because he hated wearing any extra paraphernalia. Watches too made him overly conscious of time and its nagging constraints.

At the stop sign Brad slowed the pickup, looked both ways, then darted across an oddly formed intersection. Known as the ‘Balmville Tree,’ an ancient cottonwood thrust upward from the center, encircled by a wrought-iron picket fence and a short stonewall blocking a portion of the street. A local landmark three hundred years old, the huge shade tree with rough, brown bark and triangular leaves still endured, undaunted by the ravages of time. A symbol of nature’s persistence, Brad reflected, while accelerating.

As he ed the twin ponds bordering the club’s golf course, an early boyhood memory materialized. Only eight years old, there he stood next to his father, tightly gripping his hand alongside one of the ponds. They were watching a diver submerge, reappear then signal the crane operator. Slowly and carefully, the crane raised its cable until the slimy skeleton of a large animal, totally intact, emerged from the watery depths. This was the remains of a mastodon, a wooly mammoth that patrolled this terrain before the last Ice Age. Years later Brad saw

it, all cleaned up and fully erect, on a school field trip to the American Museum of Natural History.

The pickup truck pulled into the country club’s driveway on the Hudson River’s western edge just as the sun peered over the mountains on the other side. When Brad reached the clubhouse, he parked next to a century-old replica of an English castle, composed of dark gray fieldstone and white mortar, with rounded turrets at even intervals along the exterior walls. It cradled an Olympic-sized swimming pool in its inner courtyard.

After a few drinks, club would often tease one another about manning the ramparts for an impending attack of Indians, Scots, or Vikings. Newcomers and guests were made victims of tall stories and ruses about the castle’s role in local history. Depicted as a bastion of civilization and democracy, which warded off the onslaughts of indigenous savages or the raids of redcoats during the American Revolution, the truth was otherwise. Sometime during the latter half of the nineteenth century, a Wall Street tycoon, in the image of a Diamond Jim Brady, steamed up the Hudson and gobbled up this land for a personal estate. Hiring one of the town’s premier architects, he had the castle built. Five years later, after a series of financial reverses, he lost the dream house to a local bank in a foreclosure.

Brad’s ancestors were early settlers in this part of the Hudson Valley, and a greatgrandfather was one of the club’s founding back in the 1890s. Its history had been transmitted down the generations over the family dinner table. Well-to-do citizens had originally visualized the empty, boarded-up castle and surrounding acreage as a playground for the local gentry. After its purchase and renovation, they reopened the castle and peopled it with new elite.

Brad tried the castle’s front door to see if any of the staff had arrived. Still sleepy-eyed and yawning, he hoped for an uplifting cup of black coffee, but the place remained disappointingly dark and locked. Once back in the truck, he

loosely gripped the steering wheel and slowly drove across the fairway of the fifth hole toward the proposed excavation site. The bucking pickup bounced its way over the uneven turf until it halted at a rusting, yellowish hulk of a bulldozer and five concrete, tank-like chambers. He got out, sauntered over to the dozer and awkwardly climbed atop the treads.

In a survey of the golf course, Brad absorbed the grandeur of what stretched before him. The shapely mountains and Hudson River loomed in the distance. At this hour the sun barely lit the landscape to color the horizon. In the foreground splotches of mist hovered over the hilly terrain, seemingly in no hurry to depart. An expanse of rolling greenery, the course itself was etched by meandering streams and embroidered by trees and shrubs with six ponds. The majestic beauty of the Valley had always claimed Brad’s affections. To him infidelity with sirens from another land meant sacrilege. He imagined the first white men were awe-struck too with what had then been an uncivilized and raw countryside.

Behind Brad lay the source of the problem. A stream ran west to east through a cement tunnel under the elevated state highway. Once on the golf course, it flowed downhill in a narrow channel, studded by rows of blue spruces on each side. Further along it sluiced through an underground plastic pipe fifteen inches in diameter before emptying into a flat open trough, almost ten feet wide. On its southern bank a wall of shale ran above and below the streambed. One hundred yards east, weeping willows on both banks arched over the stream with their drooping, leaf-filled branches.

Brad’s firm had installed the plastic pipe the year before, replacing a galvanized metal conduit that had collapsed from years of rust, decay, and stress. He had given Byron Whithers this advice then.

“Junk the damn underground pipe. It’s a bad idea. Even a larger one won’t help that much. Open things up and let the stream run broadly on the surface. We’ll put a couple of wooden bridges across it, one for foot traffic and the other for

golf carts.”

Disgruntled, Byron had argued. “The won’t go for it. They’re always complaining about too many obstacles and too much water.”

The course had more than its share of ponds and streams, so Brad bowed to the client’s wishes and substituted a larger pipe for the older counterpart. This spring’s heavy rains plus the narrow stream bed exerted too much pressure on the new pipe. It failed to drain quickly enough, causing the water to overflow the banks even before entering the pipe. This created a flood plain, which enveloped and split the fairway. Now the really had something to complain about. “Water, water everywhere and not a bridge to cross,” as would have been the case if Brad’s original plan had been implemented.

When Byron called to report the deluge, Brad refrained from shouting “I told you so.” That was the last thing a client wanted to hear. He then proposed a new, more radical solution.

This entailed digging a large, rectangular hole twenty feet deep, a distance south of the stream beyond the shale bank and spruces as well as the installation of concrete drywells for drainage and overflow. Cement spillways would link the stream to the drywells. They would be covered with a structure, soil and grass, yet be far enough away from the fairway within the abutting rough.

The barking of an Irish setter interrupted Brad’s musings. The dog wandered down the hill from an adjacent house to voice displeasure at his presence. Soothing words and compliments quieted the setter. Later it spied the real quarry, tore across the fairway and targeted a family of ducks paddling in the wider stream. The canine yelped, and the ducks quacked loudly as the dispute became a classic standoff. Forgotten in the din of animal posturing, Brad failed to

refocus on the job at hand.

In an assessment of his life, he, now middle-aged, took comfort in being happily married for twenty years and having three healthy kids, ages 9 to 17. Extremely prosperous, the family business had mushroomed under his guidance from a revenue base of a few hundred thousand dollars to over $50 million annually, net profits totaling just under $2 million.

Last year a much larger West Coast contractor offered him $30 million in a strategic acquisition. When he turned the offer down, his wife concluded he was crazy. Yet he sensed selling the business then was personally premature for him. It had little to do with the proposed price, which seemed fair enough, and frankly, he wasn’t that greedy. It had more to do with retiring at such a young age. He needed to keep working not for a big company, but for himself. Brad would be the first to concede he relished being the boss and controlling his own destiny.

He had not always felt that way. While the firm had become a source of great pride and satisfaction, in the early days he deeply resented his involvement, feeling it had been forced upon him. When a civil engineering major at Cornell, he had dreamed of a career building roads and bridges in third-world countries for a large multi-national engineering firm. As a promising linebacker on the varsity football team, plus the best hitter and catcher in varsity baseball, he foresaw glory years ahead in college athletics and even an offer from a professional sports franchise. Though he knew if an offer came, the engineering career would win out despite the temptation of more money.

Yet thirty years ago this June, his father, who had owned and operated the small contracting firm, suffered a massive heart attack while jogging on this golf course. After his death, economic realities weighed heavily on Brad and the family. By itself the father’s modest estate could not sustain them and their lifestyles indefinitely. Long its bookkeeping and financial arm, his mother

recognized the necessity of keeping the family business going to generate enough income and lay the foundation for the future.

Since he was fifteen, Brad had worked summer vacations for the firm running bulldozers and pay loaders, driving dump trucks, and laying cement and cinder blocks. At twenty, he had every expectation of returning to Cornell. But with the father’s death his mother asked him to help supervise the workforce in the field.

Despite his youth, Brad did have the necessary experience after all, and he certainly possessed the required brains and brawn. Because she sensed the disappointment, his mother sought to soothe him with promises he could finish college once they stabilized the business in a few years. Somehow Brad had known he would never go back, and as it happened, he never did.

For a while, he felt resentful and deprived. Though, over time the success of the business eclipsed dreams of a college education and engineering career. Ironically, the firm employed ten civil engineers with bachelors and masters degrees, all reporting to him.

At last Brad turned the bulldozer’s ignition key, a gesture that brought the awesome diesel engine to life. The roar shattered the serenity to the exclusion of everything else. His last whirl in the driver’s seat had been two years earlier. He was rusty and uneasy. After inspecting the controls, Brad pulled and pushed the appropriate levers before pressing the floor pedals to propel the giant earthmover forward. Now reoriented, he stopped the dozer and grabbed another lever to lower the blade. His confidence swelled.

Within a few hours, he scraped first two, then four feet of earth off a rectangle forty feet long and twenty-five feet wide. The dozer surged back and forth as it pushed the yellowish-brown, at times reddish, dirt into large piles at each end.

Alongside the thirteen fairway it struggled to extract rocks or boulders from the growing cavity.

When an electric Go-cart approached, Brad stopped the bulldozer and turned off the engine. The noise, so overpowering moments before, vanished in an instant. Amid the silence, the massive hulk of hydraulics, treads, and blade lay immobile.

The teenage boy driving the Go-cart pulled up next to the dozer. “Mr. McClain, we have hot coffee, cold lemonade, ice tea, and sodas, compliments of Mr. Whithers,” he said.

Brad sampled the lemonade to cool off before he sipped the highly caffeinated coffee to wake up. After thanking the youngster, he placed the thermos and pitcher under a large maple at the edge of the course, a prudent distance away. Back on the dozer, he cranked it up and methodically deepened and expanded the hole though every so often he would pause to watch a golfer stroke the ball across the green, carpet-like fairway.

Digging along the rough’s western edge below the adjacent state highway, the earthmover enlarged the pit to about twelve feet deep, deeper than any other point in the excavation. A strange grating sound soon arose. At first Brad thought the machine was scraping against more shale, a common rock in this locale. So he kept at it until he noticed four reddish-orange objects kick out from beneath the blade. With a quick stop of the dozer, he climbed down to examine them.

Atop the machine in a leaping motion, Brad, carefully backing out of the hole, shut the engine off. Over at the pickup, he grabbed a pick and shovel under a tarpaulin in the rear bin plus a searchlight from the cab then jogged back to slide

into the pit.

Nothing baffling about these small blocks. Quite old, they were man-made bricks, whole or in fragments, with chipped chunks of mortar attached. Yet what were they doing 12 feet underground? Scattered about in no particular pattern, these baked building bits were either haphazardly dumped here long ago or were elements of another structure just ripped apart by the noisy metal monster.

After shovelfuls of clay were tossed to the side, Brad poked and probed, sifted and scraped. Then he struck something solid, having a definite form. Dirt brushed away, he uncovered the top of a brick chimney. Brad dug around its sides until a strip about two feet wide and three feet deep was cleared. More hard material emerged, but instead of being vertical, it lay on a slanted plane.

Kneeling next to the narrow, square trench, Brad reached down, cupped his hands to scoop up the reddish dirt. With it cleared away, he flicked on the searchlight. The light exposed a set of colored pieces of slate neatly overlapping one another. As he suspected, this had to be the roof of a building, partially or wholly intact. The chimney’s edge, closest to the state road, appeared to be part of the outer wall.

Brad let out a jubilant whoop and rushed over to the truck. Because of a fondness for electronic gadgetry, the latest model of cellular technology lay on the front seat. He grabbed it and tapped in the numbers. Four rings later, a weary voice answered on the other end.

“Hello Cal, there’s something very important going on over at the country club.”

“Yes, I know. You and Byron have started drinking Margaritas, and now you want to get more people into the act. But I’m busy grading exams. Sorry.”

“You’ve got it all wrong as usual. That’s the trouble with being in ivory towers, they distort reality.”

Calvin Owens, a professor of archaeology at St. Martin’s College in town and a local historian, laughed just long enough to allow Brad to catch his breath. Brad then told him what he had found and where.

“Before the castle was erected, that property was a farm, wasn’t it?” Cal said. “Perhaps, it’s a farmhouse. I’ll be right over. Please don’t disturb or break anything.”

After hanging up, Brad called Byron. What may be good news to some is bound to be bad tidings for others. The discovery could mean delays in completing the job. As both the messenger and the perpetrator, Brad became the ideal target for the club manager’s anger.

“What?” Byron exploded, “I can’t believe it. A buried building on my golf course! You’re joking? , Brad, you promised to complete the job before the opening of the tournament on Wednesday.”

“This is no joke. The building’s real, but it will all work out for the best, believe me. Don’t worry so much.”

“It had better. I can’t afford any screw-ups or delays.” Byron slammed down the phone.

While waiting for Cal, Brad manually dug out the upper portion of the building’s outer stone wall. After another double dosage of hot coffee and cool lemonade, he jumped back on the dozer and revved it up again to unearth the rest of the wall. What a delicate operation – if the dozer’s blade came too close, it could easily damage the wall and cause the roof and the chimney to collapse. Yet if it didn’t get close enough, manual digging would be too expensive and timeconsuming.

This maneuvering required more skill with the earthmover than he ordinarily possessed. So Brad carefully stripped away the reddish soil until enough had been removed to put him close to the structure’s base. Precisely lining up the edge of the dozer’s blade, he cut into the dirt against the stone wall, a stretch about ten feet high and five feet thick, to excavate a strip at its bottom. Gravity pulled the upper layers of earth down into the hole away from building’s side. With a few more es, the bulldozer cleared all but a foot-thick segment that hugged the wall.

Brad parked the dozer several feet away. A shovel in hand, he stood on the dozer’s treads, placed the inverted tool between the uppermost stones and the remaining strip of clay and cautiously pulled the shovel toward him. Along the full length of the treads, Brad, sometimes on tip toes, kept at it until about half of this earth tumbled down to expose the top five feet of dark mortared stone. Once the dozer moved forward, he plied the shovel again. A shuttered window now jutted toward him.

From the golf course’s surface Byron bellowed Brad’s name. Temporarily hidden by the buried building, Brad darted backward so Byron could see him and waved, signaling the burly, dark-haired manager to him. Cal appeared and clumsily slid down into the cavity too.

After perfunctory handshakes and greetings, Byron shouted, “So this is the monstrosity. Where in God’s name did it come from?”

“Can’t answer that until we get inside and inspect it,” Cal said. He was short and portly, with thinning gray hair.

“This will screw up my tournament, I just know it.” Byron frowned.

“Don’t be so sure,” Brad cautioned. “We have enough time to solve the problem by other means.”

Brad cleared the residue of soil and rocks from the recessed window. He took a searchlight from the dozer’s cab and tossed it to Cal. With a shiny new pick as a lever, Brad tried to pry open the thick wooden shutters. At first, there was no give. After rapping each of the four heavily rusted iron hinges with the pick, he tried again, but the shutters still seemed frozen in place.

“Why don’t you simply smash them?” Byron asked.

“No, no,” Cal objected, “We have to preserve everything we can because of possible historical significance.”

Back in the cab, Brad pulled out a can from a compartment and squirted oil on the window hinges. Then he slid the pick horizontally between the shutters and pulled in steady jerks at varying spots. Slowly, in fits and starts, the outer shutter

creaked partially open. Upon similar prodding, the other shutter surrendered to rest against the wall, the inner side totally exposed.

Cal stepped up on a mound of earth just below the window and beamed the searchlight into the building. At first darkness overwhelmed the rays of light, refusing to yield any secrets. With just his hands, Brad got the first shutter to open fully. Apart from a few remnants in the upper reaches, the window’s sash and frame were virtually non-existent. Brad and Cal converged on the opening, the professor holding the searchlight and the contractor a shovel. Byron climbed up on the dozer to peer over their shoulders, curiosity rising as anger ebbed.

The refocused searchlight penetrated the inner darkness. In the immediate foreground three thick vertical poles rose to the ceiling next to a few overturned pieces of crude wooden furniture. Twenty-five feet or so from the window’s edge appeared the nebulous contours of another stone wall. Still darkness and dust cloaked everything else. Extremely cool and faintly damp, the air exuded hardly any identifiable odor except for a slight hint of mold or fungus.

Brad wielded the shovel, like a blind man tapping a cane, to search the area beyond the window. After discovering hard surface, he lifted a leg over the window ledge and placed it firmly forward.

Byron called out, “Watch out for snakes or black widows!”

“I’m more worried about angry rats,” Brad kidded, “especially those behind me.” He put out an arm to hold Byron back.

Byron grinned. “Since when do old friends indulge in name-calling and to my

face?”

Cal guided Brad with the searchlight, then followed him through the open window. Byron moved toward them to peek inside. Brad and Cal walked in tandem, exploring what appeared to be an intact, single-story structure in the form of one large room. The shape seemed bizarre, a rectangle with a curved, shorter end. Rough-hewed, wooden furniture – tables, benches and stools – cluttered the elongated chamber.

In the middle of the floor, the tables ed putter vessels and trays, wroughtiron tongs, ramrods, and molds. A row of large wooden barrels lined a section of an outer wall. Before the straight, short end of the rectangle, a brick wall, less than four feet high, shot across three-quarters of the room’s width. Behind this half-wall bulged a round open hearth with elaborate bellows above it. Iron tools lay scattered about the hearth. In one corner, Cal found five flintlock muskets and a set of old-fashioned dueling pistols. Because of the region’s climate, the building’s interior had stayed remarkably dry. Its survival underground for so many years defied expectation. In hazy disbelief, Cal and Brad turned back and stepped through the window into the sunlight.

At the country club bar, the men munched on ham and cheese sandwiches and drank cold beer on tap. Brad and Byron tried hard to elicit opinions from Cal on what they’d seen, but Cal kept quiet and turned their questions back on them.

“What do you think that building was used for, Brad?” he asked.

“I’ll bet it was part of a glass factory,” Brad speculated. “The blowers needed the hearth to heat the mixture.”

“Nah,” Byron said. “It was a house of ill repute.” He was just getting into the spirit of things – playing the trickster and trying to fool his friends.

“Yeah, sure,” Brad said. “For the dead only or maybe miners.”

“What about a tavern or an inn?” Byron suggested.

“Next, you’ll say it was a schoolhouse,” Brad ventured.

Cal smiled and laughed – polite indications they remained totally off-base and were wandering further afield by the minute. Because he wanted to avoid giving his own views on the buried building, Cal shifted topics.

“What,” he asked Brad, “are you going to do about the flooding on the thirteenth fairway?”

In all the excitement, Byron had forgotten the urgency of that problem, a problem that merely an hour before had ignited his notorious temper. “Yes, Brad, how do you propose to handle it?”

Brad had thought it through on the way back to the clubhouse. “It’s quite simple. We’ll dig the same excavation just north, instead of south, of the stream and install the spillway, drains and drywells there.”

“But will you be able to finish the job by 6 p.m. Tuesday?” Bryon asked.

“Sure can.” Brad leaned back on the stool and folded his arms. “My son, Jed, and I will use two dozers tomorrow and complete the new hole ahead of schedule. Anyway, you can tell the they now have the only golf course in America with a hazard protected by historical preservation laws.”

“Wait a minute,” Cal remarked. “We all know how ingenious Byron is at generating extra revenue for the club. He’ll conduct guided tours of an historical landmark and charge big bucks for ission.”

Over the years Brad had come to know Cal’s own repertoire of tricks. His unwillingness to discuss the discovery struck Brad as a delaying tactic, but perhaps he could still force the issue. Turning to Byron, he said, “It must be tough being an archaeologist. One’s career always lies in ruins.”

Cal grimaced at the old joke. “Well, it’s one thing to have a career in ruins, but you, Brad, have your whole business, the precious family business, I might add, in nothing but dirt. Dirt in all its varieties, volumes, textures, colors, and flavors. You dig dirt, you move dirt, you haul it, lift it, transport it and, in some outrageous situations, you actually sell it. Let’s face it. Your stock in trade is unadulterated soil, mud, clay and sand with rocks thrown in for variety’s sake. Just look at what you did the entire day.”

“Of course, on your archaeological digs, dirt is never touched.” The contractor pointed out. He and Byron laughed and hooted. “Enough already,” Brad demanded. “It’s time to fess up, Cal. Give us your assessment of our discovery, pronto.”

Cal paused several seconds. “Well,” he began, “the building itself was probably

an Armory where weapons and gunpowder were manufactured. I’d say it functioned in the late eighteenth, perhaps nineteenth century. Experts can scientifically test the materials and classify the tools, weapons and furniture for reliable dating and other useful information about the site.”

“But why is it buried twenty feet below ground?” Byron asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to consult a geologist friend. If I had to guess, the cause could be a sinkhole, mudslide, general erosion of the adjacent hillside or even an earthquake.”

“I bet the State’s highway department, when constructing the state road in the late 1920s, plowed all the excess earth down the steep embankment to cover the old, abandoned building,” pronounced Brad, the resident expert on road construction.

“Give these fellows some more of that lager on tap,” Byron told the bartender. “Let’s drink to finding gold bullion there tomorrow—then filling that damn hole up ASAP.”

CHAPTER IV - ORIGIN UNKNOWN

On the pitcher’s mound bending forward from the hips, Jed McClain stared in at the catcher to get the sign for the next pitch. Two fingers flashed twice in the receiver’s mitt signaling a curve ball. After the wind-up Jed slung a pitch sidearm. As the ball flew toward the right-handed batter, it appeared to be veering behind him. Two feet away, it broke viciously. While the batter bailed out to avoid being hit, the ball nipped the plate’s outside corner. The umpire jerked his right hand up to call strike three.

The batter dejectedly headed back to the visiting team’s bench as the catcher fired the ball to the third baseman, who started flinging it around the infield, until it finally landed in Jed’s glove. With his back to the plate, he gazed out toward center field to await the next and hopefully the last batter. Ahead seven to zero, he had limited the opposition to just two infield hits in eight and two/thirds innings.

Today he had thrown right-handed; next week he was scheduled to pitch again but as a southpaw. Strange as it might sound, he was an ambidextrous pitcher and switch hitter, and he threw both ways as the first-string quarterback on the high school football team. Not questioning why or how, he sensed this unique ability was a gift from on high. Of course, his father had prodded and worked with him over the years to develop a proficiency with both right and left hands in the two sports. However, he suspected, apart from all that practice, his special talents were attributable to an unknown genetic factor.

It was rumored several major league scouts were in the stands today to watch the two-armed throwing wonder pitch. Jed had already been drafted by the San Diego Padres, but he had advised them earlier of his intention to attend college in the fall. Yet no one believed him. Perhaps they thought this was a negotiation ploy because they kept dangling more and more lucrative financial offers. With

his father’s hearty approval, he had already sent in an acceptance to Yale. Unless he was seriously injured, the high school senior believed a professional baseball career would still be open to him after college.

The bright sun glaring in a cloudless sky caused Jed to sweat from all the exertions. Dripping perspiration irritated him as he grew more tired. Almost sheepishly, the next hitter entered the batter’s box. Sensing his fear, Jed wound up and hurled a fastball toward the center of the plate. Given his grip on the ball, he realized it would end up on the inside corner to this right-hand batter. The radar gun, held by one of the scouts, ed 95 miles per hour on that pitch, and the overmatched hitter swung feebly to miss. Three pitches later, he was called out on strikes when another fastball sailed over the outside corner. The game now over, Jed could cool off and relax after taking a shower.

Dinner at the McClain household that evening was a crowded affair. Apart from Brad’s immediate family of five, his mother, middle brother, sister-in-law, and their brood of three ranging in age from 10 to 15 were present. Invited late that afternoon, Cal and his wife had just appeared. The dining room table was stretched to its limit although everyone seemed comfortably seated. Brad’s teenage daughter Beth, who had been talking on the phone to her boyfriend, finally ed them.

In celebration of today’s events, Brad had opened a magnum of good French champagne, kept for special occasions in an extra refrigerator in the basement. A boisterous and noisy troupe, they were immersed in a series of separate conversations, all at the same time. After pouring champagne for the adults, he offered the youngsters raspberry ginger ale or an especially flavorful sarsaparilla in dark brown bottles emblazoned with Indians.

A wine glass rang when gently struck by a dinner fork. Cal rose from a chair, extended his glass and lauded Brad in a toast for the discovery of the Armory that afternoon. Cheers and compliments instantly came from family and guests.

“In importance, Brad’s discovery,” Cal said, “is easily comparable to the unearthing of the Indian village in the Shawangunk Mountains last year. It will benefit our community as few events have. In fact,” he continued, grinning from ear to ear, “the discovery of the Armory probably ranks right up there with the Grand Canyon, certainly the Egyptian Pyramids, and, in all likelihood, penicillin!”

The cheers became jeers, hisses, and boos for the purveyor of such hyperbole. Laughing, Cal sat down.

Now Brad stood and raised his glass. “Let’s celebrate, Jed’s achievement this afternoon. He threw a brilliant two-hit shutout as his team defeated Middletown 7-0.”

The crowd around the table roared in approval. The kids clapped and stomped their feet. When the noise died down, Brad went on, “But more importantly, Jed has been named his class’s valedictorian. And he’s been accepted at Yale as a freshman for the fall term.”

The adults clapped, but the youngsters remained quiet except for a prolonged hiss from one of Jed’s younger cousins. That prompted everyone to smile or laugh.

Platters of food made the rounds of the table and their contents were rapidly emptied.

The kids gobbled down the items they relished while ignoring other edibles. The adults ate slowly and consumed all before them, still chatting with one another. The atmosphere was convivial and relaxed.

The ringing of a telephone interrupted the dinner. Brad’s wife, Debbie, picked it up in the kitchen, “Honey,” she said, “it’s for you.” Still slender after three children, the 5’7”, blue-eyed, strawberry blond displayed more than a hint of freckles on her pretty face.

It was one of the local newspapers calling about the discovery. Brad answered questions for five minutes, then hung up and sat back down at the dining room table. Just as he was sipping the last of the champagne, the phone rang again. This time Debbie motioned for Brad to get it himself.

It was a local television station wanting to know if it could send a camera crew and reporter to film the Armory and interview Cal and Brad the next day. Brad put the station on hold.

“Cal, are you available for a ten a.m. T.V. interview tomorrow morning?”

“Sure am.” Cal relished the idea of free publicity, which might make it easier for him to obtain the next research grant.

Brad raised the telephone receiver to his mouth. “We’ll be there then, but you’d better get the club’s permission because it’s on its property.” He gave them Byron’s office number, then hung up.

As he walked back to his chair, the phone jingled again. Now it was The New York Times. Brad’s patience was running short, but he answered, anyway.

Ten minutes later, he was back at the dining room table. He dug into the main course of ginger chicken, oven-roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus coated with a honey-mustard sauce. Thanks to Debbie’s culinary magic, the food was delicious. Because of the telephone calls, Brad lagged behind the others at the table; they were already on the dessert course, a creamy strawberry cheese cake. Debbie and his sister-in-law Janet claimed the cake was very low in fat and calories, but it was hard to believe that something that looked and tasted so good could be dietary. Not that they really cared.

“Hey, Jed,” Brad said. “Can you help me with the new excavation at the club tomorrow?” After a moment, he added, “I’ll pay you double wages to operate the bulldozer.”

“Sounds great.” He could always use extra spending money to squire around a bevy of beauties.

Brad had already arranged for a second dozer to be trucked to the golf course early the next morning.

After Debbie poured him a cup of espresso, Brad cut himself a piece of that irresistible cheese cake. It was even better than d. Before he finished it, the telephone rang again. This time Janet picked it up while in the kitchen feeding the family dog.

“It’s the president of the local historical society,” she said, “and he wants to talk

to you, Brad.”

“Glad we came,” Brad’s brother, George, said. “Nothing like a quiet family dinner.”

“Brad should have phoned everyone about the discovery before dinner,” Brad’s mother advised belatedly.

“Now you tell him, Mom,” George replied.

Brad turned to Cal. “Please, you take this one.”

“Okay, I see the first team’s been called in.” The professor propped himself up and walked into the kitchen.

Poor Brad. Circumstances would not allow him an undisturbed evening with family and friends. Just as he was sipping a second cup of espresso, someone rapped the brass knocker at the front door. Brian, his nine-year-old, rushed to the hallway and opened the door. “Dad,” he yelled back, “there’re two men out here who want to talk to you and Jed!”

“All right,” Brad responded, totally exasperated. “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”

In the hallway Brad greeted a pair of men – one fat and bald, the other thin with

a mass of gray hair, both in their late fifties.

“My name is Pete Patterson,” said the fat one, “and this here is Ray DiBlanco, Mr. McClain. We’re scouts for the Texas Rangers. We’ve come to talk to you and Jed about his future in baseball.”

“Sure,” Brad said, “let me call him.” He turned toward the dining room. “Hey, Jed, come in here to meet some people.”

“We’re sorry to just drop in on you like this,” Pete offered in deference, “but we tried to get through by phone and kept getting a busy signal. We’re only in town until tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know. We had a lot of calls tonight.”

Brad ushered the scouts into the library, seating them on the oxford leather couch. Jed ed them and sat with his father on matching armchairs across from the scouts.

“Our organization has closely followed Jed’s progress over the last two years,” Ray informed them. “We watched today’s game and liked what we saw.”

“Jed certainly can pitch,” Pete added.

“Are you folks represented by an agent or attorney?” Ray asked.

Brad held a hand up. “Now, wait just a minute, gentlemen. First of all, Jed was drafted by the San Diego Padres, not the Texas Rangers. Secondly, my son has been accepted at Yale for the fall and plans to attend. Professional baseball will have to wait four years. Am I right, son?”

Jed nodded. Completely out of his depth, he felt perfectly willing to let his father do all the talking. Having discussed this issue many times before, they seemed to be of one mind about it.

A soft knock on the library door heralded Debbie’s entrance wheeling a serving cart. While she graciously offered the visitors that tempting cheese cake and coffee, Brad reached over, picked up an electronic device resembling a television remote control and pressed two buttons. At the far end of the library a wooden slid upwards, and a mobile robot emerged to roll toward the startled guests. Always the frustrated engineer, Brad had equipped the house with the latest in computer technology and electronic devices. Dubbed `Mortimer,’ the mobile robot symbolized a prized possession. Specially designed and fabricated for him by an engineering friend at a New England hi-tech company, Mortimer stood out as truly one of a kind. Though a costly investment, the robot never disappointed Brad for a moment. Just like collectors of great oil paintings or rare antiques, he remained unshakably satisfied with the purchase despite its price.

Beeping and whirling, Mortimer pulled up to the visitors and asked in a programmed voice, “What can I get you, gentlemen? A list of my liqueurs and after-dinner beverages will appear momentarily on the screen at my mid-section. Please press ‘T’ on my keyboard to turn the page.”

Thrown off-balance by the automatic waiter, Brad’s two guests nervously checked the menu and gave their orders. The robot promptly served them the selections. Mortimer then moved next to Brad’s chair and, without either saying

a word, dispensed a glass of fine ruby port to him. When Brad pressed another button, the robot returned to the compartment at the room’s far end to disappear from view.

After a few flattering comments about the marvels of technology, the scouts returned to Jed’s professional baseball prospects.

“We have a deal with the Padres,” Pete explained. “If we can sign Jed, they’ll get one of our minor league outfielders.”

Ray rubbed his nose, something he typically did when he sought to close a deal. “As far as college is concerned, we believe our offer will prompt Jed to defer any educational plans. Let’s not waste time. We’re prepared to pay him two and a half million over the next two years – a one million dollar g bonus and a seven hundred and fifty thousand dollar salary for each year.”

Brad raised his eyebrows. “That’s a tempting offer.”

“There’s more,” Pete said. “Jed probably needs only two years of minor league seasoning, then he’ll be ready to pitch in the majors at even greater dollars.”

Such an offer would be a powerful temptation for any seventeen-year-old. Brad and Jed asked for some time to speak privately and stepped outside the room. After closing the library door, Brad and Jed caucused in the center hallway.

“Dad, I suddenly have the urge to pitch for the Texas Rangers.”

“Now, hold on. We’ve already decided Yale comes first.”

“You decided.” Jed changed his stance. “I just went along. This offer is too good to up. Suppose I get injured in college or pitch poorly or they forget me?”

“That won’t happen,” Brad pointed out. “Your education is most critical. You can always make money later. Besides, our family has more than enough.”

“But just look at what I could make now, on my own. This is a golden opportunity, one I may never see again.”

“Son, I’m not going to permit it. Legally, you’re underage, and you need my approval.

“Please, let me do it. Yale can wait. Don’t be so controlling.”

“I can’t. And I won’t.” He needed to explain so his son understood, really understood, what he seemed willing to give up. “Jed, you’re still too young to appreciate the value of higher education. I know from experience what it means.”

“You did all right without it.”

“Yeah, but I suffered. Believe me, my self-esteem still suffers. Enough said.”

Back in the library Brad thanked the scouts for their offer. “All things considered, Jed has opted to go to Yale this coming academic year. It’s not the amount of money involved. It’s a question of priorities, what’s most important on our personal scale of values.”

“If you ever change your mind, call us,” Ray said and handed Brad his business card.

The dinner guests left soon after, and everyone in the McClain household decided to retire. They were exhausted from the day’s efforts and excitement. In the master bedroom, Debbie reminded Brad to set the alarm for 5:30 a.m. Before turning in, he telephoned his foreman to arrange the rigging of a mobile generator and lighting system at the Armory for tomorrow’s visitors. The foreman promised everything would be operative by 9:30 a.m.

Early the next morning, Brad and Jed dug a new hole on the golf course with the earthmovers. Suffering from yesterday’s sunburn and a lack of sleep, Brad felt uncomfortable and cranky. Even on good days, he was definitely not a morning person and needed at least two cups of coffee to re the human race.

Except for Jed, who had dark hair and eyes and a swarthy complexion, nearly everyone else in Brad’s family were redheads or blonds, had blue or gray eyes and fair complexions, highly susceptible to the sun’s ultraviolet rays. Otherwise, he and Jed were physically quite alike. Both tall at 6 feet 4 inches, each had broad shoulders plus powerful arms and legs though Brad was a good forty pounds heavier. The faces of father and son exhibited the same high cheekbones, flat nose, and jutting chin with deep-set eyes.

As the day wore on, the new excavation north of the stream progressed at better than twice yesterday’s rate. Not only was Jed – who had operated dozers during school vacations – making a substantial contribution, but Brad performed more efficiently. Despite the sunburn and weariness he was now pushing himself, the machine, and much earth. At this rate he estimated the hole should be completely dug by mid-afternoon. He had already ordered a gigantic crane to lower the drywells into the new excavation on Monday when the spillway from the stream would be completed.

On Tuesday, the drywells would be covered up, and the excess mud and dirt removed. In no time pumps would drain off any water. Afterward, the sod people would install instant grass to cover the bare spots. By Brad’s calculations the course should be in playable shape for and guests on Wednesday morning.

So much for the present strategy, but he realized even the best blueprints may develop glitches or bugs. Just in case, he formulated contingency plans, imaginatively shifting personnel from other jobs, preparing for any bad weather, even setting up an outdoor lighting system so a crew could work at night. One of Brad’s strengths – or some might argue, his weakness – was promising jobs by a certain date and obsessively driving personnel to finish on time without tolerating any short-cuts. While the firm’s clients loved him, employees suffered under the pressure. In his guilt he overindulged them with more money, fringe benefits and firm outings, and these gestures normally restored morale.

“Dad, Dad,” shouted Jed, catching his father’s eye, at the same time pointing to four electric Go-carts headed in their direction. Obviously not golfers playing the course, this automated caravan was loaded with goodies from the club’s kitchen corps. Over the last two days Bryon’s mood had wildly swung from a tirade through curiosity to flamboyance. The four golf carts conveyed food and drinks for twenty five people – hot tea and coffee, fresh donuts and sweet rolls for the morning break with hero sandwiches, hamburgers, hot dogs and cold beverages

for lunch. A special tent direct from Camelot was erected to shield the serving tables and the grill from the elements. Byron’s talent for logistics never failed to impress Brad.

As for hospitality, Byron had plainly outdone himself. Yet why was he doing all this? In Brad’s opinion, it was good public relations and nothing more. Byron sought to have the local television network portray the club in the most favorable light to enhance his status with the and increase applications for hip. Overcompensating for yesterday’s temper tantrum, he was also currying favor with Brad and Jed to induce them to complete the job on time and preserve their good will. Brad readily itted his old friend possessed a flair for laying out the red carpet and staging an event.

Brad’s foreman installed the electric lighting system in the Armory on schedule. Slated to serve as the tour director, Cal had arrived early. He and a lady graduate student drafted a total floor plan and compiled a list of all items found in the building, their exact location, function, and estimated age. Later he would take still photographs and videotape the whole setting. Without doubt, overly prepared for the T.V. interview and the historical society briefing, he displayed scientific thoroughness and scholarly concern for detail.

The personnel in the Go-carts set up the tent under a towering oak just north of the narrow stream bed between the new excavation and the partially buried Armory. Brad stopped the dozer to take a break. Because of the pressures of today’s hurried excavation, he had subconsciously pushed the Armory to the back of his brain. Now, with a cup of coffee and donut in hand, he paused to reflect on the discovery. Having found something this novel was a rare occasion here. Everyone seemed so interested. For a short time Cal and he would be the centers of attention and in a small way heroes, definitely a new role for them.

Still disgruntled about last night, Jed met his father at the refreshment tent for coffee and a sweet roll but quickly wandered over to inspect the Armory from

the pit’s edge. Just then the local television crew pulled up in a van and unloaded their equipment. Having seen what was under the tent, two men and one woman walked over to sample the coffee and donuts.

“I’m Barbara Holt, T.V. reporter from station WKDI,” the woman introduced herself to Brad. “Are you Professor Owens?”

“No,” he replied, smiling. “I’m the man who discovered the buried structure, Brad McClain.”

“Great. The station wants to tape interviews with both of you. Is the professor here yet?”

As if on cue, Cal emerged from the Armory and hastily climbed out of the pit.

“There he is now.” Brad pointed to the hunched-over figure that stumbled into view. Once Cal arrived, Brad formally introduced the pair.

Short and straight-forward, Brad’s interview occurred first in the hole outside the Armory. Barbara Holt asked him a series of general questions, and he revealed how the building had been accidentally uncovered. Inside the Armory, Cal’s interview ran much longer and covered a broad range of topics.

Afterward Brad reed Jed, who was revving up his dozer. They continued to enlarge the new pit for another two hours, then broke for lunch. Although the T.V. people were long gone, Cal was just finishing a guided tour of the Armory

for the officers of the historical society. At the refreshment tent they ran into Brad and Jed where their enthusiasm about the discovery overflowed. Cal promised Jed a special tour of the Armory and a basic lesson in archaeology before disappearing into the building.

At 4:00 p.m., the two operators turned off the dozer engines. Brad was exhausted but satisfied with the day’s work. Back in the pickup truck, he rang Byron on a cellular phone.

“We’re done digging the big hole,” Brad said. “The project will be finished on time. By the way, that was quite a spread you put out. Everyone enjoyed it.”

“Good! Very Good! How did the interviews go?”

“Very well. Better than could be expected. Cal was impressive. He dazzled them with all his erudition.”

“You did a great job, considering the obstacles,” Byron said. “Thanks for minimizing my grief. See you later at the club bar?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” Brad could picture a frosty mug of ale waiting for him.

Anxious to start a tour of the Armory, Jed had already gone inside. Brad tossed the cellular phone in the glove compartment and set out to his son.

“The Armory,” Cal was lecturing Jed, “was probably built sometime during the American Revolution to supply the local militia and the troops of the Continental Army. It fabricated weapons – muskets, pistols, and bayonets. The metal used in the manufacturing process came in ingots from a local foundry where the iron ore was processed. They were heated in this hearth until the metal liquefied, and the molten iron was poured into the cast-iron molds you see here, specially designed for each weapon’s components. After removing the components from the molds, workmen assembled and bolted them to wooden stocks on the benches, then tested the muskets.”

Cal gestured toward the barrels along one wall. “The other major operation at the Armory during its heyday was the processing of gunpowder. The barrels contain the ingredients used to make it: saltpeter, sulfur and charcoal. The round wall over there was designed, rightly or wrongly, to cushion or minimize the effects of accidental explosions of the gunpowder, an unstable mixture.”

In a quick glance around the room, Brad noticed the archaeologists’ tools – an electronic, infra-red measurer to calculate distance, height and area, strips of white tape on the floor in triangular configurations to mark key sites, a plumb bob to determine a perpendicular line, two trowels to scrap or dig with. The graduate student was diligently entering data in a new ruggedized, handheld computer that Cal had proudly crowed about acquiring. Impervious to dirt, moisture, and vibrations, it could directly communicate data to the central computer back at the college within seconds.

The contractor in Brad was more curious about the Armory’s construction, so he paused to examine the ceiling, walls, and floors. A truss with large wooden beams ed the slanted roof of irregular flat boards. Braced by stout vertical columns at regular intervals along the outer boundaries and throughout the room, it was further reinforced by thick stone walls. A marvelous system, but then, nothing short of marvelous would have kept the building intact during its long underground existence. The less porous, surrounding clay helped preserve it too.

Brad speculated the boards and beams had been processed from raw timber at a water-powered mill in the vicinity. The columns, simple tree trunks grown on the property itself, were trimmed and notched for specific roles. A dark, gray aggregate, the stone walls were interspersed with crystals of sparkling quartz; the rock had probably been mined in the old Black Rock quarry which once flourished seven miles south along the river. Typical in seventeenth and eighteenth century construction, the white mortar that bonded them consisted of a softer substance, a combination of lime and clay. The flooring – light gray cobblestones set in a loose sand foundation, more commonly found in the streets of old urban centers – reduced the risks from fire and readily absorbed accidental spillage.

At the far end the curved wall intrigued Brad. He eyed the upper portion and the full arc of the lower section, as the wall converged with the floor, all the while iring the mason’s craftsmanship. Where the curved wall met a longer, straight counterpart, something seemed amiss. In the corner beside the open window lay a dark wooden , embedded in the floor, not the usual cobblestones. He stooped to brush away the dust and debris with one of the archaeologists’ brooms, tapped the with a work boot, then rapped it with his knuckles. The , two feet by three feet, sounded hollow.

Brad yelled out to Cal and Jed. “Bring a search light.”

“What have you discovered this time?” Carl said from above.

“It’s either a covering for a storage compartment or a trap door leading somewhere.”

Brad pushed downward with his right hand on the ’s longer edge against the wall while applying the fingers of his left hand to lift the opposite side. It sprang open after a strenuous effort. The searchlight, aimed in the hole, encountered nothing but dark, empty space.

Jed lay on the floor next to his father, grabbed the beacon and inserted it into the hole. Despite Brad’s warning to be careful, Jed thrust the searchlight ever deeper. Finally, a vertical drop became visible of more than several feet. It fell away at a sharp angle. An underground ageway in the form of a chute or slide led not only down but outside the Armory.

“Hmmm,” Cal scratched his head. “Probably an elaborate escape hatch in case of fire or explosions.”

Jed started to lower himself into the hole, but Brad seized him under both armpits and dragged him back to the safety of the Armory floor.

“You’re not going down into that!”

“But Dad! I just want to see what’s there.”

“But you won’t be the one to do it—and certainly not like this.”

“I’m the only one here who can. Aren’t I in the best physical shape?”

“Maybe, but we have men working for our firm who are better qualified than you. Besides, I won’t worry about them.”

“Dad, I want to do it. You won’t let me play professional baseball. At least let me take this on. I promise I’ll be careful.”

Cal intervened. “Listen, there has to be a compromise.” He turned to Brad. “Let the boy try it. It will be good experience for him. He’ll get in some actual field research, and it will stimulate his scientific curiosity. But Jed,” Cal warned, “we have to make certain it’s done in a safe, controlled fashion.”

Brad thought about it. “All right, but it’s got to be done my way. We need special equipment for this job, and you have to follow proper procedures.”

“Agreed,” Jed said.

It seemed much longer than an hour since Brad called his foreman over the cellular phone – time had a way of dragging – before Bruno, one of the firm’s younger employees, at last arrived bringing all the requested items. The most important piece of equipment was a girdle-like harness with a wide leather belt and a series of ropes and pulleys. Then came a yellow hard hat with a light and a multi-channel communicator. Special waterproof hip boots, protective gloves, searchlights, another radio device, and an old, three-foot long machete rounded out the gear. As the last contributions Bruno toted in a sledgehammer, crowbar, straight, thick iron bar and a pointed metal stake with a hook on one end.

With the crowbar Brad unearthed three cobblestones a few feet from the trap door and, using the sledgehammer, banged the metal stake into the ground

underneath.

Cal looked at him quizzically. “How do you want to proceed?”

“We’ll strap Jed into one end of the harness,” Brad said, “then secure the other end to the long iron bar, positioned outside next to the lower part of the open window.” The rope will extend from the bar, secured against the stone wall through the window, around the hooked metal stake in the ground.”

“Why can’t you use the vertical columns inside for ?” Jed asked.

Brad paused in his hammering. “How would you like the roof of this old building to come tumbling down on us and all these artifacts?”

“Of course not,” Jed replied.

Brad, tying the ropes to the iron bar, guided them through the loop of the metal stake in the floor. In the harness, fashioned like a pair of highly strengthened shorts, Jed awkwardly slipped on the hip boots and the long protective gloves. Placed snuggly on his son’s head, the hard hat featured a beacon on top, plus a curved speaking device for communication. The teenager twisted uncomfortably in all this gear. At the Armory’s far end, Brad tested the communicator and heard Jed’s voice clearly in response. Lastly, the father strapped a searchlight to Jed left wrist and placed the machete in his right hand.

“Tell us everything on the communicator,” Brad instructed. “If it doesn’t work,

yank on the ropes twice, and we’ll pull you out. Don’t take any unnecessary risks and watch out for crawling creatures. Pay close attention to air quality and be on guard against flooding or cave-ins. Do you have questions?”

“No, sir,” Jed said. “Just don’t worry so much. I’ll be okay.”

Brad hugged his son in a rare display of affection.

Like a deep-sea diver in an elaborate diving suit, Jed waddled to the edge of the ageway and stepped off into the abyss. Brad held the other end of the rope and pulley system, lowering him slowly downward. Set for the unexpected, Jed eased into the dark chute.

A full twenty seconds elapsed without a word from Jed. Brad spoke into the communication device to ask Jed what he saw.

“Absolutely nothing,” Jed answered. “This thing feels like a slide into continuing darkness.”

Brad let out more rope. “Anything else to report?”

“Not much. It keeps heading outward, away from the building. The angle’s flattened, it’s less steep.”

“Have you run into anything yet?”

“Not really just dust, dirt, a few small rocks, spider webs galore.”

“How’s the air down there?”

“Musty, but breathable, Dad. Stop fretting. I’m just fine.”

Fortunately, Jed did not suffer from claustrophobia. Otherwise a state of panic might have set in as he wound his way through the long, cramped corridor. Unexpectedly, a scraping sound arose from beneath him – metal rasping against stone. The left boot had caught on something. Prompted more by curiosity than fear, he shined the searchlight, strapped to his wrist, along the lower portion of his body to spot what lay there. A dark round object surfaced below the boot’s heel. Jed reached down and grabbed it. The metal piece had a grimy, wet feel. Glancing at it quickly, he stuck the item in a shirt pocket.

“How you doing?” Brad asked.

“Fine! Found something –an old coin.”

“Keep it so we can look at it later.”

After another twenty feet, Jed announced, “Dad, it looks like this chute is about to terminate.”

“Watch out for a sharp drop or water build-up. Any problem breathing?”

“No. None, whatsoever.”

At the mouth of the age, Jed sat upright on a flat stone. As feet dangled over the edge with two searchlights beaming – one on a wrist, the other on the helmet – a spacious chamber appeared before him. Ten seconds later, he focused on what existed below.

“There’s a sizable room having a solid foundation.”

“Pretest the surrounding ground with the machete, just to be sure,” Brad said.

Jed probed the earth with the long knife, still shining both beacons on the floor. No water existed, and the ground was plainly firm. The air, very cool and faintly damp, seemed strangely refreshing.

He looked up to survey the shadowy, windowless chamber with the beacons. Round in shape, it was about fifteen feet in diameter and built of the same dark stone as the Armory. Still perfectly intact, the conical ceiling towered about thirty feet above him. A stone staircase hugged the far wall, rising fifteen feet to a closed doorway. Jed recounted all this to his father.

Over the communicator, Cal urged Jed to explore the floor first and the stairway next. Again probing with the machete, he blocked out segments and systematically searched from left to right for any weakness in the ground.

During the inspection the machete hit something solid and extensive on the far right. He aimed the searchlight, strapped to his wrist, at the spot. Eyes bulging, he gasped before leaping backward.

“Dad,” Jed yelled.

“What is it?” Cal answered, since he held the communicator.

Jed hesitated. “There’s someone down here.”

Brad grabbed the communicator. “Who is it? Don’t take any chances, get back in the age, and we’ll pull you up immediately.”

“No, Dad, it’s all right. There’s no danger. He’s dead.”

Brad and Cal exchanged glances. Cal took the communicator. “What exactly are you looking at?”

“A skeleton. It’s partially buried. There’s a knife in its ribcage. And there’s one of those things that holds a sword alongside him – a scabbard, you know.”

“That’s good,” Cal said. “You’re doing fine. Now, what else do you see? Be thorough.”

There was another pause, then Jed’s voice came through.

“The body—I mean skeleton—is lying next to the wall. There’s pieces of leather belts and chains on its chest. Looks like they’re linked to the scabbard. And he’s still got his boots on. That’s about it.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Cal warned. “We’ll dig that building out tomorrow for a fuller inspection.”

“Great job,” Brad said. “Now, please get back in the age so I can pull you up.”

Having had enough excitement for one day, the seventeen year old gladly obeyed. Brad hastily yanked him up to the Armory. Later, when Jed cleaned off the coin from his pocket, it proved to be an English shilling, engraved with a date, 1770 as well as the image of King George III. Either the dead man or anyone else might have dropped it in the chute.

That evening, after dinner, Brad telephoned both the police and Byron about the skeleton and plans for tomorrow. The day’s excitement kept playing on Brad’s mind. He slept fitfully, tossing and turning while Debbie snoozed soundly in the king-size bed. At dawn on Monday, he awoke and hurriedly got dressed. After swigging down a mug of hot black coffee and a glass of grapefruit juice in the kitchen, he bolted out the back door, jumped into the pickup and sped over to the club.

On the dozer by 6:30 a.m., he paused to pinpoint the exact location of the buried round building. Jed’s report gave him an approximate spot where it was

entombed. Revving up the earthmover, Brad dug steadily. Two hours later, he had unearthed the building’s pointed, tile roof, encased in another reddish clay bubble. Just then, Cal drove up, and twenty minutes later Byron arrived on a Gocart with a compliment of hot and cold beverages and sweet rolls. After a brief halt for another cup of coffee and a danish, Brad plowed on, the powerful machine exposing almost the entire building. Round yet not terribly wide, it looked like a lonely tower in the middle of nowhere. Blockaded by recessed boards nailed to its frame, the doorway that Jed had mentioned now loomed in plain view.

The police, the coroner, and local journalists gathered within ten minutes of one another, just as Brad was finishing the excavation. The building’s thick door proved much easier to open than the shutters shielding the Armory window. Once having removed the outer barricade with the pick, Brad pulled at the door. With only moderate force, he slipped it off rusted hinges to place it against the ading wall. Cal and a policeman had searchlights ready. They took the lead and gingerly climbed down the stairs, free hands grasped the wall. Brad trailed behind, thankful the stone staircase could bear the total weight.

At the bottom sprawled the skeleton. Before disturbing anything, Cal and the policeman waited for the coroner. To Brad, the skeleton matched Jed’s description exactly.

After the coroner examined it and disclosed his preliminary findings, the police hastily left. Cal and the coroner consulted, and Cal whispered into Brad’s ear. “The skeleton is over two hundred years old. They won’t waste taxpayers’ money or the effort in pursuing this.”

Handing Brad the searchlight, Cal ascended the stairs, stepped outside where the reporters congregated, note pads in hand, and briefed them.

In the partial light from the doorway above, Brad stood alone in the middle of the chamber. The police’s total indifference struck him as a major let-down. “What the heck, it was fun while it lasted,” Brad said to himself. He could visualize tomorrow’s local newspaper headlines: ‘200-YEAR-OLD MURDER UNCOVERED.’ The next day all would be forgotten. No one was interested in a historical murder case involving unknown persons. The police were right, why squander precious public resources on this ancient crime?

Brad, kicking the ground, took one last look at the skeleton. The dusky collection of bones lay undisturbed, partially submerged in reddish dirt. Ghostlike, eye sockets stared blankly at Brad to make him cringe. The knife was still lodged in its ribs, the empty scabbard rested on a slate slab next to the left side, the sheath’s s plainly evident. Frayed strips of dark leather covered the wooden scabbard. Above the leather protruded an unornamented iron throat, and a matching metal tip ran from the scabbard’s bottom to beyond midpoint. Rows of brass chains linked the skeleton proper to three rings on the rusted iron segments.

Brad fingered the scabbard and chains but avoided the knife as if touching it would somehow implicate him in the crime. Under the searchlight’s rays the skeleton gleamed. The horrors of the homicide had vanished long ago. The victim was probably knifed in the Armory and escaped through the trap door.

A metallic object glittered in the dry clay near the skeleton’s bony left hand. He bent over, raked his fingers through the dirt and picked it up. It turned out to be a round metal disc, almost half rusted away. The other half, though tarnished and stained, revealed some symbols or lettering in a strange foreign tongue. Was this a clue to the identity of the victim or the murderer or was it meaningless? What really happened here so long ago, who was involved and why?

Later that day when he showed Cal the partially destroyed medallion, the professor, while interested, begged off. “I’d like to help, but I’ve got another set

of final exams to give tomorrow and Wednesday, the rest of my week will be devoted to correcting them.”

For Brad the metal object held a lasting fascination that made the past two days’ excitement all the more meaningful. Here was something to explore, something he could truly get his teeth into, unrelated in any way to family or business. The questionable fate of this antique skeleton aroused curiosity and challenged the intellect. Motivated by new interests in local history and archaeology, Brad appeared ready to dedicate himself to unraveling the mystery.

CHAPTER V - COLONIAL YALE

Luke’s voyage to New Haven seemed a journey to the other side of the world. Having ridden once in a small cutter, he was treated to an exhilarating excursion on an enormous three-masted schooner, tacking from the Newburgh landing and sailing south through the narrows and wide bays of the Hudson. Towns and villages scudded by to expose him to an array of arousing sights, scents and sounds.

Then in its radiant glory a view to stir the soul, the city on the island of Manhattan arose in the fading twilight. He had never imagined so many buildings could be clustered together in an endless complex of byways and lanes. Though structures soared to twice the height of the Keppler mansion, the church steeples towered over all. They reached out to touch the sky’s upper tiers and mingle with feathery clouds in pillow shapes.

After rounding the tip of the island, the schooner veered into an inlet off the East River. Moored ships with masts, erect and naked, crammed the waterfront. The helmsman adroitly steered the schooner toward an empty berth along a wharf while the crew quickly dropped its sails. Lines tied to pilings, the gangplank was lowered to the dock. Luke disembarked, lugging all his gear, and a short, stout man almost thirty on shore greeted him.

“My compliments, sir. Name’s Ezekiel Campbell. You must be Luke Davidson.” The man held out a hand.

“Yes, I am.” Luke noted that Campbell’s grip was weak. In his experience, flaccid handshakes spelled trouble.

“I work for Keppler and Davidson as an agent,” Campbell said. “Mr. Keppler wrote for me to escort you to the inn where you’ll lodge tonight.”

“That was kind of him.” Luke had not expected to be met by anyone.

“Let me help you with your bags.”

Campbell grabbed two pieces of Luke’s luggage. As they walked together, Campbell gestured toward another wharf. “There’s the boat to New Haven you must catch at dawn tomorrow.”

Campbell was bursting with information about the city and the ships in port. Luke found him a bit too friendly. He had never met anyone who rambled on so and it taxed his powers of concentration to the limit.

“I truly enjoy working for your father and Mr. Keppler,” Campbell said. “I do boatloads of interesting things. I meet people from all walks of life. Yesterday, I had an appointment at the governor’s mansion with an aide. The province of New York needs new uniforms for the militia. Now I have to organize a small factory to spin yarn, weave cloth and sew fabric. It’s exciting to have so much responsibility.”

“So it seems.” Luke lengthened his stride, hoping to cut short his time with this chatterbox.

“Henri Keppler is such a great man. I venture to say he’s very smart. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I surely do.”

“And your father, I must say he is a legend here. Securing a steady supply of furs in the wilderness the way he did. Why I don’t know how Mr. Keppler would do without him.”

In the short walk, this snip of a man exhausted Luke. Once at the inn, Luke sought an immediate reprieve in his room. With a gigantic four-poster in the corner and a fireplace, surrounded by stacked logs, the room looked comfortable. He deposited his luggage at the foot of the bedstead. Savoring the silence, he lingered a while before descending to the ground floor.

“Let’s have dinner together,” Campbell said. “I know another inn that serves large portions of roast beef, boiled potatoes and ale at very moderate prices.” He rubbed his stomach in anticipation.

“That is so kind of you,” Luke said, “but I am weary and should retire shortly. I have to catch that boat early tomorrow.”

“But I’ll give you a grand tour of the city after dinner.”

“Thank you, but I must decline. What I need most is a good night sleep.” If someone else had offered him the same tour, Luke would have jumped at the

chance.

“Well, all right.” Campbell seemed genuinely disappointed. “Mind you, your lodging and travel arrangements have been paid for by Mr. Keppler. Here is a letter ing them. The ship leaves at 6 a.m. Don’t miss it.”

“I appreciate all you have done for me,” Luke said. “Good night, hope you get to the governor’s mansion again and soon.” After a quick handshake, Luke guided Campbell out the door, then went into the dining room for something to eat.

Later in bed, his uncle’s words about the Manhattans, who had long ago inhabited this part of the river, floated back to him. In Running Wolf’s eyes, the Manhattans were a bad tribe, unfriendly and obstinate. No one wanted to deal with them, neither Indian nor white. As Luke fell asleep, he wondered what the newer white inhabitants of this Island were like.

Sailing up the East River toward Long Island Sound the next morning, the sloop cut rapidly through the water and the slowly dissipating mist. Luke regretted having seen so little of the city and strained to catch glimpses of its fading image as he leaned over the ship’s stern. From the northwest a stiff breeze filled the sails and propelled the boat on windward beats and reaches. The sounds of the sloop’s bow slicing through the sea roused Luke from sleepiness.

Relaxed and refreshed, he ambled along the port side, carefully watching the ship’s crew. To him all hands seemed engaged in useful tasks. But it was difficult to tell – after all, these last few days amounted to his only voyage on such a large boat.

Luke paused next to a sailor who was coiling a line. The man, short and dark, said, “Indian, what are you doing here? We never take Indian for boat ride before. Who you are?” He twisted the tip of a droopy moustache.

“My name is Luke Davidson,” he said, not offended by the man’s bluntness. “I am going to New Haven to attend Yale College. Where are you from?”

“Barcelona.” The sailor stuck thumbs under a belt. “I am Manuel.”

Luke had never met anyone from Spain before. “Do you make this trip often?”

“Si. We go from New Haven, my home port, to New York or Boston then back many times. Sometimes, we sail to West Indies.”

“And the cargo is?”

“We carry goods made in England. On return trips, we take vegetables, grain and flour, then salted and smoked meat. When we go to West Indies, our ships bring horses and cattle and come back with sugar and molasses.”

“My people swap furs for trade good.”

“Can you talk Indian for me, por favor?”

“You mean Lenape. All right,” Luke obliged. “Kulamalsi hach. That means, ‘Do you feel well?’ You can answer either, ‘Nulamalsi,’ I feel well – or ‘Ku mayay,’ not quite well.”

“How do you say, ‘I am hungry?’”

“’Gatupur.’ Then I would say, ‘Mitsitam,’ ‘Let’s eat.’ That is my favorite phrase.”

Manuel chortled. “Si, mine, too. I like the sound of your tongue.”

Luke chanced a different question. “Who owns this boat?”

“Benedict Arnold. He has another ship like this one and runs a shop in New Haven.”

Before their arrival, Manuel volunteered to teach Luke Spanish and Luke accepted the offer. Naturally shy and always conditioned to avoid strangers, Luke was gratified to make a friend before entering the college grounds.

Though fast, the sloop failed to cover the full distance to New Haven during daylight. The morning’s bracing breezes had faltered, and fluky shifting winds later slowed the boat, prolonging the trip. That evening a rocky coastline and the lack of moon and starlight forced the sloop’s captain to anchor the ship in shallow waters just southwest of the village of Milford. Despite the delay, Luke was delighted to be traveling by water. It was so much more comfortable and

quicker than by land.

Next morning, the sloop sailed into New Haven harbor and weighed anchor off Long Wharf. Whaleboats, crowding the starboard side, began to transport engers and cargo to busy docks. Spread over a flat plain, three rivers emptied into the harbor to intersect the town. Hundreds of buildings, mostly painted red or blue, conveyed a prosperous appearance. Warehouses, shops and an occasional tavern lined the waterfront, bustling with people and horse-drawn wagons. In the distance church bells rang to welcome the new arrivals.

An elite group of English Puritans founded New Haven in 1638. Like the French Huguenots who first inhabited New Paltz, these Puritans fled their native land to practice a simpler form of Christianity in the New World and avoid religious persecution by the reigning monarch and his agents. Unlike the Huguenots whose dispute was with the Roman Catholic establishment and the French King, the Puritans waged a contest against the Church of England, the Anglicans, and the British ruler, Charles I.

When the English settled here, they purchased land from the Quinnipiacs. This tribe sought protection, given the whites’ superior weapons, against the highly aggressive Mohawks, who lived farther north near the Hudson’s headwaters and war-like neighbors in Connecticut, the Pequots. Deemed a fair bargain, the agreement between them reserved specific land along with hunting and fishing rights for the local Indians and furnished an array of trade goods.

Once on shore, Manuel helped Luke with the luggage. As they made their way toward the college, the Spaniard pointed to a third story window at the rear of one warehouse. “That is my home when not on ship,” he said as they ed by. “Come visit me to learn Spanish or just plain talk.”

At the Yale campus, they shook hands and promised to meet again soon. Next to an intersection of two roads – College and Chapel Streets – Luke turned to see an old shabby wooden structure, three stories high known as the college, sporting a faded, chipped coat of blue paint. Beside it, a large, brick chapel with a steeple, jutted upwards. Near the chapel, set further back, rested a tall, stately brick building, Connecticut Hall.

Directly opposite, the New Haven Green flourished on sixteen acres of open land, edged by elm and buttonwood trees. Once the town’s marketplace, it was now disheveled and overgrown with weeds and bushes. Early morning dew still coated the grassy terrain. Cows, ducks, geese and a stray mutt roamed here and there. Two churches, a courthouse, a jail and the Hopkins Grammar School stood within a short distance of an old cemetery, surrounded by a red wooden fence.

During the first few days, Luke and fellow scholars attended lectures on the college’s history as part of the introduction. They were told Yale was actually established in 1701 by ten Congregational ministers, nine of whom were graduates of Harvard. Originally named the Collegiate School, it was first located in Saybrook, Connecticut. Later on it was moved to New Haven and renamed for Elihu Yale, the son of an original founder of the town. A prominent merchant, Elihu ran the East India Company in Madras for many years, made his fortune, and became the college’s largest benefactor, donating books and trade goods worth a substantial sum.

In the Connecticut Hall classroom, Ebenezer Baldwin, a tutor, lectured the assembled freshmen. Tutors, recent Yale graduates who had excelled academically, did most of the teaching at the college.

“Except during classes, study hours and prayers, you are obligated to perform errands for seniors and other upperclassmen if requested,” he announced to the twenty-three students in Luke’s class. “Also, you must not run in the college yard and hats may not be worn out-of-door but simply carried. Always, show

proper respect to upperclassmen and faculty. All part of the Yale laws. Any questions?”

Just one boy raised his hand. “Does this mean we are indentured servants to the upperclassmen for a year?”

“No, no, lad,” Baldwin replied. “Upon my word, we’re only talking about running a few errands. Nothing onerous. Just think when you are sophomores, the freshmen will have to do your bidding … with the consent of a senior, that is.”

“Sounds horrible to me,” piped up another student.

For the next few weeks, the freshmen were kept busy attending classes and chapel, studying, and running errands for the upperclassmen. At first the intense schedule bewildered and overwhelmed Luke. Then he became numb, moving through the daily routine in a daze. Yale was nothing like the one room schoolhouse in New Paltz. And besides he was already homesick.

A month later, as a call to order the shrill voice of Tutor Mitchell in the classroom disrupted and silenced student murmurs. “Mr. Davidson, would you please enlighten the class on today’s lesson.”

“What part of it, sir?” Luke asked, yanked away from a more gratifying pastime, daydreaming about Renee. He missed her terribly. Though they wrote, the sporadic mails did little to quell his frustration.

“Tell us, Mr. Davidson, what was Pericles’ strategy in defending Athens against Sparta in Thucydides’ History of Peloponnesian Wars?”

Luke hesitated.

“Mr. Davidson,” Mitchell said, “we’d like to hear your answer now, if possible.”

“Sir, I just don’t know,” Luke replied, embarrassed. The academic demands at college were so much greater than anything he’d experienced before. He had been struggling to master the subjects, in vain.

“Have you read the materials?” Mitchell asked.

“I’ve tried, sir. I truly have.” For the first time in life, he lacked confidence.

Two other students raised their hands. Mitchell ignored them. “What do you mean you’ve tried?”

“I fear I’m having trouble with Greek,” Luke confessed.

“You cannot read Greek?”

“I’m just learning to.” Luke cleared his throat. “This is my first year.”

“Judas Priest! How did you ever manage to get into this institution?”

Before Luke could reply, a clatter arose in the back of the classroom. One of his new friends, William Hull, waved furiously, trying to get recognition. Hull was muscular from the years of farm work his grandfather had made him do. He was tall, with auburn hair and a pug nose.

“What is it Mr. Hull?” Mitchell asked. “Do you know the answer?”

“Sir, may I be excused?” Hull asked.

“For what purpose?”

“Nature, sir, it is calling me, and its voice is awfully loud.”

Snickers and muffled giggles spurted, ebbed and spurted again.

“All right, you are excused.” Mitchell was exasperated. “But please one thing.”

“Yes, sir, what might that be?”

“It is better to be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

The class erupted in laughter as Hull scampered off to the nearest outhouse, sheepishly grinning as he left.

Mitchell glanced at his pocket watch. “Class dismissed.”

Relieved, Luke grabbed up his books and strode out of the classroom. He realized that Hull had sacrificed himself for his sake and vowed never to forget the favor.

One evening in the Commons, Luke was sitting at a table with Hull having dinner. Hull leaned forward, grasping a wooden spoon as he pawed gingerly at the main course, a blackened beef stew. He sniffed and grimaced. His large appetite would go unsatisfied tonight because the meal smelled and tasted so badly. He and Luke had a pact not to discuss the food served at the Commons for fear it would trigger thoughts about good home cooking.

“Have you finished the Latin assignment for tomorrow?” Hull asked.

“Not yet,” Luke said. “I am having some trouble understanding the Aeneid. Why was Virgil so obscure?”

“Because he sought to confuse people like us. Why else?”

A commotion erupted on the room’s far side. One upperclassman had thrown a buttered slab of bread at a freshman named Joseph Bellamy. Splattered, Bellamy, in turn, doused the offender with a glass of water. This meant war on a larger scale. Chunks of cheese and butter shot through the air. The salvos messed up the floor and tables more often than the intended targets.

Ready to enter the fray, Hull stood poised with a rotten apple in hand, but Luke restrained him. “Do you want to pay the fines for this escapade?”

Hull paused.

“If we get involved,” Luke said, “the president won’t let us go hunting on Saturday.”

Hull reflected. “You’re right. We should leave and avoid this trouble.”

On Saturday morning they traveled on foot to the farm of Hull’s uncle just north of New Haven, near West Rock, a large red ridge. After borrowing two horses, they rode further north to hunt. The pleasant, cool breezes of this late October day blended with a sunny azure sky to invigorate man and beast. Still on the trees, the leaves flaunted rich hues of yellow, orange and red in an impressionistic pageantry.

At the edge of a meadow, covered with tall grass, a large pond glistened in the noon sunshine. The two riders dismounted to let the horses drink.

Luke gestured toward the nearby woods. “I think we should try there.”

“Whatever you say,” Hull shrugged.

On one knee, Luke scooped up a few handfuls of water and drank slowly. Anxious to move on, Hull remounted and started toward the woods but stopped. Unable to find an easy entry, he was stymied. Having signaled him, Luke walked his horse carefully along the wooded side of the pond. Barely squeezing between the tree line and the water, Hull followed on horseback. Halfway round the pond, a path cut through the thickly treed landscape. Both students, now on foot, led the horses into the woods along the path.

“Be very quiet from here on in,” Luke whispered. “We could easily run into game seeking water.”

Hull nodded.

Luke glided forward with his friend close behind. Thirty yards further, Luke stopped and cupped a right ear down the path. Hearing a distant sound, he tied the reins of the horse to a birch sapling just off the path while Hull leashed the mount to a small hickory. They crept forward. As Luke took an arrow from the quiver to insert in his bowstring, Hull primed and loaded a flintlock musket. Hull had never seen anyone before, white or Indian, hunt for live game with a bow and arrow. They kept moving quietly through the woodland.

Hull heard something deeper in the forest. Luke halted on one side of the path behind a large oak tree, then motioned Hull to crouch behind a sugar maple on the other. The noise grew gradually louder, but it was hard for Hull to decipher.

Yet a smile stretched across Luke’s face as the two waited. Straining to identify the din, Hull sensed a parade of people trooping through the woods squabbling. Could they be hostile Indians – a war party perhaps? Surely not this far south. The noise heard was distinctly guttural. As the group got closer, a cacophony of sounds flooded the pathway. Plainly not men, these creatures came from the bird kingdom – a flock of wild turkeys with fantails and red wattles awkwardly strutted into view, squawking at each other.

Stunned, Hull froze for a few moments. But the snapping of Luke’s bowstring in rapid-fire succession forced him into action. Hull aimed and shot the musket at the birds. Quickly reloading, he trailed Luke as they chased the half-flying turkeys back into the woods along the path. Luke stopped, knelt and let two arrows fly simultaneously. In a standing position, Hull fired over Luke’s head at the fleeing bird farthest from them. Both students hit their targets. Out of breath and excited, they paused in silent tribute to such feat.

“Did that really happen?” Hull asked.

“Of course, it did,” Luke said. “The proof lies on the ground before us! Come on, let’s count them.”

After collecting the dead quarry, they tied their feet together with rawhide and slung them over saddles. The final tally revealed eight dead turkeys – two filled with lead and six with arrows sticking in them. Several had barely escaped. Once retrieved, Luke wiped clean the slender, feathered shafts with leaves and replaced them in the quiver.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Hull asked.

“My uncle taught me, and I had to practice every day.”

“I don’t understand how you shot two arrows at the same time.”

“It’s a neat trick, is it not?” Luke grinned. “But you shot well too. You didn’t miss.”

Back at the college, the boys turned the turkeys over to the steward in the Commons and asked him to cook them for the Sunday dinner. The steward enthusiastically agreed. For one evening only, the large roasted turkeys, served to the student body, reversed the prevailing opinion of food at Yale College. Truly a feast for the deprived scholars, they relished every mouthful and greedily stuffed themselves as if it might be their last meal for some time. The news of the pair’s successful hunt had rapidly spread through the small community even before the dinner. Briefly, William Hull and Luke Davidson became campus heroes.

Still Hull told and retold the tale of the expedition to anyone who would listen. Filled with Puritan honesty, he rightly gave Luke full credit, continually marveling at how fast and accurately he had handled the bow and arrows. When asked, Luke remained taciturn as if the episode were nothing exceptional.

In the upper reaches of Connecticut Hall, four Yale seniors played cards around a plain oak table late that November afternoon. This act itself was a clear violation of the college laws. Yet the pile of coins on the table evidenced another more serious infraction of the rule against gambling.

“Where is that bloody Indian?” Edward Thornton shouted, in a distinctly British

accent, clenching a lit cigar between his teeth. “I summoned him at least thirty minutes ago.” Thornton’s father, a major in His Majesty’s Army, had been killed in the French and Indian War by Hurons outside of Fort Niagara. The boy hated all Indians and was bent on avenging his father’s death.

“He’ll be here soon enough,” said Nehemiah Butler, another senior. “Be patient for once.”

Considered handsome by some, Thornton actually resembled a monitor lizard. His tongue even flicked out of his mouth like the reptile. Short and thin, he resented his stunted stature. The lone Englishman at the college, Thornton was also the sole Yale student who wore a powdered wig as part of a daily costume. Naturally contentious and haughty, he had frequent run-ins with local shopkeepers and fellow scholars alike.

A knock echoed through the room.

Thornton yelled, “Come in, damn it.”

Luke walked through the open doorway.

Looking up, Thornton lambasted him. “Where the hell have you been? I sent for you an hour ago. By Jove, you’re insufferable.”

“Sorry, sir, I was talking to Tutor Mitchell and could not leave right away.”

“A lame excuse if ever I have heard one. Take that pitcher and fetch water from the well—and don’t take all day about it.”

“Yes, sir.” Luke grabbed the pitcher and quickly left.

“Haven’t you been too tough on that lad?” asked Timothy Dwight, a senior but as a child prodigy younger than many of the freshman.

“You know how I feel about Indians,” Thornton scowled.

“Indeed, that’s what concerns me. Don’t go to extremes with him. It could be damaging to you. He is well-liked.”

By this time, because of his manner and dress, Luke easily blended in with the other students and was readily accepted as one of their own.

“Don’t fret about me. I know what I am doing.”

When Luke returned with the water, Thornton ordered him to brush his clothes. Then he sent Luke to fetch armfuls of wood for the senior’s fireplace. When study hour began, Thornton had to release Luke from temporary servitude.

One mid-December evening, as a steady snowfall blanketed the campus, Moses Cobb burst into Luke’s room, interrupting his reading of the next day’s Greek assignment.

“We need you in the yard right away!” Moses cried. “The seniors have challenged the freshmen to a snowball fight.”

“How wonderful!” Luke was relieved for any distraction. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Snowflakes were still falling as he opened the outer door of the old college building to step into the chilly night air. An accumulation of six inches clung to the ground. Separated by only thirty feet of open space, two distinct clusters of students had gathered in the courtyard – seniors on the north side, freshmen in front of the building to the south. In numbers, these teams were roughly matched.

As if there were a prearranged signal, the students tossed snowballs in unison, a battle royale exploding. Incessant shouts, grunts and groans filled the courtyard. Objects of packed white crystalline flakes crisscrossed the poorly lit sky and splattered with thudding resonance, sometimes to hit targets, more often not. Bending, scooping, compacting, launching, each scholar struggled on. Neither side gained any advantage.

For a time, the rows of students remained static. Then seniors and freshmen moved erratically, the lines themselves shifted, the rivalry between the two classes intensifying. Loaded with frustrations, the downtrodden freshmen had endured much under the seniors and now blamelessly strove to pay them back. Not wanting to lose to the lowly first-year students, the seniors retaliated in kind. Yet as the contest wore on, all those hostile feelings slowly drained away, replaced by youthful jubilation and fun.

Amid this frenetic activity, Luke skillfully flung snowballs hard and fast with both hands, yet avoided hurling any at Edward Thornton. Such precautions failed to protect him from the Englishman’s wrath. Having pinpointed Luke, Thornton loaded up the next snowball with rocks and forcibly threw it. Aware of the icy sphere’s flight, Luke dodged to the side just as it sailed his way.

The impact of the snowball did not generate the normal dull thud or splatter but rather a loud smashing reverberation. Having missed Luke, Thornton struck another target, a first-story window in the college building. The noise from the shattering glass scattered the students in every direction. Breaking windows violated another provision of college laws. In a state of shock, the Englishman lingered alone in the snow-covered yard. From an upper story of Connecticut Hall a voice commanded the night air. “Thornton, get up to my room immediately. I saw it all,” Tutor Baldwin said.

Caught in the act, Thornton could hardly evade guilt. Soon afterward the istration penalized him with a steep monetary fine and a one-week’s suspension from Yale. Thornton’s wounded ego festered, and his hatred for Luke only grew.

During the Christmas holidays, Luke went home for a short visit with friends and family. He saw Renee at her parents’ village house, but their time together was limited, and they were rarely left unchaperoned.

“Did you miss me?” She whispered to him on the sofa in the parlor.

“Yes, indeed,” Luke replied fervently. In her new maturity she seemed to him more voluptuous and sensitive.

“Your letters were beautiful,” she said. “I didn’t realize you could write so stylishly and with such feeling.”

“I had great inspiration. You were always in my thoughts.”

“Oh, Luke, you’ll make me conceited if you keep on like that.” She blushed. “But you sounded so lonely. You almost made me cry. I worry so about you.”

“Please don’t. School was difficult at first, but I am getting used to it. I’ll get by. Don’t concern yourself.”

“Paul is off to England, soon to attend Oxford. I only hope travel improves his disposition.”

“That’s what he always wanted, to see the Mother Country and go to school there. It should make him happy.”

“I don’t know. The truth is my brother was upset about many things before he departed. He insists the British are right about imposing new import duties and trade restrictions on the colonies. He and father even had a big argument the day he sailed.”

Never left alone for more than a few minutes at a time, Luke and Renee could not express their true feelings for each other, and any real intimacy between them could not flower. Still Luke returned to Yale refreshed and determined to succeed. Just being home with the crucial people in his life seemed enough to

restore the faith in himself and reset his bearings.

Typically, winter was dismal and dull for Yale students. The oppressing cold with sleet, snow and ice severely restricted outdoor activities and kept them chronically seeking warmth and comfort in poorly heated rooms. The season’s usual illnesses ran rampant. Luke’s popularity among the sickly scholars flourished when he applied native remedies to colds and fevers. Though the ingredients for these medicinal concoctions were sometimes hard to find, he managed in most cases to hasten a cure.

To pay debts from the French and Indian War, the British government continued to levy unpopular taxes and duties on the American colonies. The contest between Parliament and the colonies enlivened the students’ existence as they debated the constitutionality and political wisdom of Britain’s actions. In response, the colonies boycotted English goods, and this caused hardship for the scholars because they were deprived of many imported items to which they had become so accustomed. Despite sunken spirits, the seniors still gamely insisted on wearing homespun clothes even later in the year at graduation in protest against British policies.

One day, Thornton summoned Luke to his room. A feeling of dread took hold of Luke as he trudged up the stairs to the third floor of Connecticut Hall and knocked at the door. Thornton crisply ordered him in.

“Are all Indians as slow as you, Davidson, or is it something peculiar to your makeup?” Thornton gave a nasty chuckle.

Luke stayed silent.

“Not talking today, Davidson?” Thornton baited him. “Cat got your tongue, I see. Don’t you have an Indian name?” he sneered. “What is it, ‘Waddling Duck?’”

“Swift Fox,” Luke said proudly.

“By Jove, the name hardly suits you.” More irritable than usual, Thornton tapped a riding crop against his thigh. “Fetch some water and wood downstairs. When you return, start a fire and heat the water. You’re going to play scullery maid this afternoon and wash the floor. You understand, boy?”

“Indeed, sir.” Luke hurried out of the room.

He hoped doing these chores without complaining would satisfy the Englishman. If the servant-master game was played to perfection, everything should be fine. Back in Thornton’s room, Luke obeyed every command. He got down on all fours, with a brush and pail of hot water, and scrubbed the wide wooden boards. Occasionally, he would rise to move a piece of furniture and clean other portions of the floor. Thornton paced back and forth in beautiful black leather boots, rapping the riding crop in his hand. Every so often he would pause, inspect a space just washed, claim some imaginary speck of dirt and order Luke to redo that segment.

Luke obliged him each time. If Thornton was searching for signs of disobedience in this subject slave, he found none. Luke was playing the game too well for the Englishman’s taste. The failure to provoke him made the senior irate. Without warning, Thornton jumped on Luke’s bent back and whipped Luke’s legs with the riding crop. In one insane moment, Thornton had crossed the line to violate college laws. Luke shoved Thornton off his back, got to his feet and strode out, leaving Thornton sitting on the wet floor.

Furious and with the seat of his pants soaked, Thornton rushed after Luke, cursing loudly, his words resonating in the stairwell.

“Come back here, you bloody savage, and finish the job. It’ll be my word against yours. Don’t forget, seniors always win out in the end. Come back here, you damn fool.”

At 4:30 the next morning, Luke and Hull nimbly crept up the darkened stairs in Connecticut Hall, candled lanterns in hand. They quietly opened Thornton’s door and tiptoed across to the bed where he slept, snoring on one side. Luke tied a handkerchief across Thornton’s mouth as Hull shackled his hands and feet with cords. Thornton resisted but in vain. Luke and Hull blindfolded Thornton with a second handkerchief, then carried him out and down two flights of stairs.

Outside, they dropped Thornton on the hard ground beneath a large elm tree in the center of the college yard. Thornton violently twisted arms and legs to get free. Hull threw a rope over a thick branch and tied one end securely around the senior’s ankles. Together, the two freshmen pulled the loose end, stringing Thornton up feet-first. Hull climbed the elm’s trunk to secure the line to the branch. Thornton hung from the tree about five feet off the ground. His struggles only tightened the rope’s grip.

Luke stepped up to Thornton and waved a hunting knife before his eyes. “Bother me again,” he said in a low voice, “and I’ll gut you like a bear.” Luke rubbed the knife’s dull edge across Thornton’s mid-section for emphasis.

Thornton squealed and flinched away. His imagination ran wild, for he sensed the blade ripping the flabby stomach, insides spilling out and pints of blood

draining away.

“But you may get lucky.” Luke whispered, “I could be merciful and simply burn you at the stake.” He intended to neither gut Thornton nor burn him. He did, however, mean to shock Thornton into better behavior.

At sunrise, the ringing school bell heralded not only a bright, new day but also an extraordinary spectacle in the college yard. From the elm, the Englishman still hung upside down, fully shackled, muzzled and blindfolded. No one in the gathering crowd tried to cut him down – so transfixed were they by the sight – until Tutor Amos Botsford’s appearance when he ordered two seniors to release him.

Thornton became the laughingstock of the campus. Humiliated, he transferred to King’s College in Manhattan. Among his peers Luke’s reputation soared. Upperclassmen treated him with respect and dared not press him to run errands. This immunity from trimming had never been granted to any freshman before.

At year’s end, Luke had ed all academic subjects, having surmounted earlier obstacles through persistence and study. Now he actually aspired to return to Yale for the next term and eventually graduate.

CHAPTER VI - LATER COLLEGE YEARS

On a misty fall morning, a tall, rotund man in his middle forties strolled around the perimeter of the New Haven Green. Usually clad in a gown and wig, he refused at that hour to encumber himself with the uniform of his office. While seemingly on a rare constitutional, he was not walking for physical exercise. Instead he was meditating about a proposed Sunday sermon on Charity. Yet the walk itself invigorated him, making him feel younger and more alive. Known affectionately as ‘Tunker’ to the students, this president of Yale, Naphtali Daggett, was a confusing contradiction of a man. His conduct, jovial and affable, awkward and lethargic, resembled that normally expected from one of his bulk. Then like a pendulum he would swing nearly 180 degrees to act the part of a thin, energetic man. When a sense of humor deserted him, which happened sometimes, he became priggishly fastidious, petulant and tempestuous.

A radical deceptively clothed in conservative garb, Daggett unintentionally deceived many. Both conciliator and rebel, he tactfully assuaged the Connecticut legislators, the religious zealots and the discordant elements of the Yale community. At almost the same time from the pulpit and with a pen under an alias, he was savagely chastising the British government for the Stamp Act and its other ill-advised tax schemes.

Critics felt Daggett was the wrong man for the prestigious Yale presidency. Under the regime of Thomas Clapp, Daggett had been the college’s chaplain and professor of divinity. Two years earlier the tumultuous Clapp istration collapsed in a revolt of students against his rigid insistence on enforcing the most mundane rules and punishing infractions. Having reigned for more than twenty years, Clapp had personally shaped Yale into a prominent American institution of higher learning. Yet in the end a knack for picking fights and making enemies led to his downfall. Daggett succeeded him as acting president. While Clapp had been a tough, persistent disciplinarian, Daggett tended to be remote and lax. Unconcerned about student conduct, he left it for the tutors to sort out. This permissiveness suited Yale’s needs at that time.

When founded, the college’s primary mission was to train ministers for stewardship of new churches. But, alas, young preachers should know more than the scriptures and how to deliver sermons. As one of the few learned individuals in the community, a minister must possess a more well-rounded education. Yale had to prepare students for other vocations as well – law, medicine, business and academia. Apart from divinity studies, its scholars read the literature of ancient Latin and Greek cultures. Daggett understood and accepted this classical approach to education, while recognizing its shortcomings.

Over the years, Yale’s academic curriculum had been expanded to comprise: algebra, geometry, and trigonometry, metaphysics and ethics, plus astronomy. Albeit taught in England, Newtonian physics and Lockean ideas about government and society had not as yet taken root in American colleges. No modern foreign languages were offered to Yale students. Though grammar was studied, English literature and poetry had just recently been introduced. Daggett could not take direct credit for these reforms, but he tacitly permitted them. Spearheaded by the tutors, the new courses became popular with students and parents alike, further enhancing the president’s progressive reputation.

As he crossed the Green to the campus, Daggett almost ran into Luke, now a Yale junior. Luke greeted Daggett, doffed his hat and moved on without trying to converse. This scholar, the only Indian ever at the college, puzzled Daggett. According to the campus grapevine, he had achieved a special status among freshmen and the upperclassmen after the strange Thornton incident. From sophomore year on, Luke had completely ignored the tradition of hazing and actively protected freshmen from other upperclassmen, whenever he could. He seemed to be the only scholar who took Daggett’s pronouncements on that topic seriously. Or was Luke setting his own course, which just happened to coincide with Daggett’s?

Though not a brilliant scholar, Luke had garnered the tutors’ respect and iration. He was a natural leader and had effortlessly assembled a coterie of

bright, adventuresome students: three sophomores – the Hale brothers, Enoch and Nathan, and Ben Tallmadge, another junior – William Hull, and a senior, David Humphreys. Also drawn to this band came a new tutor, Timothy Dwight. Sometimes personally remote, Luke led more by deeds than words.

What truly confounded Daggett stemmed from Luke’s unique healing skills. Unofficially, Luke was acting as the college doctor despite initial resistance to native treatments. Rumors circulated he had been trained by an old tribal medicine man who healed with herbs. Many considered Luke better at tending fellow scholars than the regular college physician, who regularly prescribed leeches to extract troublesome blood. Uneasy, Daggett decided that Luke bore watching.

The new apothecary on Water Street near the bustling harbor was much larger and stocked many more varied goods than the old shop directly across from the New Haven Green. Typically, Luke purchased medicinal ingredients there, but that morning he sought something else. After ing the book section, he drifted by counters and shelves filled with ladies’ cosmetics and jewelry, then elaborate stationery, prints and maps. The proprietor, often away on his trading vessels in Canada and the Caribbean, today was minding the store. During his years at the college, Luke and he had become friendly, sharing a common interest in books and pharmaceutical mixtures. Broad shouldered and muscular, Benedict Arnold, now thirty years of age, reached five feet nine inches. A prominent nose and chin, a high forehead and intense gray eyes highlighted a handsome face.

“Good morning, Mr. Arnold,” Luke greeted him.

“Hello there, lad,” Arnold replied. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Indeed, I’ve been studying or you’ve been away on voyages. I’m here for those

new medical books you once told me about,”

“Which were they?”

“Those from London. One is on new surgical techniques for amputations and gunshot wounds, the other on delivering babies.

“Ah, yes.” Arnold nodded. “By God, you’re fortunate. They just came in yesterday.”

“Excellent.”

“They’re probably beyond your capability, lad. They are for real doctors.”

Luke was aware of the rumors about Arnold. Reputed to be volatile and badtempered, Arnold had initiated more than his share of lawsuits and dueling challenges from men who clashed with his abrasive personality. Having been treated decently by him, Luke ignored such gossip. Anyway he respected Arnold as a man of serious thought and action. Always improving his mind through reading, this hard worker diligently plied the trades of shipowner and storekeeper while still serving as captain of the local militia.

After purchasing the two books, Luke asked about Peruvian bark. “I’ve heard it reduces fever.”

“So it does. They’ve been using it for years in the Caribbean. I dare say it’s quite good.”

“I have four students who are suffering bouts of high fever. So I could use some right now if it truly reduces fever and cures the illness as well.”

“It works, but we’ve none in stock. It may be on the next sloop from Cuba. Then again, it may not. Those blasted ships take forever! Lollygagging crews. If I were captain, they be here in half the time.”

On his way back to the campus, Luke stopped to see if Manuel had returned from the West Indies. A good friend, he had taught Luke Spanish and bolstered him during his difficult freshman year. But prolonged knocking at the door of the Spaniard’s room went unanswered. Through the front window all appeared dark and quiet inside.

As Luke sauntered toward the college, he no longer had women to comfort him. Renee was off touring Europe with her mother. According to her letters, she planned to stay in England afterward for more than a year to polish social graces at a girls’ finishing school and become a sophisticated young lady. Her parents sought to better her education, and only Europe afforded her that opportunity. At least before, Luke had seen her on school vacations. Now the separation between them would be much longer, and she might never return home.

His flirtatious relationship with Dark Eyes had ended on the last visit to the mountain village. Aware of his continuing affection for Renee, Dark Eyes had made other plans.

“I am going to be the wife of Gray Cloud,” she said to Luke in a sad farewell at the waterfall. “My mother tells me I must marry and have babies.” Tears streaked her face, “I wanted you to be my husband, but you went off to the white man’s world, to the fair-haired girl and that school so far away. I know I have lost you.”

Subconsciously, Luke had always relied on Dark Eyes. Her beauty had often excited him. The simultaneous loss of Renee and Dark Eyes became a double shock to Luke’s psyche and upset him all the more.

On the oval-shaped oak table in Connecticut Hall, the playing cards slid among the mugs of hard cider and beer. Sitting at the table, four upperclassmen – Hull, Tallmadge, Luke, and Humphreys – each picked up cards and studied them. Humphreys acted as the dealer.

Tallmadge and Humphreys were both just under six feet tall, and sported long, straight patrician noses. Broad-shouldered with a lengthy torso, Tallmadge displayed a dry Yankee wit. Sandy-colored hair protruded from his scalp in disarray. More socially polished and tactful, David stood slope-shouldered but had a habit of putting on weight in the wrong places. At times his bulging, grey eyes cast mournful or surprised glances.

“Why do you always deal me such a rotten hand?” Hull asked Humphreys, whom he had known since boyhood in nearby Derby.

“It’s clearly God’s retribution for all your sins,” Tallmadge said.

Hull chuckled then took a swig of hard cider from the mug in front of him.

Sullen and silent, Luke studied the cards in hand while sipping beer.

“By God, what this group needs is an adventure … to perk it up,” Hull said.

“I think Luke craves something else,” Tallmadge revealed, “to rouse him from his stupor. Perhaps a new lady might help.”

“He’s too preoccupied with the precious Renee to even look at another woman.” Hull flashed a knowing wink. “That is at the root of his ailing.”

“You lads are too hard on the good doctor,” Humphreys responded, clearing his throat. “Let him suffer in peace if that’s what he wants.”

Playing cards with friends did little to ease Luke’s melancholy. He yearned for solitude. He felt sure fishing or paddling on the river in a canoe or hunting in the mountains would cure him.

“Listen, I have a capital idea,” Humphreys cleared his throat again. “My cousin Alice has invited me to tea with some college mates at the First Church on Sunday afternoon.”

“Then the three of us will draw and quarter Luke and drag him along,” Tallmadge said.

“Perhaps a genteel young lady will take pity and deign to speak with him,” Hull

teased. “We can only pray. The rest is in God’s hands.”

“Alice seeks a suitable match for her best friend – a tall, dark-haired lass,” said Humphreys. “My cousin constantly meddles in other people’s lives.”

“No one tall enough?” joked Tallmadge. “And beware of a girl’s best friend. They’ve disappointed me many a time.”

“Indeed, this girl always complains there’re not enough tall men to go around.” Humphreys shook his head. “But mind you, though tall, she is reputed to be quite pretty and charming.”

“It’s just like them. They always spoon out the honey to cover the wart.” Tallmadge was skeptical. “When, David, are you ever going to learn not to trust what one lady says about another?”

“Well, Luke,” Humphreys asked, “what sayest thou?” Will you go with us?”

“Why not?” Luke pondered out loud. “It has to be better than playing cards with this jabbering bunch.”

The meeting room of the First Church was hardly ornate. Puritan heritage dictated a drab plainness without frills. Anything more might have conjured up temptation, sin, and Satan at least in the minds of the church elders. Even the air had a slightly antiseptic smell. Throughout the room were placed two long wooden tables, seven straight back chairs and three benches. A large white

teapot sat in the middle of one table, surrounded by matching cups, saucers and plates. Two sizeable platters of bread and biscuits rested on the other, next to a row of fruit pies.

All in their late teens to mid- twenties, the men and women in attendance were attired in unstylish fashions as befitted the dictates of a Puritan upbringing. A chunky young woman, whose face and figure still inspired iring male glances, welcomed the newly arrived students. “Ah, my Yale men are here at last. David, please introduce me.” Humphreys obeyed her because he dared not to.

Alice Eaton was a born organizer. She had a plan for everything and everyone about her and the confidence to make her wishes come true in the shortest time. She directed two older churchwomen to serve the Yale gentlemen tea and edibles. Before they could take a bite, she had summoned three young ladies. It appeared prearranged. Because Luke was the tallest of the newcomers, he was introduced to Anne Rutherford.

At five feet eleven inches, Anne possessed a statuesque figure, artfully hidden by a long modest dress, a pleasant countenance and shoulder-length black hair. She reminded Luke of Dark Eyes. Anne’s smile was compelling. Its warm amiability drew Luke to her and virtually embraced him.

While the others drifted off, Luke stayed to speak to Anne.

“I’m convinced if Alice Eaton were a man, she would become a general in the British Army,” Anne said. “But she surely means well.”

“I know one man somewhat like her,” Luke said.

“And who would that be?”

“A business partner of my father’s, Henri Keppler. He is very organized and has definite leadership qualities.”

“And your father?”

“No, he is not that way. Though chief of our tribe, his manner is more subtle. With words he shows what is right or wrong, wise or foolish. Then if smart enough, the listener follows the light cast by his torch.” Luke was reluctant to it it, but he missed his father.

“You paint such a pleasant picture. The way you speak, you must hold him in great esteem.”

“Indeed, I do.”

Her scent, a lilac flavor, beguiled him.

At her suggestion, they moved to a corner of the room to sit in adjacent chairs. She asked about Yale, and Luke recounted personal impressions of the tutors, the library and student body.

“What do you intend to do after college?” she gently asked.

He pondered a while. “I am considering medicine.”

“Ah, a doctor! Yes, that is a noble profession. And I thought you might want to be a minister or missionary. God knows we have enough of them.”

Luke laughed and in so doing released the last of his nervousness. A religious skeptic in a staunchly Puritan church! How refreshing! She pleased him. Beneath her soft, yielding femininity was a perceptive intelligence with unconventional ideas not only on religion but local government and state politics. It made her even more appealing.

To Anne, Luke seemed so different, a romantic figure from another country. For a woman sometimes ashamed of her own height, he offered hope and refuge. Too often she had towered over male friends. In his company her selfconsciousness vanished, and she expressed opinions without restraint, encouraged by his indulgent manner.

By the end of the tea, Anne had broken through Luke’s self-imposed shell to banish visions of Renee and Dark Eyes for the time being. Having established an instant rapport, the couple knew they would see each other again. Except for an appreciative farewell to Alice Eaton, he had not spoken to any of the other young ladies present.

“So, Luke found the tall, dark one quite fetching,” Hull teased him as the group

trod back across the Green to the campus.

“The woman could not resist his native charm,” Tallmadge said. “At least he didn’t bore her with those hunting stories.”

Luke smiled, but kept silent.

Humphreys changed the subject. “Beware, Hull. I think Alice Eaton has her sights set on you.”

“No, no,” Hull replied, “it’s that imagination of yours run amok.”

“David, I do believe you’re right,” Tallmadge said. “Alice devoted so much time to Bill. More, no doubt, than he deserves.”

“There’s a woman who sees an objective, plans her strategy, and takes action,” Humphreys said.

Hull shrugged.

As the school year wore on, Luke realized how well he had adjusted to Yale. While he still had to study, academic subjects came much easier. Popular among students, he had many more friends. Certainly, life as an upperclassman seemed much better than that of the lonely freshman year, for by now he had been accepted as an educated gentleman. Yet college was more complicated than

living in New Paltz ever had been.

With the extended absences from his village, Luke’s Indian roots slowly diminished in strength. He was pulled more and more into the white world. At times this worried him. He longed to hunt with his uncle, collect herbs in the woods with Great Healer, and enjoy family and tribal gatherings. Lengthy stays at the college on occasions made him feel insecure and anxious.

That mid-April evening the gathering in Connecticut Hall was abnormally large for the Linonia Society. Usually, only attended its orations, poetry readings, and debates in the staid lecture room. But tonight the public at large had been invited to a play. Not officially sanctioned by the college, the society’s intellectual pursuits were just being absorbed into Yale’s curriculum as the forces of reform actively promoted an appreciation for belles lettres.

A newly written play, the ‘West Indian,’ was to be performed by the students and a few lady friends. Luke and Anne sat together, waiting for it to begin, along with William Hull, Alice Eaton, and Enoch Hale. Ben Tallmadge, a member of the younger rival literary society, ‘Brothers in Unity,’ sat across the aisle. Two freshmen doused the candles mounted on the walls. As the darkness embraced the hall, a small bell rang behind the long crimson curtain on the makeshift stage.

“This will be the first play performed in New Haven,” Alice said. “It is surely a privilege to attend.”

“I do hope it is good.” Anne had been disappointed before by musical recitals and concerts and so tended to be critical of artistic performances.

The curtain rose slowly, the light from the candles on stage glistening. Dressed in an officer’s uniform, one performer dominated the first act: a tall, athleticlooking man with a fair complexion, blue eyes and short blond hair. He delivered his lines with an assuredness that brought the leading role to life. The other actors and actresses, clad in full regimentals or elegant dresses, were far less accomplished. The play told the tale of a British officer who lived on an island in the West Indies and defended his family and their property against the thieving schemes of the villain. It drew enthusiastic applause from the audience as the first act ended.

“I must say your brother was superb!” Hull told Enoch.

“Yes, he does have a flair for dramatic gestures, doesn’t he?”

“Nathan, as usual, displays great form,” Luke agreed. “I often wonder how he became so skilled.”

“Yes, and he is so handsome,” Alice observed. “With whom can we match him?”

“You shouldn’t be so direct, Alice. People will think poorly of you,” Anne chastised. “Ladies are not supposed to compliment or scheme about gentlemen in public that way—at least not according to my parents.”

“Nonsense! I can say whatever I want as long as it is decent.”

Laughing at the girls, Hull asked Luke, “How did you do against Nat on the

Green today? He can be a tough competitor at times.”

“Well enough,” Luke said.

“What were you doing?” Alice asked. “Pray tell.”

“They have endless contests,” Enoch replied. “Running and jumping. Whoever runs the fastest or longest or jumps the farthest is deemed the victor.”

“Tell us who won today, Luke,” Anne prodded. “Come on.”

Luke wrinkled his brow but offered no response.

“When it comes to athletic events, the doctor rarely loses,” Hull said. “Everyone knows that on this campus.”

The lights went out, and the curtain rose for the last act. Two characters, Damon and Clara, sweetly sang a musical duet. Afterward other players clashed in a sword fight. The rapid movement of arms and legs plus flashing blades filled the stage. At last a pistol shot rang out. The villain succumbed to the thrust from the hero’s sword, the character played by Nathan. His eloquent epilogue delivered, the play ended. With the curtain as a backdrop, the actors and actresses gathered on stage to a prolonged ovation from the standing audience.

During senior year, Luke saw Anne as much as his academic schedule and

college activities allowed. Because of social strictures, they rarely met alone but instead had to contend with mutual friends or family. Many a rendezvous happened at the Eaton household, where Alice held court. Occasionally, Luke visited Anne at home. There, among inquisitive siblings, she would serve Luke tea, stroll in the garden with him, and sing and play the spinet.

At first uneasy about an Indian courting her daughter, Jennifer still treated Luke graciously and hospitably. He brought fresh flowers or imported cosmetics and toiletries, purchased at Arnold’s emporium, to both of them on each visit. Sometimes, he would give Mrs. Rutherford written recipes for Indian dishes from his village. Jennifer seemed delighted with all such gifts. Eventually, he won her over with his good manners, generosity and status as a Yale student.

One January evening in 1771 outside the Eaton’s imposing three-story brick house, Luke grasped a large leather satchel as he rapped the sturdy oak door with the brass knocker. Anne opened the door and quickly pulled him inside. The instant transition from the coldness of the winter’s darkness to the house’s warmth stimulated his senses yet made him feel comfortable and secure. Greeted by a lingering kiss on his cheek in the entryway, he let her gradually pull him into the well-lit parlor. At that moment – stunning and regal in a long, red satin dress with flowing dark hair – she took his breath away.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” Anne said. “What’s in that satchel? You aren’t spoiling us again?”

“Just a few trifles from my village. Nothing special.”

“Indian curios, how delightful! We never see them in ‘sophisticated’ New Haven.” She called to the next room, “Mother, mother, come see what Luke has brought us from the wilds of the New York mountains.”

Her two younger brothers and a sister rushed into the parlor, followed moments later by Anne’s parents, Jennifer and Thomas Rutherford. Bowing, Luke hailed them all by name before Jennifer welcomed him for the family. Her father nodded briefly.

Jennifer’s gleaming white teeth accentuated the jolly smile on her cute countenance. Thomas, long in face, gaunt in body with large feet, had a reputation for being persnickety and pettifogging.

Luke, sitting down in a high-back upholstered chair, swung the satchel on top of a footstool. Anne and her parents were seated on the lengthy sofa across from him while the children, wide-eyed and curious, crowded around the ottoman. Luke opened the satchel.

“Now, what do we have here?” He removed two corn husk dolls, one in the form of a brave, the other a maiden, and handed them to Ruth, Anne’s sister.

“Luke, they’re so beautiful. Oh, thank you.” With a wide grin, she hugged the dolls, then held them above her head and danced in a circle. “Won’t the girls in school be envious?”

To the lads, he gave a pair of small bows and quivers filled with feathered arrows tipped with hardened clay. The brothers, Daniel and John, whooped and hollered, already targeting objects destined for destruction.

“Now, boys, what do you say to Luke?” asked Jennifer.

“Thank you,” they responded in unison.

“Well done,” Mrs. Rutherford said.

For Thomas, Luke had brought a pair of deerskin moccasins lined with goose down and a fashionable beaver hat. Although apparently impressed with their quality, her father seemed reluctant to accept the gifts. With some urging from his wife, he tried on the moccasins, then the hat.

“They do look good on you, dear,” she said. “Now you’ll have a warm head and warm feet all winter. That was very thoughtful of you, Luke.”

He could not understand Thomas and had trouble talking to him. A successful lawyer, the man was cold and aloof and rarely spoke more than a few words. Almost begrudgingly, the father mumbled thanks before he quietly slipped out of the room to fetch a glass of Madeira. His presents were abandoned on the sofa.

Like a magician extracting surprises from a mysterious box, Luke next pulled out an embroidered broadcloth shawl and a small basket woven from black ash splints for Mrs. Rutherford. She thanked him profusely.

“Well, that’s it,” he said, “The whole kit and caboodle.” He closed the satchel, intentionally neglecting Anne.

“Heavens to Betsy,” she pouted. “You mean you failed to get me anything?

That’s inexcusable.”

“I must have forgotten.” Luke grinned. “What was your name again, young lady?”

Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. “You can’t who I am after all we’ve meant to each other. How ungrateful and ungallant!”

Luke shook the satchel, then put it beside an ear to hear something rattling. “There still may be a few items left over.” He opened the bag once more. “Close your eyes, Anne, and say, `Great Spirit, wise and true, this maiden will not rest until she too has received her bounty.”

Anne repeated his exact words.

Luke reached into the satchel to pluck out a soft deerskin dress, bejeweled with semi-precious stones and colorful beads. Anne opened her eyes and gasped.

“Oh, mercy me, it’s exquisite. Luke, you shouldn’t have.”

“Go try it on, dear,” Mrs. Rutherford said, “and see if it fits.”

Anne rushed to the privacy of a bedroom and soon returned wearing the deerskin dress, her hair now tied in two unbraided pigtails. The dress fit perfectly.

To Luke, Anne resembled the beautiful Indian maiden of myth. How he yearned to lift her up in his arms and carry her off to his lodge.

“Close your eyes again,” he told her, “and this time be silent. The Great Spirit hears your thoughts directly and has ordered the medicine man to do your bidding.” He reached into the satchel, drew out a shiny object, walked behind Anne and fastened it to her neck.

Her eyes now open, she touched the gift, a wrought silver necklace, then hastened to a mirror hanging on the parlor wall. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, my Indian Prince. It’s absolutely gorgeous.” After further glances at her reflection, she pivoted to embrace and kiss Luke.

“Dear me,” her mother said, “Anne, you shouldn’t do that. Your Puritan ancestors will rise from their graves in protest and what’ll your father say?” Her brothers and sister clapped in hearty approval.

Hull knew he was late, but it was unavoidable. After dinner at her family’s house, Alice Eaton had insisted he stay much longer than he had intended. She couldn’t easily be denied. Hurrying along the edge of the New Haven Green, Hull’s thoughts lingered momentarily on Alice, then shifted to the friends who waited for him at De Beer’s. In the quasi-darkness he crossed the street near the campus to barge into the tavern.

At the far end of the barroom, four familiar figures circled a round wooden table. Waving, one stood to beckon him. As Hull approached their table, Enoch and Nathan, Tallmadge and Luke emerged amidst the cigar and pipe smoke curling about them. Mugs of ale, beer and hard cider crowded the table’s surface.

Humphreys was absent. Having graduated the previous year, he was teaching school in Wethersfield, Connecticut.

“What kept you?” Enoch asked. “As if we didn’t know.”

“It is simple enough,” Tallmadge said. “Alice Eaton has him in her unrelenting grasp.” Cupping his hand to an ear, “I hear wedding bells in the not-so-distant future.”

“Never,” Hull declared. “Look here, life has too much to offer before I get bogged down with marriage. Anyway, times are too unsettled. The British Parliament seeks our misery. It fails to grasp we wish to be left alone.”

“I hear tell Alice’s mother is pressing for a commitment,” Tallmadge said. “Keep in mind daughters sooner or later become their mothers.” He wagged a finger at Hull.

A buxom barmaid sauntered up to the table in a low-cut blouse. “What will you have to drink, sir? There’s a new ale just arrived from Groton.”

“Bring it here, sweet lass, and give me a taste.”

Hull patted her rump. She giggled and pushed his hand aside.

“Hull, with graduation a month away,” Tallmadge asked, “have you made any

decisions about your career?”

“No, I cannot make up my mind, I’m somewhere between law and the ministry. But Luke has. It’s medicine for sure.”

“That’s no surprise,” Tallmadge said. “After years of tending to the ailments of all those ungrateful, loutish students.”

“Where and with whom will you apprentice, Luke?” inquired Nat.

“I’m not, at least for the next few years,” Luke replied. “I’ve just been accepted by the medical school at the University of Edinburgh.”

“In Scotland?” Enoch asked. “That’s wonderful.”

“Indeed, it is.” Luke had surprised himself by applying to a school so far away. The distance from his village would be even greater than it was now, but that did not seem to bother him.

“Congratulations,” said Nat. “But that means you’ll be gone for a long time.”

“What about you and Anne?” asked Enoch. “You cannot just leave her, high and dry.”

“Tis a very complicated matter,” Hull intimated. “With no easy solution.”

Luke realized his feelings for Anne were never in doubt. From their first meeting, she had captivated him. Renee’s long sojourn in Europe and Dark Eyes’ marriage had freed him from all prior commitments. Recently, Renee had written him a letter, apologetically telling him about her engagement to a British Army officer. Happy for her, Luke had no regrets. Though seemingly so confident, Anne had not pressured him about marriage.

“What’s so complicated?” asked Nat. “After all this time, either they wed or they don’t. I venture it would be Luke’s good fortune if she accepted his proposal.”

“It’s just not that simple,” Hull explained. “Her mother is on his side, but the father, Luke believes, doesn’t want an Indian for a son-in-law, no matter what his credentials or prospects are. He cannot stand the thought of half-breed grandchildren. Isn’t that so, Luke?”

“Her father has not quite put it that way, but there have been subtle … obstacles thrown in our path.” Courting white women was always fraught with peril.

“Edinburgh?” Nat posed.

“No, he doesn’t know about that. But my going to Scotland complicates things. I cannot ask her to wait for me all those years. That wouldn’t be fair. We should marry and go abroad together or …”

“What?” Tallmadge asked.

“Go their separate ways without any obligations and with many regrets,” Hull concluded.

“Alas, tis a dilemma filled with so much emotion,” Nat lamented. “God knows they love each other”

On the other side of the tavern Manuel drank with four boisterous shipmates that evening. When on his feet to stretch, he spotted Luke and walked over to the table.

“How you are, Luke?”

“Well, very well indeed.” Luke stood to welcome him with a hearty hand-shake. “And you?”

“Muy bien. I get back today from Hispaniola. It was rough, but I live. Mucho storms.” He threw up his hands, then made the sign of the cross. “Where you been? No see you for long time even when I was in port.”

“He has been a-courting,” Hull interjected. “He devotes all his free time to the lass—properly chaperoned, naturally.”

“I hope she is beautiful,” said Manuel.

“Si, muy Hermosa,” confirmed Luke.

“Bueno. I am happy for you.”

A sailor from his table swaggered over to them and tapped him on the shoulder from behind. “Give me the five pounds you owe me. I want to buy more rounds of rum for me and the boys.”

“No, amigo, it is no five pounds. It is five shillings.” Manuel went into his pocket, pulled out the coins and gave them to the sailor.

The sailor grabbed them and threw them on the floor. “Don’t try to cheat me, you dirty Spaniard. I want all my money now.”

Manuel held up his hands, trying to placate the shipmate. “Too much to drink. You forget. Go home, get sleep. Tomorrow, better.”

The sailor raised a hand to strike him. Luke grabbed his arm just as it was about to collide with Manuel’s neck.

“You bastard,” the shipmate shouted.

Luke twisted the man’s arm behind his back and tried to hold it there, but

slipping free, the sailor threw a punch at him. Luke ducked then tripped him.

“Fight, fight!” shouted the workmen at the next table.

A crowd gathered around the combatants. Luke jumped on top of the sailor who lay sprawled on the floor face down. He swiftly bent one of the seaman’s legs to pin it and an arm to his back. Dazed, the sailor remained immobile.

Another sailor from Manuel’s table charged Tallmadge as he rose from a chair and roughly shoved him backward. With a raised fist, he was poised to pound him. Other patrons were shouting and scuffling when a loud noise overwhelmed the hubbub. In hasty strides toward the center of the action, the tavern’s proprietor, a large, heavy-set man with a trimmed black beard, toted two doublebarreled pistols, one puffing smoke.

“Enough is enough,” he shouted. “The next man strikes another will be getting some lead. Do ya hear me?” The proprietor hovered over Luke and said, “Son, let that man up.”

Luke obeyed. As the sailor staggered to his feet, the proprietor leaned against him and stuck a pistol’s double barrels under his nostrils.

“I saw the whole thing,” he said. “Ya started it alright. You are a skunk, plain as the nose on my face. Get your trouble-making carcass out of my tavern and don’t ya dare come back.” As the sailor turned to leave, the proprietor gave him a swift kick in the buttocks. “You college lads have a free round on the house a’comin’,’” he bellowed, all the while proud of his peace-keeping in a return to the bar.

Resuming their seats, the patrons settled down to drink and converse again. When the ale came to the table, Tallmadge proposed a toast, “To our brother in arms, would that powers of persuasion on hard-headed fathers be as great as those wrestling skills.”

“Hear, hear!” cheered the other scholars in unison.

After leaving De Beers, the college men were anything but sober. The last round of ale had sealed their fate. Dillydallying on the street, in front of the tavern, the students felt invigorated. Not ready to retire for the night, they sought another adventure. Until Tallmadge spoke, no one imagined what that would be. Across the road towered Daggett’s residence, an object worthy of their talents. But upon reflection the group hazily targeted a smaller building in the yard – the presidential outhouse. As leader, Tallmadge put the two Hale brothers on one end and Luke and Hull on the other. In a strenuous push with shoulders and hands, they grunted and groaned. At last the shed lifted off the stone foundation to topple on its side.

“Oh, what an odor,” Enoch cried. “It’s mighty overpowering.”

“Daggett’ll have plenty of fresh air when he relieves himself.” Tallmadge held his nose.

“Better yet,” said Hull, “he’ll be displaying himself to all those who by. No more privacy.”

“That’s against the law,” Nat declared. “Bet he has lost a pretty shilling and some gold pieces from pants’ pockets in that smelly old hole.”

They all laughed and whooped.

Shortly a light flickered in a second-story window of Daggett’s house. The sash rapidly elevated, and the faint figure of Daggett in a tasseled nightcap, a lit candlestick in hand, popped out ominously. “Who’s making all that racket down there?” he shouted, unable to spot the vandals’ handiwork in the darkness.

The band of young men instantly dispersed. Back across the street they sprinted onto the campus. Before they entered Connecticut Hall, Hull streaked to the site of the college bell. Shoving it as hard as he could, the clanging resonated throughout the grounds. Candlelight shone in the Hall as the tutors roused themselves, but the guilty parties fled, never to be seen or discovered by the authorities. The outhouse and bell incident would remain their mutual secret for a lifetime, resurrected periodically at personal gatherings.

In the library of the Rutherford home, Thomas studied a client’s last will and testament. The top of his flat, dark oak desk was organized with quill pens, paper in neat piles, an inkwell and packets of ink powder. A volume of Blackstone’s Commentaries lay open on the only bare space. He looked up as Jennifer entered the room.

She hesitated. “Dear, I would like to discuss something. It may be an unpleasant topic.”

“Good woman, can’t you see I’m working?” Head bowed, he clucked a tongue.

“Is it important enough to disturb me?”

“Yes, I believe so.” She dabbed at her brow with a white handkerchief. “It’s about our oldest daughter’s future. Is that critical enough?”

That got his attention. He set his work aside. “My dear, what’s bothering you?”

“Luke Davidson has proposed to Anne, and she has accepted.”

“You mean the Indian?”

“I mean the Yale senior, soon-to-be medical doctor. Anne wants to marry him.”

“He has actually proposed?” Thomas drew his right hand into a fist. “What gall! It’s simply out of the question. Unthinkable.”

“Why not, dear? Anne truly loves him.”

“Just imagine what our friends would say. She’s marrying an Indian, for goodness sakes. Couldn’t she do any better than that? And their children! What will they look like? Horrors!”

“I don’t care what others think,” Jennifer said emphatically. “I like him. He’s an

educated, Christian gentleman, not a savage. He’s kind and thoughtful and will treat her with respect.”

“But he is going to Scotland after graduation for God knows how long.”

“So they’ll wed and go together.”

“We wouldn’t see her for years. You know how much you would miss her. She means everything to both of us.”

“I could endure it, if I knew she was happy and secure.” Jennifer came toward him. “She wants your blessing, Thomas, and Luke intends to ask you formally for her hand.”

“Save your breath. She’ll not get it, come hell or high water!”

Sunny and temperate, September 10, 1772 was highly fitting for Yale’s annual commencement. Traditionally, the commencement meant a gala for the college, the New Haven community and the Connecticut colony. The governor, legislature and clergy attended the event, which usually ran for five days. The many celebrations gave the partygoers a good excuse to loosen their Puritanical fetters – all over town the intake of alcoholic beverages increased.

For Luke, the affair had even greater significance. He was excited that his parents and Henri and Marie Keppler had sailed to New Haven for graduation in Henri’s large new sloop. It was their first trip to the college, and he wanted them

to meet Anne.

As usual, Yale’s commencement was held on the New Haven Green. Arrayed in black gowns and hats, every senior sat in a reserved section. The ceremonies started with a procession of tutors, professors and dignitaries, led by Daggett. In black robes with black and purple ribbons hanging from sleeves, white wigs and black tasseled hats, they marched through the gathering to positions of honor on the dais. Daggett carried a long brass scepter, crowned with an ornate white knob to symbolize the authority of his office.

Selected of the graduating class treated the audience to orations, debates and poetry readings. Some were rendered in English, others in Latin. Having surprisingly graduated with honors, Hull delivered an English oration. Impressed with Hull’s performance, Luke felt a sense of relief he himself had not been one of the chosen few. At long last, Daggett awarded the undergraduate degrees as each student marched up to the dais to receive his own document in Latin. Absolutely elated, Luke happily shook hands with classmates and embraced Anne.

“How marvelous!” she said. “You’ve done it!”

“Not without you.” Luke kissed her seemingly forever. His parents and the Kepplers stood close by, proudly looking on and ready to congratulate him.

Afterward, both Henri and Luke spoke to Thomas about the proposed marriage, but neither could get him to consent to it. Frustrated, Luke suggested to Anne that they elope, but she refused. Unconventional in other ways, she still wanted a proper church wedding in the presence of an approving family

CHAPTER VII - INITIAL UNRAVELING

The van traveled east on the interstate at nearly 70 mph, slowing as it approached the eight-lane, double-span of steel girders and concrete arched across the timeless Hudson. The speed limit for the bridge was only forty mph, but virtually all the vehicular traffic ignored it and charged ahead over the waterway whose persistent flow temporally recorded events along its course. Small reductions in speed only occurred as idle gestures to any lurking state troopers. After paying the toll on the far side, Cal Owens quickly accelerated to seventy mph again and pressed the van’s cruise control button.

That Saturday morning in late October, Brad, Debbie and Cal’s wife, Sarah, accompanied Cal.

“I’m really looking forward to this football game,” said Brad, “but I hope Jed gets in. It would be a shame to go all the way to New Haven and not see him play.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll need him,” Cal replied. “Yale’s record is far from reassuring. Anyway, Dartmouth is always a tough opponent, and this year it has an outstanding halfback.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Sitting in the front enger seat, Brad stretched his legs and straightened his tan windbreaker.

On the old concrete pavement in the far right-hand lane of the highway, the van bounced along like a stagecoach crossing the western plains. The road’s flaws

stemmed from an inadequate foundation, improper design and excessive truck loads.

The van exited the interstate and sped south over a two-lane country road. An hour later, it pulled into a long unpaved lane across from the Yale Bowl and drove by a single-story, stone building.

“This is parking lot D.” Brad directed Cal to turn right. “We’re looking for a Red Volvo with blue balloons tied to its aerial.”

After a ten-minute tour of the grassy field, they found the vehicle along a row of cars at the far end. An empty space had been reserved for them directly adjacent to it.

Cal parked the van. Brad jumped out and shook hands with the couple who stood next to the Volvo. He introduced the Owens’ to Cyrus and Elizabeth “Bess” Eaton, parents of one of Jed’s roommates. Everyone soon pitched in to set up the tables and chairs and lay out the food and beverages for the tailgate party. An ideal fall day, there was plenty of sunshine, a cool breeze and clouds that resembled swirls of whipped cream.

Brad fetched the ice bucket from the van. “Bar’s open for business. What will you have, Bess?”

“Vodka Gimlet on the rocks with a twist.” She was a trim, well-coifed blonde in a gray woolen suit.

“Make mine the same.” Cyrus was tall and gray-haired. A bow-tie bulged from his neck above a brown tweed sports jacket with leather patches at the elbows and upper chest.

After eight generations at the college, the Eatons could qualify as a Yale dynasty. Cyrus had been the fourth in a row who prepped at St. Pauls, then matriculated at Yale. If any blue bloods were still left in this country, the Eatons embodied charter . Their Puritan ancestors had originally settled New Haven. Part of the wealthy eastern establishment, Cyrus served as a senior partner in a prestigious private banking firm on Wall Street. Bess, a product of Fox Croft and Bryn Mawr, could trace her ancestry back to William Penn, the Quaker founder of Pennsylvania and its first colonial governor.

The McClains had met the Eatons at a few college functions since their sons had become good friends and roommates. Though clearly from different backgrounds, they, like their sons, hit it off. To Brad and Debbie, the Eatons were a gregarious and lively couple of the same generation with similar parental concerns.

Brad mixed drinks for Debbie and the Owens while the ladies dished out the food – pasta and bean salads, roasted turkey and chicken salad sandwiches on sourdough bread, fresh vegetables, cole slaw, and dill pickles.

“Isn’t this a grand day?” Bess said. “The weather, the crowd, the festiveness of it all.”

A wandering Dixieland band parked itself four cars away. The musicians wore flat straw hats, festooned with yellow ribbons, navy blue and white striped blazers and red pants. Dark blue and white are Yale’s colors. A combo of a trombone, trumpet, bass fiddle and drums belted out ‘The Saints Go Marching

In.’ Along with other couples in the vicinity, the Eatons and Owens began to dance. The bass drum had the image of Yale’s bulldog mascot, ‘Handsome Dan,’ emblazoned on it. From the ‘Saints’ the combo gracefully slid into ‘Camptown Races,’ then ‘Little Brown Jug’ before moving on to spread the good cheer elsewhere. In their wake they left energized football fans.

A stretch limo pulled up in the same row. The chauffeur set up a long table with a luxurious white linen tablecloth and surrounded it with chairs. On the table, he placed two sets of silver candlesticks and silver platters piled high with hors d’oeuvres. A bottle of French champagne rested in a sterling silver bucket filled with ice. The chauffeur opened the limo’s rear doors, and three formally dressed couples emerged to sit in the chairs and partake of the food and champagne. From the front of the limo, a man in a tuxedo stood to play classical music on a violin.

This lavish display transfixed Brad. He could not stop grinning and staring.

“Weird group.” Debbie wrinkled her nose in disapproval.

“Ostentatious,” Bess said.

“What about another drink?” Cal asked, breaking Brad’s trance.

“Sure,” Brad said. “That was Scotch and soda, right?”

“You’ve got it.”

Just as they began to eat, five Yale students strolled up to the van. In the lead was Thomas Eaton, the tall, handsome son of Cyrus and Bess. Three attractive co-eds, April, Heather and Melissa and another of Jed’s roommates, Pablo Castellino, a Chilean, also ed them. After introductions, Brad welcomed them with offers of beer and wine, and Debbie served them lunch. The animated students ate and drank while conversing with the oldsters.

As the game was about to start, the tables, bars and grills were disassembled and stowed with the food and beverages. Streams of alumni, students and guests made their way from the parking lots toward the Bowl in tweeds, plaids, woolens and furs. The noise and excitement from the tailgate parties overflowed to the arena.

Erected in 1914, the Yale Bowl had changed little during the intervening years. Completely open without any overhead cover or tiers, the huge concrete structure has a seating capacity of about seventy thousand. It was appropriately named for its shape. Long rows of concrete benches circle the Bowl interrupted by aisles rising at a steep angle from field level to a height of almost one hundred fifty feet. Men busily collected tickets from the hordes of fans, pushing through the gates. With perfect seats, the older of the McClain party sat ten rows above the playing field on the 50-yard line. Tom Eaton and his friends sat with their class in another section.

“Do you think Jed will play today?” Bess asked.

“He has a chance,” Brad replied, “but the coach will mostly stick with the firststring quarterback, a senior having more experience and familiarity with the plays.”

“That’s too bad.” Cyrus puffed on his pipe. “Tom tells me Jed had an outstanding record in high school.”

“Yes, he did.” Brad confirmed. “Yet he may play today because of recent injuries to the team’s second and third string quarter-backs.”

“The Elis need a real spark plug to get them going,” Cyrus said.

On the field, the Yale band marched along the far sidelines playing John Philip Sousa’s ‘The Stars and Stripes.’ On the Yale side, cheerleaders, a mixture of acrobatic males and coeds, were warming up the crowd. When at last the Dartmouth and Yale football players raced out on to the field, the fans for both teams clapped and yelled. Dartmouth won the coin-toss and elected to receive. The game began as both teams lined up for Yale to kick off. The Elis stopped the Big Green ball carrier on its twenty-yard line. During most of the first quarter, neither team could achieve a first down. At the end of the half Dartmouth led 14 to 6.

Brad remained restless and tense through the half-time performances of the Dartmouth and Yale bands. Sensing he was upset, Debbie tried to calm him so he would enjoy the festivities. Yet Brad was having none of it. He brooded about the Yale quarterback dominating the action and not playing as well as his son could. Seniority, he itted to himself, had its limitations. “Don’t worry so much,” Debbie whispered to him, “Jed will get his turn.” At last, he smiled again and talked to Cyrus and Cal about game outcomes.

Dartmouth kicked off to begin the last half. After two first downs, the Eli offense sputtered and died on the fifty-yard line. Still, it was a battle of defenses as neither offensive unit could make much headway. Seven minutes into the third quarter, Yale’s quarterback, taking the hike from the center, drifted back to look

for an open receiver. Spotting a left end in the flat, he fired a just before a Dartmouth linebacker broke through, hit him head on and roughly dumped him on the ground. The receiver dropped the .

In hushed silence the crowd waited for the quarterback to get up, but he laid on the turf, obviously hurt. The referee called a timeout before the Yale coaches and trainer rushed out on the field to aid the injured player. After a brief examination, the trainer signaled the bench for a stretcher. Yale’s hopes of victory appeared to slip away as the unconscious quarterback was carried toward the locker room.

On the sideline, the head coach called over Jed McClain, who had started warming up as soon as the first-string quarterback had been mauled. “Listen, Jed, go in there and move this team down the field,” he urged. “Nothing fancy. We know you’re talented. Let’s just get our running game going.”

Jed scampered out on the field. It was second down with Yale still lagging behind. In the huddle he called a draw. As the two teams lined up, he put his hands between the center’s legs, yelled the numbers over the crowd’s roar and took the football. Jed ran back, pretending to , then handed the pigskin furtively to the fullback who charged through the opening in the defensive line. It must have been a convincing fake because a Dartmouth guard tackled Jed without the ball. The play gained ten yards for Yale and a first down.

“That’s the way to start,” Cyrus shouted, his red face brightening.

Instead of relaxing now that his son finally ran the offense, Brad seemed more tense. In his mind’s eye he was playing Jed’s position. “Let’s hope he can keep it up.” Brad bit his lip. Stopped at the Dartmouth fifteen-yard line on fourth down, Jed called for a field goal. The Eli kicker barely arched the ball over the goalpost. The score was now 14 to 9 with Yale gaining.

In a burst of excitement, the Eli loyalists could feel the game’s momentum shifting their way. Almost spontaneously they began the Wave through the stands. In seemingly choreographed fashion, sections of fans stood and raised arms in sequence throughout the Bowl. The enthusiasm quickly waned as the former Indians came charging back. With a mixture of rushing and ing plays, Dartmouth’s offense rapidly brought the ball up the field toward the Yale goalpost. In a brilliant run from the twenty-yard line, its star halfback skillfully evaded tacklers and closely followed blockers into the end zone. The score stood at 21 to 9 in the Big Green’s favor at the end of the third quarter.

Still under orders to run the football, Jed felt severely handicapped. Occasionally, the coach would let him throw short es but only if he used his right arm. With this conservative approach, Yale made several first downs but could not put points on the board. The score remained unchanged in the middle of the last quarter. Unaware of the coach’s plan, Brad grew more dissatisfied with his son’s handling of the offense. “Why doesn’t he more?”

After returning a Dartmouth punt to its thirty-yard line, the Bulldogs got fired up. At last, the Eli coach unleashed Jed to let him call his own plays and urged him to go long when opportune. During a time out on the field, a commotion occurred in the stands when four male Eli students stripped naked in the coolness of the late afternoon to momentarily divert many Yale ers.

On first down Jed rolled out to the right and fired a twenty yard completion to the right end. During the next play, he rolled to the left and ran the ball himself for fifteen yards before going out of bounds. Things were now starting to hum, Jed thought, he sensed a momentum building. In the stands, Brad’s dissatisfaction evaporated and he wildly cheered his son and the Yale team on.

During the huddle, Jed called another pattern. This time he sought to go all

the way. Faking a hand-off to a halfback, he drifted back, avoided a charging Dartmouth linebacker breaking through the limited protection, and hurled a long to a wide receiver. The Dartmouth safety was covering him closely until the descended. Then the Yale player leapt, snagged the ball and crossed the goal line.

The bowl erupted with booming noises from the drummers in the Yale band and shouts of celebrating fans. Once the extra point was made, Dartmouth led Yale by only 21 to 16. There was just four minutes left. The Yale band played “March on Down the Field” and “Bulldog, Bulldog” as the Eli fans belted out the lyrics.

After the kick-off Dartmouth returned the ball to its twenty-five yard line. Staying with a rushing game, the Big Green offense managed merely one first down in two series of plays. A punt put the ball in Yale territory where the Eli offense took possession on its thirty-five yard line. Now only ninety seconds remained. During a time-out, Jed and the coach conferred on strategy. In the stands, Brad could barely contain himself. There was too much pressure on his son, he thought – a victory appeared impossible with so little time left.

In the first set of plays, Jed threw several short sideline es that found their mark. Receivers, gaining some yardage, then stepped out of bounds before being tackled. This maneuver stopped the clock at the end of each play. Yale moved from its thirty-five to Dartmouth’s forty-two. Just less than a minute to go, that precious commodity time was vanishing fast.

For Jed, it was getting more and more difficult to because the Dartmouth linemen were piercing the pocket of blockers that surrounded him. Having to hurry one toss, he overshot the receiver. Aware each play would be a , in light of the time constraints, gave Dartmouth an extra advantage. While ignoring the rush, they could concentrate on defense and sacking the Yale quarterback. Yet Jed completed another short throw putting the team on the Dartmouth thirty-yard line with less than twenty seconds left. A field goal then

would be of no real value; only a touchdown could bring the Elis victory.

Until this moment every Jed had tossed was thrown right-handed. Now came time for the one play he and the coach agreed should be used in the ultimate situation. Jed took the ball from the center and rolled out to the left. Pursued by a Dartmouth guard and a linebacker, both of whom expected him to throw another short right-handed to the left end, Jed instead stopped , planted his feet and rifled a long left-handed which arched diagonally across to the field’s right side. With the Dartmouth defense over-shifted to the left, Yale’s wide receiver stood unguarded at the edge of goal line. After a fortyfive yard flight, a perfect spiral landed in his hands, and he stepped uncontested into the end zone.

Pandemonium erupted in the Bowl. Yale’s offense added the extra point; the clock ran out, with the game ending, Yale 23, Dartmouth 21. Overjoyed, Brad grew hoarse from all the yelling.

Cyrus shouted above the din, “How did Jed do that?”

“He’s been doing it for years.” Brad raised a fist for emphasis.

“Did he really throw it all that away left-handed?”

“Yes, sir, he’s ambidextrous as hell. Wait till you see him pitch a baseball.”

That evening the McClain party gathered for dinner at a Yale institution, Mory’s,

a private club in New Haven made famous by Bing Crosby’s recording of “The Whiffenpoof Song” in the 1950s. The Eatons were club and hosted the get-together at the white-shingled, two-storied house with green shutters. Jed, Tom and dates, April and Heather, dined with them. Throughout the meal, Cyrus kept referring to Jed as Yale’s secret weapon. He could not get over those special skills or the stealthy manner in which they were displayed on the football field. The old Eli, shaking his head a few times, laughed. “Poor Dartmouth, sheep to the slaughter.”

Seated next to Brad, Bess broached a topic other than the game and Jed’s spectacular performance. “I understand you have something unusual in the cellar at home?”

In the day’s excitement, Brad had almost forgotten the skeleton and now felt oddly reluctant to discuss it. “Excuse me?”

“Debbie tells me you keep a specimen there she would like thrown out soon,” Bess said.

“How could he throw out his obsession?” Cal said.

“What in God’s name are you people talking about?” Cyrus was somewhat smashed.

“Poor Cyrus,” Bess patted his hand. “He’s in the dark on this one.”

Jed spoke up. “Mr. Eaton, Dad has an old skeleton in the cellar. We found it last spring in a buried building. Nobody else wanted it.”

“It’s a homicide that happened 215 years ago,” Cal said. “Brad would like to solve it but just can’t seem to.”

“It sounds fascinating,” Bess asked. “But what’s this about a buried building?”

“It was an Armory where muskets were made during the Revolutionary War and afterward,” Cal said. “The furniture, tools, weapons, and a coin found inside confirm this. Gunpowder was processed there too.”

Bess turned to Brad. “So have you done anything to unravel this mystery?”

“Yes, I’ve researched material on our area during the Revolution in the town’s public library. One room is entirely devoted to local history. Plus I’ve rummaged through the files at our historical society – mostly family trees, personal journals, pamphlets written by amateurs. There’s not the slightest clue about the murder, the Armory or anything remotely connected.”

“Is the historical society still interested in the building?” Debbie asked.

“They seem indifferent for the moment but that could change,” Cal said. “There’s a new president, an aggressive woman, who might want to take it on.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’ll ever solve the homicide,” Cyrus said. “Why don’t you donate the skeleton to a museum and get yourself a nice tax deduction?”

After dinner, the Owens and elder McClains headed back to the van. Debbie and Brad walked arm in arm along York Street until it converged with Broadway, where they turned right. At the Yale Co-op, the campus department store, they paused to window-shop for a moment. Cal and Sarah strolled slowly behind.

“You could use a new suit.” Debbie gestured toward a stylish olive Glen Plaid in the window.

“You’re probably right, I’ll get it on my next trip.”

He rarely wore suits and her subtle hints about improving his attire often annoyed him, but not tonight. They shifted to another window, one bursting with Yale memorabilia—sweatshirts, mugs, sweaters and banners. Brad draped a tired arm over Debbie’s shoulders and she clung to his waist. In the tight focus on a single banner, something caught his eye. The reaction came gradually.

Then he shouted, unable to contain his excitement. “Look at that! Cal, come over here.”

“What’s all the fuss?” Cal asked when he and Sarah reached the McClains.

“See that Yale banner in the corner?” Brad pointed.

“Yes, yes. What about it?”

“Don’t you get it? That’s the design on the medallion!”

“What’s he talking about?” Sarah asked Cal.

“It’s on the disc. The one found next to the skeleton.”

The banner in the window boasted Yale’s seal – the silver image of an open book, presumably the Old Testament, on a navy blue shield with Hebrew lettering inscribed on two pages edged in gold. The Latin words “Lux et Veritas,” which mean “Light and Truth,” appeared in black letters on a wavy white ribbon below the shield.

Cal carefully assessed the seal, still staring at the banner. “You’re right, Brad! Your disc contains the top half of the Yale arms. That suggests that—”

“There’s a high probability,” Brad interrupted, “that the murderer or the victim is Yale-related.”

“Ah, the case of the Yale connection.” Debbie struck a sarcastic note. She too had grown tired and could not bear to hear any more about the skeleton that evening. Since the discovery Brad had devoted entirely too much time to that awful bag of bones and the murder. In her eyes his fetish had become tediously boring. She would no longer meekly accept it.

On Monday morning, Brad telephoned the Yale Alumni Office in New Haven from home. Because its records went back only about one hundred years, he was advised that anything earlier would probably be in the archives at Sterling Memorial Library or the Beinke Rare Book Library. In a call to the archives, Brad asked a librarian if she had any alumni records dating from 1755 to 1785. Suggesting he hold on, she checked the computer.

“We have a variety of materials from that era. What specifically did you have in mind?”

“Yale alumni fighting in the Mid-Hudson Valley during the Revolutionary War.” Because of the items found and the time period, he presumed the skeleton had been a soldier.

“Are you an academic writing a book or an article?”

“No, just the parent of a Yale student, Class of 2000, trying to establish the identity of someone.”

“Unless you can be more specific about the title of the book, periodical, papers or its author, I can’t help much. If you have a modem or Internet connection, you could plug into our computers for a list of what’s here. But you would still need to come in and look at the materials.”

He thanked her and hung up.

Later that morning, as Brad was shifting clothes from the armoire to a suitcase, Debbie entered their bedroom.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m going back to New Haven, to research Yale men who fought in this area during the Revolution.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Perhaps a week, maybe less. I really don’t know exactly.”

“Aren’t you making too much of this skeleton stuff?”

“No,” he declared, “I’m not.”

“Let me understand this,” she said. “For months you’ve buried yourself in books and records at the library and historical society. Now you’re traipsing off, leaving your family and business, with no prior notice to do research on something absolutely inconsequential in a field you have no expertise.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”

“Well, I would!” She whirled around and stalked out.

Once in the pickup Brad telephoned his mother, now retired. He told her he was heading over to Yale for several days. “Could you take over at the firm for me?”

“Sure. Are you now following in your son’s footsteps, going back to college? You know it’s supposed to be the other way round.”

“No, Mom, much as I’d like to. New evidence about the skeleton should be checked out.”

“Okay. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

All the way to New Haven he argued with himself about making the trip. Perhaps Debbie was right. Why leave family and business for what could be a wild goose chase with no real purpose or benefit? Even if he did uncover the identities of the victim and murderer, what would they mean? Two disconnected names, unknown in today’s world. Conducting a thorough investigation could take forever and may be beyond his abilities. Was he just bored and in need of an excuse to run off on a lark? No, that was not it. Something else was urging him on.

Immediately after the skeleton’s discovery, he had enrolled at a local college where he took courses at night and on weekends. To his family and friends he was simply learning about archaeology and anthropology to understand the skeleton better. Yet he had neglected to tell them about transferring credits from Cornell or his secret desire to obtain an undergraduate degree in liberal arts. Suspecting her husband was anything but candid, Debbie chose not to pursue it.

Why now, Brad wondered, was he seeking a college degree? Since his late twenties it had not bothered him on any conscious level.

When he arrived at Yale, he telephoned Jed and left a message on his recorder, proposing dinner together that evening. In the archives of the Gothic-styled library, he checked both file catalogues and computers, then requested materials that appeared relevant. Throughout the rest of the afternoon he pored over books, articles, and theses on the Revolution but uncovered nothing new. During dinner in the dining room of Timothy Dwight College, he told Jed about solving the medallion problem and subsequent research. Jed encouraged him to keep at it.

The next day his luck changed. In a special card catalogue he found a set of books, six volumes in all, by a former Yale professor named Franklin B. Dexter, entitled Yale Biographies and Annals from 1701 through 1815. Incredible as it sounds, this professor had written biographical sketches of each Yale graduate in every class for that time period. In the research Brad stumbled on another useful book, entitled Yale in the Revolution by Henry P. Johnston, which detailed the lives of Yale alumni who fought in the war. It took Brad the rest of the week to read all the relevant volumes. At the end, he had composed a list of twenty seven officers and ordinary soldiers in the Continental Army who fought or were stationed in the Mid-Hudson Valley from 1777 through 1783. Making copies of the biographies, he took them with him for further study. The list read:

Brig. Gen. John Paterson Capt. Ezra Selden

Col. Samuel Wyllys Capt. Nehemiah Rice

Lt. Col. Ebenezer Huntington Capt. Nathaniel Webb

Lt. Col. Isaac Sherman Capt. Roger Welles

Lt. Col. Thomas Grosvenor Capt. Samuel Barker

Lt. Col. David Humphreys Capt. Samuel Williams

Lt. Col William Hull Capt. John Mix

Major Benjamin Tallmadge Capt. Jonathan Heart

Major John Wyllys Capt.-Lieut. Moses Cleaveland

Brevet-Major Roger Alden Lieut. Nathaniel Chipman

Capt. William Judd Chaplain Timothy Dwight

Capt. Thomas Wooster Volunteer Noah Webster

Capt. Robert Walker Surgeon’s Mate Aeneas Munson

Capt. Theophilius Munson

For a few months afterward from other libraries and old book dealers, Brad procured published biographies for John Paterson, William Hull, David Humphreys, John Wyllys, Benjamin Tallmadge, Timothy Dwight and Noah Webster. He read all these books. What he discovered was most graduates who fought for the rebels in the Mid-Hudson Valley lived beyond 1783, the end of the Revolutionary War. Those who ed away died in specific military actions, by accident or due to illness. One had been captured by the British during the war, then released, and several were listed as missing in action. Brad now divided the list into two groups: those living after the war – potential murderers, and those dead or missing – potential victims.

In New Haven, Brad had also done some additional research on the Yale arms appearing on the disc. It had been adapted by the Trustees of Yale College in the early eighteenth century. Though its designer was not known, the book was definitely the Bible, and the Hebrew inscription suggested some divine revelation.

He scratched his head in wonder about the fascination the skeleton had evoked. Did he suffer from an obsessive love of inanimate objects? An abnormality he was reluctant to it. The mobile robot hastily came to mind. Then that red Austin-Healy he drove in adolescence. He nearly cried when the transmission blew to end the sport car’s useful life. Did he relate better to objects than people, especially when anything intimate arose? Perhaps it reflected the engineer inside striving to take control.

To appease his wife, Brad bought the suit at the Yale Co-op as promised, a bouquet of pink roses, and the banner that first caught his eye. Before he left, he took Jed to dinner at a classic French bistro in downtown New Haven. Upon arrival home, Debbie, still annoyed at him, treated his purchases with disdain. Yet all appeared forgiven after a ionate night together one week later. For the time being she intended to ignore his silly investigation.

Yet, was Brad any closer to finding what he was looking for? That seemed dubious. Nothing connected the victim, the murderer or the homicide itself to a name on the Yale list or anyone else. At a complete dead-end, he prayed something, however obscure, would soon pop up to prompt a new line of inquiry.

CHAPTER VIII - THE RETURN

As the L’Enfant sailed into the English Channel, she left in her wake Le Havre at the mouth of the Seine River. To the ship’s engers watching the shoreline, the French port slowly receded and grew smaller. The morning mist, allencoming when L’Enfant weighed anchor in the harbor, had rapidly evaporated in the blaze of an April sun. With the wind freshening, the Brigantine accelerated the pace in the slash through the Channel’s slight chop. Her southwesterly course hugged the French coastline and paralleled England, New York the destination.

Among the engers gathered on deck stood Dr. Luke Davidson. He was fashionably dressed in a light blue satin outer coat, matching breeches, a white waist-coat, a ruffled white silk shirt and cotton stockings. As he adjusted a threepoint, navy felt hat, lest the invigorated breeze blow it overboard, causing embarrassment, Luke epitomized a sophisticated gentleman. Just prior to boarding L’Enfant, he had grown nervous. This had little to do with the impending ocean voyage in a wooden vessel powered by wind and canvas. Rather, his long-awaited homecoming excited him.

It was late June 1776. Luke had been living for almost four years in Europe, where he had earned a medical degree, obtained more training and traveled extensively. Having met many fascinating people during this sojourn abroad, he still yearned to see family and friends in America. His country had been fighting the British for a year. How could he idly sit by in a foreign land to observe the conflict from a distance?

Then, too, there was the matter of Anne Rutherford. Though refusing to defy her father and elope with Luke to Scotland, she had been unwilling to remain the dutiful daughter. From her letters, Luke gleaned Miss Rutherford had finally declared her own independence. She would not speak to her father until he

withdrew his objection to their marriage. To reinforce her silence, she had moved into the house of her maternal aunt and uncle in New York City where she cared for younger cousins and worked in the family’s grocery business.

As soon as he arrived in America, Luke planned to seek Anne’s hand again. During their long separation her letters had emotionally sustained him and only deepened his attachment for her. Despite several romantic liaisons while abroad, he had been fascinated by Anne – memories of her beauty and softness, her wit and charm still lingered. Yet in Europe, the study of medicine had become the consuming ion. This was his true mistress.

“We are making good time.” Captain Bonard, leaning over the rail beside Luke, spoke in French. “Even if the wind keeps blowing like this, our voyage will be a lengthy one.”

“How long will that be?” In his ardor to see Ann, time meant everything.

“Seven weeks at best. It’s a huge ocean.”

“Yes, indeed,” Luke said in French. “Winds, currents, speed and distance are all factors to consider.” Still seven weeks seemed painfully long to him.

“We’ll make a sailor of you yet!” Bonard laughed as he buttoned his coat. “In one hour I will be consulting my charts and instruments. Then I will show you our course and how to plot it. Ah, your first lesson in navigation, mon ami.”

“That’s so kind of you,” Luke smiled. “Surely, it will be most instructive.” But would that bring him home any sooner? Normally anything to do with science commanded his attention, certainly navigation, which he considered a practical application of more than one scientific field. Luke’s mind and aching heart had already sailed to America. Nodding crisply and excusing himself, the captain strode over to the helmsman.

Luke had become a man of the world. He now spoke French and Spanish fluently and had picked up enough Italian and German in his travels to suit any needs. At first hand, he had sampled the societies and culture of London, Paris and Rome as well as lesser European cities. And he had been the beneficiary of the best medical education money could buy, with the degrees and certificates to prove it.

As anxious as Luke was to return home, he had misgivings about leaving Europe. He treasured the people, the arts and antiquities, the cuisine. In a sense, he had done the grand tour, and nothing in America, still a developing country, could compare with the urbanity, grandeur and sophistication of eighteenth century Europe. The castles, palaces and cathedrals, the operas and art galleries, government buildings, all had made a lasting impression on him.

Besides, in Europe he had encountered no discrimination or prejudice. Because of his tan complexion, Luke was often mistaken for an Italian or a Spaniard. At more than six feet three inches tall, his height had been a constant source of amazement there. Few European men reached his shoulders. In , people frequently referred to him as `l’homme grand,’ the ‘big man.’ When told that he was an American Indian, they were awe-struck and even more curious. Despite a large frame his natural gracefulness, together with fine manners and education, caused of the upper classes to treat the young doctor as an equal while the common populace viewed him as a superior. And everyone was so polite – truly a heady atmosphere for any impressionable young man to leave without some regrets.

Before coming to Europe, Luke had considered several options for medical training. The great majority of American doctors mastered professional skills by apprenticeship. They worked under an established physician for years before setting up their own practice; few earned formal degrees from any recognized medical school. At this time, only two fledgling American schools existed, one at the college of Philadelphia, the other at King’s College. The major center of training for American physicians abroad was the University of Edinburgh, and its reputation as the foremost institute of its kind went unchallenged.

From his earliest experiences at Edinburgh, Luke had realized the faculty reigned supreme. There he attended lectures in botany, the practice of medicine, chemistry, obstetrics, and surgery, delivered by the foremost professors of the day. Under the skillful guidance of the Munros, he also received a thorough grounding in basic anatomy learning to dissect the human body and understand the functions of vital organs and their relationships to one another in healthy and diseased specimens. A shortage of cadavers forced Luke and fellow medical students into grave-robbing and body snatching to secure the specimens needed for dissection.

Even at the University, the limitations of medical knowledge had become apparent. Reliable drugs and medicines were rare and expensive although rafts of complicated and exotic remedies existed. In the search for a unified theory to explain diseases, the experts speculated deductively all human illness was caused by a maladjustment of the general physical system, such as an excess of nervous energy or tension. From his own experiences in the tribe and at Yale, Luke grew dubious about this theory, so lacking in sound empirical foundation, along with the treatments prescribed requiring the release of bodily fluids through bleeding, vomiting, blustering, defecation or perspiration.

Still, the notion of separate diseases had taken hold in the university medical community. In Padua, Italy the work of Dr. Morgagni in pathological anatomy had made crucial inroads in classification, analysis and healing specific diseases. For Luke, studying the efforts of this celebrated man had been one of the high

point in his medical training.

Diagnostic procedures, long the province of doctors’ senses, intuition and experience, now received assistance from new instruments – Floyer’s special watch with a second hand to time a patient’s pulse and thermometers to take one’s temperature. Luke was carrying both these devices home with him. While in Bavaria, he had learned a new technique from a book written in German by Auenbrugger, which revealed abnormal fluid build-up and lesions by simply drumming on a man’s chest with physician’s fingers.

The ship sailed on. At the end of the second day, L’Enfant had ed the port of Brest to leave behind the more secure confines of the Channel for the uncertainty of the Atlantic Ocean. As he leaned over the port rail watching the French coast dissolve in the distance, Luke breathed in the invigorating sea air. With the sun bright in an almost cloudless sky, the weather appeared favorable for the long voyage. Overhead the plaintive cries of sea gulls, like the voices of young schoolgirls, harmonized with the sounds of the wind that lifted the huge square sails. In search of food, these white and gray birds performed a graceful ballet for engers and crew alike, fluttering effortlessly in updrafts, swooping and darting helter-skelter or just soaring off to loftier realms. Relaxed, Luke watched their antics for some time.

Ezekiel Jones, an American, crossed the deck from the starboard side to him. “The weather looks like it will turn soon. Ya see those dark clouds in the northwest? They’re moving straight toward this ship.”

“Yes, I believe you’re right.” Luke frowned as he turned and stared at the distant, dark formations. “We may be in for a storm.”

“Speaking of storms, I wonder if the king’s troops have put down the rebellion

yet.” A Tory, Jones sought a kindred spirit.

“I hope not.”

“You mean, you’re not for the king? Confound it! You don’t favor that provincial rabble, do you?”

“With all due respect, I do.” Luke smiled. “The colonists have many legitimate complaints.”

“None of us like those taxes, but fighting against England, our mother country, is quite another matter. I suppose, you cannot expect much from Indians.” Shaking his head in disbelief, Jones stalked off to look for someone with more compatible political views.

Luke mentally retraced his European experiences. In his mind’s eye he was back in London attending lectures and observing dissections at the noted Hunter School of Anatomy. The Hunter brothers, whose clinical approach emphasized careful experimentation and observation, had been pioneers in comparative anatomy, obstetrics and surgery. Each student was actually furnished with a whole cadaver, and the faculty supervised dissections. Luke had worked as an intern at Middlesex and St. Thomas Hospitals, training in obstetrics and watching older, more experienced doctors operate. He had read Smellie’s treatise on mid-wifery, and obtained two sets of forceps, now in his medical bag, to assist at births.

The rain fell first in a fine drizzle, then more heavily and finally in a torrential downpour. The drops beat a loud staccato on the ship’s wooden deck and lighter

cushioned pings on the canvas sails. They sang out like the music of rapid drum rolls counterbalanced acoustically by the corresponding notes of the string section. The wind accelerated to push the waves higher. Soon a series of pummeling breakers caught the brig, embroiling it in a turbulent cauldron. In response to the first mate’s strident orders, sailors climbed masts and riggings, as if so many ants in a state of panic. Minutes later they had completely lowered or reefed the sails.

engers sought shelter below deck, where they huddled in small clusters. The ship headed westward into the storm, lurching and straining, then nearly bobbing out of control. Gale-force winds assaulted its hull and rigging to generate eerie howls and screeches that terrified all aboard. Sprays of seawater deluged the decks and percolated below into cabins and hold. No escape could be found from the onslaught. Nature’s elements had launched a war against one of man’s creations to test its strength and endurance, showing it absolutely no mercy or reprieve. The only defenses were good seamanship and the hope that the ship’s builders had utilized the best materials and skills. For the time being, the brig somehow withstood the fury of wind and water. Still it creaked and groaned, wailed and shrieked in vehement protest. Bits and pieces of rigging were savagely ripped loose and fell on deck or into the foaming sea. The weather’s lashing cruelty whipsawed and wrenched the masts, spars and wheel as the boat heeled erratically.

In the cabins below deck, seasickness plagued all engers. Feeling none too chipper himself, Luke tried to comfort them, but could offer little relief. Effective remedies for this malady did not exist, though the captain dispensed laudanum, an opium derivative, in the mistaken belief it would cure the misery. A week ed, yet the weather continued to abuse the ship and its occupants, even the crew. All the retching overwhelmed the senses.

Lulls arose in the storm’s later stages. Still it lasted almost ten days until the ship sailed smoothly for a time through a mixture of stark gray skies and fog. The sun, it seemed, refused to bless the L’Enfant’s ocean age. Calm weather at

least allowed Luke and fellow engers, though weakened, to crawl from stultifying cabins and breathe fresh air on deck. Gradually, they felt better, and appetites returned.

When not tending the sick, Luke indulged his intellectual interests and read borrowed books. He enjoyed Voltaire’s Candide and Lettres Philosophiques, political essays by Edmund Burke and Benjamin Franklin’s Poor Richard’s Almanac. As the voyage progressed, the enticement of the written word gave way to the lure of conversations with fellow engers.

Long awaited, there came an evening when the stars shone in the firmament despite an overcast morning and afternoon. On the brig’s quarterdeck, a stout, middle-aged American merchant, Ebenezer Little, calmly smoked a briar pipe next to Luke who gazed at the dark horizon, wondering how many more days it would take to reach America. Close by, a French nobleman from Brittany, Armand Tuffin, the Marquis de la Rouerie, paced the planking, his footfalls clicked amid the zephyrs.

With puffs of smoke blown seaward, Little said, “Thank heaven the weather’s better. We could not stand much more. God speed us home, tis all I ask. Where are you setting up your practice, when we arrive?”

“Newburgh,” Luke answered. “It’s on the Hudson River, about sixty miles north of Manhattan.”

“Why in that town and not New York City? Your education and training must put your skills far beyond most country doctors.”

“My father’s partner has arranged everything.” Luke leaned over the railing. “A reputable local doctor needs an assistant, and I am fortunate to get the position. It should be a mighty good opportunity.”

“No matter where you are, with this war, business’ll be good. You’ll be a-fixing broken arms and legs, fishing for lead balls and plugging gunshot wounds. Knowing doctors, you’ll be killing more soldiers than the enemy.” He laughed and added hastily, “No offense.”

“None taken.” Luke grimaced at the flippant criticism of his profession even as he inwardly acknowledged its likely accuracy. “What took you to Europe?”

“Well, the war forced me to find other sources of supply. I fear it will be a long one. We must learn how to do our own manufacturing because of the British blockade. I made good s in , Italy and Spain to assure supplies or manufacture of broad cloth, boots, and iron tools.” He tapped the pipe and emptied its ashes into the sea with a flick of his wrist.

“I visited those countries,” remarked Luke, nostalgically.

Tuffin broke stride and turned toward them. “Messieurs, tell me, s’il vous plait, how do I get a commission in the Continental Army?”

“I can introduce you to some important men in New York who can arrange it,” Little replied. “But, sir, do you have any military experience?”

“I was an officer in the king’s guards at Versailles, and I am an accomplished swordsman.” A slight man with a black mustache, Tuffin had the look of a dandy, clad in a ruffled white shirt and scarlet suit. He neglected to mention his discharge from the king’s guards because of repeated acts of insubordination and frivolity. Humiliated at the rejection of his marriage proposal by a beautiful French actress, he had challenged the rival for her affections to a duel and seriously wounded him. The king of , regarding this irresponsible deed as the last straw, defrocked him.

This chance encounter would have an effect on Luke. For the rest of the voyage, over the course of several days, he listened with rapt attention to Tuffin’s enthusiastic tales of the French court with all its intrigues, romances and rivalries. He was equally moved when, in a moment of seriousness, Tuffin recounted his bout with deep melancholy and attempted suicide after his dismissal from the guards. He had sought solace in a monastery, Tuffin said. To their credit, friends persuaded him not to enter the holy order. When Tuffin heard about the plight of the American colonies, his sense of adventure compelled him to enlist in their cause. Luke found this daring, impulsive French officer engrossing.

The weather improved as L’Enfant neared North America. Sunshine and clearer skies hailed engers and crew almost every morning. One afternoon a cry came from the crow’s nest: “Land ho!” Before them, jutting into the ocean, loomed Montauk Point on the southeastern tip of Long Island.

Two days later, the brig docked at Beekman’s Wharf, just off the East River on Manhattan.

As sailors maneuvered the gangplank, Anne, on tiptoes, vigorously waved and smiled from the dock below. Matthew, a recent graduate of King’s College, accompanied her. He had grown tall and sturdy, his black hair tied neatly at the back under a stylish, triangular green hat. Even from Luke’s perspective high on

the brig’s deck, Anne seemed more beautiful and radiant than he ed. In a matter of minutes he was kissing and embracing her, and their lengthy separation vanished in an instant. Matthew shook Luke’s hand firmly and grasped his shoulder.

“I don’t know where to begin.” Anne was crying and laughing at the same time. “It’s so good to see and touch you. How are you? You look well, more mature, very handsome.” She blushed and kissed his cheek. “There are so many things I want to say.”

“I know, so do I.” Luke refused to release her. “What a fool I was to have left you in the first place!”

“Let’s not talk about that here. The important thing is you’re back now, and we can see each other again.”

“Indeed, we will do that and more.” His heart quickened. The prospects of being in her company again elevated him to paradise.

“Do I have to call you doctor?” Matthew asked, “or can I still use your Indian name?”

“Dr. Davidson, if you please,” Anne said proudly. “I never relished ‘Swift Fox.’ It makes you sound like a chicken thief.”

Luke laughed. How he had missed her sharp sense of humor!

They waited on the bustling dock for his trunks and valises to be lowered in a cargo net. After he and Matthew carried the luggage to a coach and strapped the bags securely on top, all three got in. Careful to weave through the throng of supply wagons and people, the driver nudged the horses down the clogged narrow streets. During Luke’s years abroad, New York City had definitely grown. Yet it appeared more an armed camp than a major center of commerce. Units of state militias, Continental Army and odd riflemen marched about in gray and blue coats, buckskin outfits or plain dress. At present, the rebels controlled all of New York City and State.

Dinner that evening at the home of Anne’s relatives brought old schoolmates and families together in honor of Luke’s homecoming. Because their cavalry regiment was stationed in the city, Captains Nathan Hale and William Hull attended. The long maple table in the Browns’ spacious dining room offered more than enough room for Anne, Matthew, Luke and his two friends, along with Anne’s aunt and uncle. Oil portraits and landscapes adorned the white plaster walls, and a chandelier in the form of a wagon wheel hung from the ceiling.

Hull plied Luke with questions. “The two letters I got from you were so short. I hoped you would describe all your adventures in Europe.”

“Do tell us, please, what you did over there,” Nathan urged.

“Yes, Luke, what did you do when you were not studying medicine?” Anne asked.

“Not much,” he said. “Not much at all. I really didn’t have time.”

He sensed her concern. She feared his answers would stir her jealousy. But she needn’t have worried. He’d never really had eyes, or any serious desire, for anyone but her.

Of course, he’d indulged himself at times. Young and healthy, his robust nature took its natural course and Europe … why Europe was magical. Vibrant nighttime images of Paris, Rome, and Barcelona flashed before him.

“A little sight-seeing, some travel, sampling each country’s food and drink,” he reminisced.

“Is that all you sampled?” teased Nat. “We’re all-fired up with curiosity, and you say absolutely nothing to satisfy us. What kind of a friend are you?”

“Unseal those lips this instant and give us your view of European women,” ordered William. “Are they truly beautiful?”

Luke saw Anne’s increasing discomfort. How could she ever worry that he would be unfaithful?

“If I know Luke, he devoted himself to reading books and attending lectures,” Matthew came to his defense.

For Anne’s sake, Luke changed the subject. “So what’s the British Army doing and where is it? We heard they were in Boston before we sailed.”

“They evacuated a few months ago,” William said. “We believe they went to Halifax. However, we suspect they’ll reinvade our country soon enough.”

“Can we lick them?” asked Luke.

“That depends on the numbers.” William shook his head. “If their ships and men are more numerous than ours, we’ve got serious problems. They are quite professional, and we are still learning how to march and deploy our troops.”

“But we won in Boston, did we not?”

“You’re right,” replied Nat. “There we had advantages, we might not have here: terrain and position to begin with.”

“Do not forget those cannon from Ft. Ticonderoga,” Hull exclaimed.

“What did you do, Nat, around Boston?” Luke asked.

“Very little, I’m afraid. I got there late and was next to useless. But Bill saw action – he was an early bird, firing his musket and rattling his saber at the enemy. My time’ll come. I just know it will.”

“Please, let’s talk about something more pleasant than the war,” Anne urged. “It

has already caused much grief. Heaven knows we hear heaps about it every day.”

“Yes, enough war talk,” announced her uncle from the other end of the table. “Pour some more claret. This homecoming is getting too dull.”

Luke stayed at the Browns’ as their house guest for a few weeks. During this time Matthew arranged the sale of blankets, uniforms and boots to the Continental Army for the Keppler-Davidson enterprise and only stopped by to visit his brother occasionally. Military duties kept William and Nat fully occupied. Yet Luke did not mind at all. After their lengthy separation Anne and he were too busy getting reacquainted. Some nights they would go out to dinner at inns still open to civilians, see a play or listen to a concert in one of the few public theaters. Otherwise, they stayed at home playing cards with her aunt and uncle or singing around the harpsichord from which Anne coaxed music so exquisitely.

On one sunny afternoon in the Browns’ garden, the couple strolled alone hand in hand. “This has been the best time of my life,” Anne sighed happily. “We’ve never spent so much time together all at once.”

“It has been a great joy,” Luke said, “especially after being separated for so long. We should never let that happen again.”

“I just hope we can keep seeing each other like this, except for one critical point.” She averted his gaze, glancing down at a bed of tulips in bloom.

“I don’t understand. What are you referring to?”

“You know,” she teased.

“No, I don’t. Please, tell me. No secrets should exist between us.”

She frowned. “Have you forgotten so soon? How could you—perhaps, Europe did make you frivolous.”

“No.” He finally understood. “I was just going to propose again. We shall wed. If your father still objects, we’ll marry, anyway. He shant block our happiness together. For God’s sake, it makes no sense, indeed not after all this time. I won’t hear of it.”

“I don’t talk to him, but Mother says he remains adamant.”

“The hell with him! Confound it.”

“Luke, there’s no call for profanity. Please watch your language and curb your temper.” Though she scolded him, her lips parted in a small smile.

“Stubborn old man,” he muttered and took her hand. “Let’s find a minister and take our vows tomorrow. Then come live with me in Newburgh.”

“I cannot.” She shook her head. “Not without my family. Oh, it hurts me so to

say it because I do want to be with you.”

“But the British may show up,” he warned. “I don’t want you here if they attack. It’ll be too dangerous.”

“I cannot leave my aunt and uncle.” She paused. “They’ll need me.”

Under other circumstances, he would’ve ired her love and fidelity for her family, but he found this situation exasperating. They had been apart so long. How he yearned for her!

Late one evening days after, Luke slipped into Anne’s second-floor bedroom. He tiptoed over to her bed and kissed her, gently waking her. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn’t send him away. Dressed only in a nightshirt, he slid under the covers and caressed her.

“Luke,” she asked softly, “what are you doing here? My aunt and uncle will hear us. Go back to your room this instant.” She knew this was wrong and could only cause her woe. Instead his hands continued to explore her body, his mouth nibbling on the nape of her neck.

“Luke, we cannot do this,” she whispered more excitedly. “My reputation will be ruined if we’re found out.” But she firmly grasped him as his kisses tantalized her. “No, no, you must go back to your room at once. Please,” she pleaded unconvincingly. Hands roaming, Luke delved into her most sensitive areas. “No, no, don’t do that,” she cried in a low voice. “Please stop,” as she pressed her lips ever harder against his. Feebly, she tried to push him away, but he brushed her hand aside.

“I’ve waited a long time for you, Anne,” he declared. “I cannot wait any longer. I want you now.” Gently, he knelt on the bed over her reclining figure.

“You’re going to get me pregnant, and I’ll be branded a harlot for life. Is that what you want?” Filled with negative thoughts in the midst of such joy, tears trickled down her cheeks. Still she would not let him go, entwining her legs about him, while he entered her.

“It may be the only way to get your father’s consent,” he shrewdly observed once they began to make love. Their ion dominated all senses.

“Don’t,” she begged, “please, don’t!” Actions soon belied words, her arms wrapped tighter around his neck, pulling him even closer and moving more rapidly in his embrace, her warm lips pressing greedily against his, her moaning intensified as they gyrated together.

For Luke the trip upriver in the Keppler sloop proved a sad one. He had failed to persuade Anne to him. Now they faced another separation with him practicing medicine further north. Worse still, a possible British invasion of the city threatened. There had, as yet, been no sighting of the enemy’s fleet, but he was worried about Anne’s welfare. How would she survive a bombardment, armed conflict and occupation? He cringed at these thoughts.

Guilt troubled him, too. Anne’s insistence on fulfilling her family obligations reminded him of his own. Promises she would visit him when he got settled had helped placate him. Before departing, he almost changed his mind several times, but the urgency to visit his family and meet the new medical partner won out in the end.

The homecoming at the mountain village distracted Luke. The tribe held feasts and dances to welcome him back. He marveled at how much his brothers and sisters had grown. Disappointed Swift Fox was going off to work in the white man’s world, Red Feather was ever hopeful he would return to the tribe and take over its leadership. The chief had visions of his eldest son, now much more sophisticated, expanding the tribe’s activities and power. Luke’s report of cities and cultures in Europe intrigued his father, uncle and Great Healer since none of them had seen the Old World. Being back among his people turned out to be just the right medicine for Luke. His soul had been revitalized and strengthened.

Days later, he rode to the Keppler mansion to pay his respects. The war had already dampened the demand for furs, but Henri, always the visionary, had invested the firm’s resources in supplying the Continental Army. Henri had hired gunsmiths in America and Europe for a local factory to design and assemble muskets, pistols, and rifles. He also wanted to make gunpowder and sought Luke’s advice. With his knowledge of chemistry, Luke promised aid in preparing the ingredients and the mixture.

In the library after dinner one evening, Henri confessed frustration. “This war is putting our family in an impossible dilemma.”

“How can that be?” Luke asked. “Paul and Renee are still abroad.”

“Renee married a British major, and Paul has just accepted a commission as a lieutenant in their Army.” Henri cracked his knuckles, something he only did when agitated. “I fear they’ll be fighting against us all too soon—and I, a rebel, making guns and powder for the Continentals.”

“That would be awkward. But, hopefully, peace will come before Paul and your son-in-law see any action here.”

“Of course, I could not tell my daughter whom to marry or my son what career to choose.”

“No, you could not.” Luke laughed. “They would’ve ignored you anyway if you had.”

For months now, Dr. Levi Deyo had been tending to the sick around Newburgh for at least sixty hours a week. While patients would sometimes come to the office, the seventy year old physician would just as frequently ride a horse to their homes over bumpy roads or woodland paths in every kind of weather imaginable. The years of medical practice had taken a toll on him, as he had arthritis. So when Henri approached Deyo about taking on a younger partner, the offer seemed heaven-sent. But exhaustion and body stiffness weren’t the only reasons Deyo readily accepted Henri’s suggestion. He had known and liked Henri for many years, so he trusted Henri’s judgment.

When it came to Luke, Deyo was unfazed by the man’s race and impressed with his professional credentials. Luke was obviously overqualified for a country medical practice. Deyo realized that an Indian doctor might irritate fellow townsmen. Yet, because of a general shortage of physicians and the war’s increasing medical demands, Deyo dared not question such good fortune.

Deyo had arranged everything for Luke’s arrival in Newburgh. The widow Butler would provide Luke with room and board for a modest stipend. Deyo had diligently inspected the accommodations himself to find them entirely suitable. Having sampled her cooking, he was satisfied that Butler set a good table. Concerned Luke might feel bored or isolated, Deyo had also ed the word to

the community’s leading families of Luke’s expected arrival and received assurances this eligible bachelor would be invited to dinners and teas. Deyo had even told several local ministers of Luke’s coming. Each was eager to entice Luke into his congregation.

What the sly old doctor had not revealed to anyone was Luke’s Indian background.

Located almost midway between New York City and Albany on the west side of the Hudson River, Newburgh had grown and prospered before the war. Originally settled by Palatine Germans, its population had increased to two thousand through influxes from the British Isles and their colonies. These people were hardworking, industrious and enterprising.

Newburgh sat atop a slope that gently rose from the river bank and docks. Clustered in one acre plots were more than twenty-five houses and shops on intersecting streets. Surrounded by streams, mills ground grain into flour and sawed logs into planks and beams. Further west lay highly productive farms interspersed with patches of woods and meadows. Vineyards and orchards grew upriver.

Over the years, Newburgh had become an active trading center, shipping homegrown produce, crops and timber downriver to New York City. By the mid 1770s, Newburgh also possessed a thriving ship-building industry and a seagoing fleet active in whaling and trade with the West Indies. Soon enough, the war would haunt the shores of the mighty river, upsetting the town’s commerce and eventually transforming it into an armed camp.

On a finely contoured, black stallion, a homecoming present from his father, Luke rode up to Dr. Deyo’s stone townhouse one afternoon. Since the rest of his

luggage would arrive later on by boat, he traveled light. At their first meeting, Deyo outlined Luke’s duties and gave him a tour of the ground-floor office. Afterward, he led Luke to Butler’s home and introduced them.

Luke reported for work early the next morning. Deyo’s middle-aged housekeeper, Molly Jarvis, answered his persistent knocks on the huge oak door at the front of the residence and brusquely itted him to the center hall. “The doctor’s feeling poorly. He’s still lying in bed, but he wants to see you.” She showed him to Deyo’s bedroom on the second floor.

In response to the soft rapping on the bedroom door, Deyo’s gravelly voice ordered Luke to enter. “Sorry I cannot get up to greet you, but I’m feeling miserable today.”

“Doctors aren’t supposed to be ill.” Luke approached the bed. “What’s ailing you?”

“I think it’s my kidneys. The pain is mighty awful.”

Luke noted a drop of pus dripping from the side of the doctor’s mouth. He drew back the bedcovers and lifted Deyo’s nightshirt to examine his lower back. He observed swelling and carefully felt the afflicted area. “You’ve had this before.”

“Yes,” Deyo gasped. “All too often. Ask Molly to bring up the leech jar from my office.”

“So you think bleeding will help relieve your pain?” Luke was skeptical.

“Don’t you?” Deyo shifted uncomfortably in the bed.

“No, I don’t believe in bleeding a patient. It is a waste of precious bodily fluids. You must read Harvey on the heart and blood circulation and Malpighi on the lungs and capillaries based on his use of a microscope.”

Deyo shook his head. “I don’t have the time or inclination to read fancy books on medicine. I’m a practical man. But if it’s not bleeding, what do you recommend?”

“Smilax herbacea.”

“What in God’s name is that?” Deyo narrowed his eyes. “You trying to poison me, so you can get my practice free and clear.”

“Sir, you cannot be serious about that, but you are in luck. I have some in my case downstairs.”

“Yes, but what is it, man? Don’t mince words with me. I’m not a damn fool.”

“Root of carrion flower. Nothing dangerous.”

“What? Never heard of it.” Deyo shook his head again. “Come, come, get the leech jar, son.”

“No, I won’t. If I’m to be your physician, you must follow my advice.”

“Then I’ll be my own doctor.”

“Pardon me, doctor, but then you’d have a fool for a patient,” Luke stated firmly. “You cannot treat yourself.”

Deyo thought it over. He eyed Luke. “Is this root concoction a new-fangled idea you picked up in Europe?”

“No, it’s not. In truth, it is an old Indian remedy. The root is boiled in hot water and after it has cooled, the patient drinks the liquid daily. In most cases the ailment clears up within a week. Trust me. I’ve seen it work.”

“Old Indian remedy?” Deyo’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He considered it some more. “Well, I suppose it’s worth a try. I hate leeches anyway.”

Luke repressed a smile. He could tell that despite Deyo’s testiness, the old doctor was impressed. Deyo was an iconoclast and liked the idea that a Europeantrained physician would prescribe such a remedy.

After giving Deyo the medicine, Luke suggested bed rest for the old physician,

then descended to Deyo’s office. Four patients awaited him, and he tended their ailments with dispatch and concern. For three days while Deyo recuperated, Luke took care of those patients who visited the office and made rounds at the homes of others.

On the fourth morning, when Luke arrived, he found Deyo, looking robust and healthy, finishing a hearty breakfast. Deyo refused to let Luke examine him and charged off to his office without so much as a thank you. Luke watched him go and felt a flash of worry. Was Deyo really worried about being robbed of his practice? Had he, Luke, with the best of intentions merely fed the old man’s suspicions, and if so, how would it affect their working relationship?

At the end of Luke’s second week there, the two physicians were organizing medical supplies when a tall, broad-shouldered fellow in his mid-fifties with a sharply protruding stomach came in.

“Hello, Jonathan. Feeling badly?” Deyo asked.

Jonathan shook his head and nodded toward Luke. “I came to meet your new assistant.”

Deyo introduced the two. The visitor was Jonathan Hasbrouck, a prominent local merchant and a colonel in the militia.

“How are Henri Keppler and your father doing?” Hasbrouck asked Luke.

“Very well, indeed.” Luke was surprised that Hasbrouck knew them.

“We went to school together in New Paltz, a long time ago,” Hasbrouck explained. “Your father was quite a shot and could run like a deer.”

“No more shooting or running for him. He spends all his waking hours on business and tribal matters.”

“As is befitting a man of his stature.”

“Jonathan,” said Deyo, “am I to take it that Luke is the sole reason for your visit?”

Hasbrouck paused. His glance took in both men. “No,” he said finally. “I bear important news.”

Luke and Deyo exchanged glances.

“Go on,” Deyo urged.

Hasbrouck drew a deep breath. “Congress has signed the Declaration of Independence—”

“They—” Deyo repeated.

“Yes,” Hasbrouck nodded. “Now we must learn to control our own destiny. That’s the good news.” He paused.

“What’s the bad news?” Luke asked, though in fact, he was still trying to digest the good.

Hasbrouck took another moment. “The British have taken New York City.”

Doubt and worry instantly plagued Luke. Was Anne hurt? Was she safe? What about her relatives? This meant she was trapped in the city, and they could not see each other.

“What about the civilians there?” he asked.

“Those in Manhattan, I believe, are all right. The real fighting took place in Brooklyn, on Long Island and north of the city, though the redcoats had their way with many young ladies on Staten Island beforehand. You have family there?”

“Friends,” Luke said. And the woman he loved more than life itself.

“They should be secure,” Hasbrouck said. “The redcoats rarely mistreated people in Boston. We gave the Tories there a much worst drubbing, one they

certainly deserved. Do not fret.”

Luke was thoughtful. “I want to the militia here,” he found himself saying.

Hasbrouck cracked a smile. “Good. I was hoping you would say that. We desperately need more educated, able-bodied men. We can use you as a fightingman and as a surgeon. I can offer you a commission as a lieutenant.”

“Wait a minute!” Deyo cried. “Luke, you can’t just jump into this military stuff. You must be here to treat civilians. I can’t do it by myself.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Hasbrouck uttered.

“He continues to work here, but trains in his spare time, and only reports for emergencies. What say you to that?” he asked Deyo.

“I say I don’t trust you, Jonathan Hasbrouck.” Deyo turned to Luke. “You can’t trust him. Always got something up his sleeve.”

“Hogwash!” Hasbrouck laughed, then shook Luke’s hand. “You will ?”

“I will.”

Three nights later at Hasbrouck’s house Luke was introduced to fellow officers and briefed on his duties. Within a week, he was learning the manual of arms from Samuel Clark, captain of one of Hasbrouck’s companies, and leading a squad in marching drills. For musket practice, Clark and Luke had the men fire at old glass bottles and make-shift wooden targets. Luke had not shot a gun in four years, so he too benefited from these exercises. In short order he regained a sharp-shooter’s form.

No longer indecisive, at last confident in his skills and leadership, he took charge. Earning the medical degree, European travel and the brief stint as a practicing physician had prepared him for the role. The men reacted positively to orders and followed him without hesitation. This reinforced that confidence, making him even stronger.

Clark and Luke also devised a series of bayonet drills that trained the men to thrust and parry skillfully. Luke demonstrated wrestling holds and knife-fighting techniques. Exposure to the hand-to-hand combat increased aggressiveness and with enough repetitions yielded automatic responses. When gunpowder was exhausted or became wet, the soldiers would find this type of training useful. What amazed Luke was how quickly and naturally he took to these new tasks. Though reluctant to it it, he enjoyed them immensely, always looking forward to the next session.

“You’re doing a great job with the men!” Jonathan Hasbrouck told him in the comfort of Wiegand’s Tavern one evening. The tavern served as Newburgh’s main gathering spot after dark and an assembly point for the militia in case of an enemy attack.

“Thank you.” Luke responded. “It’s been good for me.” Not only had these activities actually allowed him to fulfill his patriotic duties, but he got needed physical exercise and reduced fretting about Anne.

“How’s Dr. Deyo taking all this?” Hasbrouck asked.

“He seems to be adjusting nicely. As long as I carry his patient load, he’s satisfied.”

“Good. He can be an ornery old goat at times.” Hasbrouck took a swallow of his drink, then asked, “How would he react if I sent you off on a special mission for a few days?”

Luke realized he had been waiting for just such an opportunity.

“He’ll throw the usual temper tantrum and shout ‘hell and damnation,’” Luke speculated with conviction. “Indeed, it’ll confirm his worst suspicions about you.”

“Well, we just have to risk it, won’t we?”

The two men laughed and drained the hard cider in their pewter mugs.

Over the next hour, Hasbrouck sketched a plan for the mission and invited Luke’s comments. By the evening’s end, they had agreed on what must be done.

CHAPTER IX - THE ADVENTURE BEGINS

When told about Luke’s planned absence, Deyo ranted. “You’ve only been here nine months, and you’re already leaving.” His face grew red. “Doctors have to be responsible … always there for their patients.”

“It’s only for a week,” Luke said. “I have to attend to some personal business.”

“This sounds like the colonel’s doings. One of his crazy schemes, I’ll wager.”

Luke ignored the comment. “I’ve hired a carriage and driver to take you to the homes of patients during my absence and … at my expense.” The elderly doctor hated to ride his horse too far because of the aches and pains it caused him.

Despite Luke’s offer, Deyo remonstrated. He needed Luke there. That had been their agreement. Luke listened patiently. He understood and sympathized with Deyo’s concerns, but he held firm. Finally, faced with Luke’s resolve, the old physician relented after Luke promised to be back soon.

Luke loved his work as a healer, but he was looking forward to his new mission —in part because it would give him some time away from the practice. Deyo’s crankiness tested Luke’s tolerance. He didn’t know how much longer he could bear it. He put in long hours of hard work for minimal pay, time made even worse by Deyo’s unpleasantness. Until Hasbrouck had come along, the practice was all Luke had. He wasn’t interested in churchgoing or socializing with the eligible daughters of the town; he had already pledged himself to Anne. Hasbrouck offered Luke an invigorating alternative to doctoring. More

importantly, Hasbrouck appreciated him and showed it.

Luke purchased a pinto horse, packed an old seaman’s bag with clothes and readied a musket and ammunition. At dawn the next day, he set out north, along the King’s Highway. In the emerging light, he kept a sharp lookout for anyone who might be up and about. At the intersection of three ancient Indian trails, a cottonwood, at least a hundred feet tall, marked the center of a small settlement with a tavern and blacksmithy. Just before the tree, he veered west to minimize any chance encounter with early risers. After another mile, he returned to the highway.

A little further north, Luke led his horse off the road again into the woods, dismounted and changed clothes. He stuffed his regular clothes into the seaman’s bag and hid them under a rock ledge for future retrieval. He remounted the pinto in the garb of an Algonquin chief. Having spent many years in white man’s clothing Luke was comfortable with it, but it felt good to once more don native garb.

In the rush to leave, it had been easy to reject Deyo’s criticisms as the frustrations of a tired, old man. But now, during the solitude of the journey, the old man’s words came to haunt him. Luke had to it that he might indeed be sacrificing professional duties to pursue this mission. Even more crucially, he was running the risk of violating a professional oath to save lives.

I could actually kill someone.

The thought brought him up short.

The musket and knife he was toting did not serve as mere playthings. How, he wondered, could he act as a soldier as well as a physician?

But what was he doing taking part in this war, to begin with? This was a white man’s war, wasn’t it? How could he, an Indian, fight for a nation that had robbed his people of their land and birthright?

These were difficult questions and he did not have immediate answers. Try as he might, he could not extinguish deeply buried resentments about the way whites had mistreated his people. Still a lifetime of assimilation and educational acculturation meant that he also identified with whites. Anne’s face floated before him, and those of the Kepplers, Humphreys, Tallmadge, Hull and the Hale brothers, too. These people stood for love and loyalty, and it was for them he fought.

But he fought for his own family and tribe, too.

For better or worse, the fortunes of the Indian peoples were tied to that of the white settlers. Wise or not, that’s what he believed.

From one of many informants Hasbrouck had discovered a British Army captain was recruiting local Tories to fight for the enemy. This captain was reportedly hiding out in a cave near Marlboro, a village seven miles north of Newburgh. Luke’s assignment was to pose as an Indian chief and infiltrate the Tory recruits.

Finding the British recruiter shouldn’t be difficult. From many trips and excursions as a boy, he was familiar with the caves in the area. Foolishly or arrogantly, the English officer had left his horse, with British cavalry markings

on the saddle, openly hitched to a lone maple tree outside one of the caves. Luke tied his pinto to a bush in a grove of trees, approached the cave, and stood to one side to peer in.

The cave was shallow and he could clearly see the British officer pacing back and forth. The officer looked nervous and worried.

Luke pretended to be drunk. He staggered toward the officer and slurred his words. “You, Englishman? Want recruits?”

Startled, the man drew his gun. “Who are you?”

“Chief Rain Cloud … me Delaware from the west beyond the mountains.” Luke pounded his chest proudly, acting in ways that should put the man at ease.

“What do you want? Upon my word, why are you here?”

“Want to fight for Great King George against rebels.”

“How so? Do you hate the white colonists?”

“Kill wife, children in raid.” Luke pulled a knife from the sheath strapped to his waist and slashed at imaginary enemies in the air.

The Englishman backed away instinctively, but he no longer looked alarmed. He calmed Luke, persuading him to replace the knife in its sheath.

“Are there others in your tribe who’ll us?” the redcoat asked.

“What you say?”

The officer repeated the question. “His Majesty will pay you in gold for each new recruit you find.”

Luke noted the officer was vague about the amount. He grunted and, as he expected, the officer took this as a positive sign.

“We’ll meet two days from now at dusk in Jethro Phelp’s barn on Butternut Hill, south of Newburgh near the river. From there our unit will proceed onto New York City.”

Luke grunted again and nodded.

The officer explained exactly where the barn was located, then sent the ostensibly befuddled Indian on his way with instructions to be there on time and to bring a band of disgruntled braves.

Luke walked the pinto back to the King’s Highway, then rode rapidly south. Periodically, he glanced backward to assure he wasn’t being followed. He

recovered the old seaman’s bag, changed into regular clothes, and made for Hasbrouck’s house. Over the next thirty-six hours, Luke and Hasbrouck reviewed their plans.

Just before dusk on the appointed day, Luke, in the guise of an Indian chief, strode toward the Phelp’s barn. At the door he knocked lightly twice and, after pausing, knocked once more.

“Who goes there?” cracked an authoritative British voice from inside.

“Chief Rain Cloud.”

“Enter!”

It was dim inside. The sole source of light, a single flickering lantern dangled from a hook on the wall. It allowed Luke to locate the British officer and the five other men gathered there. Relieved, Luke recognized none of them, other than the officer – and none knew him.

“Where are your men?” the officer asked.

“They come soon,” Luke said. “Many braves take long time. Must travel far.”

In short order, more white men ed them in the barn, reporting to the redcoated officer and another tall, gruff man in a green uniform beside him.

Then a bird’s whistle penetrated the growing darkness thrice at even intervals. Luke put finger to his lips and responded. “My men come now.” He whistled again.

“It’s about time,” the green uniform barked. “They’re awfully late.” From his actions and bearing, he seemed to be the leader of the local Tories gathered there.

Five minutes later, a sequence of rapping sounded against the barn door.

“Who knocks?” the Tory leader demanded.

“Delaware braves.”

“Come in,” the English officer urged.

The barn door creaked open. Because of the darkness outside, the Tories could not readily see the newcomers until they crossed the threshold. Instead of a band of Indians, five American militiamen appeared with muskets, loaded and drawn. Hasbrouck came in right behind them, his rifle at the ready. Unnoticed, Luke slipped away to tunnel deep into a pile of hay.

“Hands up,” ordered Hasbrouck. “You’re surrounded by a superior force. Resistance would be futile and fatal.” Other militiamen led by Clark entered the barn and disarmed the Tories and British officer, then bound their hands behind

backs with rope.

Hasbrouck walked over to the Tory leader. “Andrews,” he sneered. “I should’ve known all along.” Hasbrouck took a pistol from his holster and smashed the butt against Andrews’ face, breaking the man’s nose. Andrews yelled, grabbed his face and cupped his bloody nose. Hasbrouck gave him a look of disgust. “Where’s that damn Indian we’ve heard about?”

Andrews didn’t answer. Hasbrouck hit him again, this time across his right ear. Andrews dropped to his knees.

“Damn you!” the British officer objected. “You’ll hang for your crimes. How can you treat a man like that! Our troops don’t mete out such cruelties.”

“Silence! I could hang the bunch of you, tonight. Nothing but spies and traitors do I see before me. Look here. Don’t get me started on your atrocities.”

“I am no spy. Are you blind? I wear the king’s uniform.”

“What are you doing behind American lines then, cavorting with Tories?” Hasbrouck didn’t wait for an answer. “I should throttle you for your lies. Just a bunch of vermin!”

The Englishman evidently thought it better to hold his tongue.

“Find the Indian, lads,” Hasbrouck directed, prompting two militiamen to search the barn. He then turned back to the English officer. “Incidentally, we captured the braves on the way here. It took a little persuasion, but I got them to tell us about your meeting.”

The British officer paled.

“Use your bayonets in the hay over there,” Clark ordered the men.

The militiamen poked around and one of their bayonets hit Luke in the rump, drawing blood. He made a dash for the door, but two men from his own company apprehended him.

“Break out the irons,” Hasbrouck said. “We’ll hang him in the morning.”

The militia took the British and Tory prisoners to the local jail. Luke stayed behind with Hasbrouck while two soldiers stood guard and pretended to shackle him.

They came for him at dawn, just as the sun rose over the mountains on the other side of the Hudson. They tied his hands behind his back, placed him on a wagon and drove to a distant tree. They threw one end of a rope over the sturdiest branch of the tree, then pushed the prisoner forward.

In the glaring morning light, the Tory prisoners had a partial, but telling, view. They saw a sergeant in the militia stand in front of Luke and raise the noose end

over his head. They saw the sergeant step away and signal his men. And finally, they saw the dead man’s form swinging from the tree.

What they didn’t see was another soldier climbing on to the wagon from the opposite side. Nor did they see that the noose went around the neck of a dummy, not Luke. And finally, they did not see Luke drop to the wagon floor, alive and healthy, then slip to the ground.

News of her father’s death from a heart attack had just reached Anne in a letter from her mother, greatly unnerving her. While she lived with her parents, she had been extremely close to him. For years she was her father’s precious little girl, the only child, doted on and adored until she was ten years old. Afterward in quick succession, other siblings came along. Still she had carved out a special place in his affections.

When Luke proposed, her father’s intransigence had been the first personal crisis of Anne’s relatively young life. Yanked in opposing directions by the two men she loved and respected, she grew agitated as well as confused; the only alternative became separation from both. Yet the premature fate of her father stirred a deep remorse that any daughter would feel when a beloved parent dies.

Beyond such sorrow, she was gripped by guilt. Because of Luke, she had stubbornly refused to speak with her father and had abandoned his household. Did her behavior somehow cause the heart attack? Could she have eased the burden or even prevented his death if she had stayed? During his life he had done so much for her, and she so little for him. What a selfish daughter she had been, or so Anne silently told herself. Nonetheless, staying would have meant sacrificing herself to his unreasonable prejudices. Still the dictates of reason would not ease these pangs of guilt.

The British occupation of Manhattan only added to Anne’s misery. Everywhere she turned, redcoats marched. Her allegiance was to the American cause and not to George III. Although the king’s men usually conducted themselves in a civilized manner and even were charming in brief encounters she had with them, their presence in her country as conquerors aroused feelings of shame and disgust. Most of all, it prevented her from visiting Luke in the Hudson Valley.

Her father’s death, while devastating, offered Anne an unexpected chance to escape occupied territory. Her uncle, a clever redhead still limping from an old hunting accident, proved to be the first to grasp this. After her initial mourning, he approached his niece with a plan.

“Anne, I know a few Tories who are indebted to me. They’re close to the British commander,” he mentioned softly one evening in the solitude of the parlor.

“Yes, Uncle Thaddeus.” She was barely listening in her grief.

“I cannot promise anything, mind you, but perhaps I can obtain a from the general so you can go to New Haven.”

She sat up. “Really, uncle?” She could not believe her ears. “I don’t understand.”

“Your father’s death is the perfect excuse for a trip home. With your mother’s letter about his ing and my s, I may be able to arrange it.”

Anne brightened at the prospect of returning to New Haven to be with the

immediate family. Then she realized the ’s true implications: If a visit to her family were possible with such a , she could certainly see Luke. When he was at Yale, Luke often told her that his village was 120 miles northwest of her home. Now he was in Newburgh, further south but still in American-controlled territory like New Haven and much of the area in-between.

Within two weeks her uncle delivered the , signed and sealed by the British commander. He used his commercial s to arrange her age on an English merchant ship bound for Britain. The vessel’s captain was an old acquaintance who could be trusted. Besides, her uncle made sure he was well paid for the slight deviation from the ship’s prescribed course.

At sunrise on the second day of the limited sea voyage, Anne along with all her luggage sat in a jolly boat being rowed by two British seamen through New Haven harbor. As they pulled toward the shore, the merchant ship rode at anchor in the gentle swells of Long Island Sound. In the harbor few Americans were up and about at this hour despite the many ships moored there. Once at the wharf the sailors, helping Anne ashore, deposited the luggage on the pier.

Toting brown leather bags, she walked to a marine chandlery, operated by the Stevens family, friends and clients of her late father. Fortunately, their youngest son had risen early that day to review the store’s s. In response to Anne’s knock, he quickly itted her and offered to drive her home in his wagon.

During the ride through the streets, Anne made small talk with the Steven’s boy as her underlying emotions ran the gamut from excitement and nostalgia to sadness. Her mother’s visits to New York had not mitigated the remorse created by Anne’s four-year absence. She often wondered how much her brothers and sister had changed. The boys would have grown taller and her sister even prettier, so she imagined. How she had missed them and all their merriment and mischief. Though normally joyous, this homecoming, in light of her father’s death, stirred a melancholy inside.

At the sound of the knock on the front door, Jennifer Rutherford, still clad in a nightgown, puttered about in the kitchen. Who, she wondered, would have the temerity to call at this ungodly hour? Her children still asleep, she had just risen. As she plodded in slippers toward the entrance, Jennifer was inclined to give this officious caller an upbraiding that would be permanently stamped in his memory. She opened the door and put her hands on her hips, but the sight of the visitor silenced her. It was a tall young woman, luggage in hand, tears running down her cheeks and all smiles. Jennifer’s anger dissolved, and she warmly embraced her. The prodigal daughter had returned at last.

It was her mother’s idea, not Anne’s. How could they just drop in on Luke – the whole family – announce the wedding plans and set the date? After bargaining with the best seamstress in New Haven for the wedding dress, Jennifer Rutherford hired a driver and a coach to drive them to Newburgh. The trip took five days with stopovers at friends, relatives and a roadside inn along the way. On the ferry crossing the Hudson from Fishkill Landing, a bustling river port, the boatman gave them directions to the old widow Butler’s residence where, he reported, Luke resided.

Late in the afternoon they arrived at a two-story, wood-framed house on the top of a hillside in the middle of town. The full day’s travel had exhausted the Rutherford family, already famished. Cordially received by the widow Butler, they were fed yet given little encouragement on Luke’s whereabouts. “Yes, he lives here,” the frail, white-haired woman told them when they first knocked. “But he left on personal business four days ago and hasn’t been back since. Dr. Deyo, his partner, is quite upset and keeps stopping by to see if he is back. You’re welcome to stay.” Thanking Mrs. Butler, Anne and her mother accepted the kind invitation.

Early the next morning, Luke was still nowhere to be found. Because of the long, tiring journey, the Rutherford women let the children sleep. After breakfast with their hostess, they wandered outside into the chilly, clear air. The Butler

property offered an unobstructed view of the river.

Nothing Anne and Jennifer had seen compared to what appeared before them. Across the broad blue waterway arced a stretch of rounded, undulating mountains along the entire eastern shoreline. On this side of the river, a second mountain chain rose south of the town. Here over a mile wide, the river downstream narrowed as it flowed and curved between the tall mountains on both banks. Close to the opposite side, a small island cropped up just south. As the sun blazed a path across the morning sky, its rays illuminated the mountains and reflected off the water’s surface in a dazzling panorama.

At noon from the parlor window these women watched a buckboard and three mounted horsemen, all arrayed in the blue and gray militia uniforms, riding toward the Butler house. They stepped outside on the porch to meet them. In the back of the wagon, on the floor face down, stretched an Indian whose buttocks were bloodied through the torn buckskin.

“Luke, what happened?” Anne stared at him. “Are you all right?”

He recognized her voice instantly. “Anne! Yes, I am fine, just a scratch,” he mumbled, dazed from lack of sleep. “Nothing to worry about. But what in God’s name, are you doing here? Is this some kind of miracle?”

She reached for his hand. “We’ll talk about that when we get you inside.”

Having been helped from the wagon and escorted into the house, Luke lay facedown on the sofa in the parlor. The widow Butler sent one of the mounted men to fetch Deyo.

While waiting for Deyo, Anne tried to get information out of Luke, but he put her off.

Upon his arrival, Deyo took one look at Luke and started fussing. “This is what happens when you run off, contrary to my wishes and do something foolish.” His displeasure extended further by being intentionally heavy-handed when dressing the wound.

Luke gritted his teeth. “No gentle treatment today, I see! You’re so clumsy and rough.” As if Deyo’s rough handling weren’t enough, Luke had to endure the double embarrassment of being not only being dressed down, but undressed, in front of the women folk.

“If this wound had gone unattended any longer,” Deyo said, “I might have had to amputate. You would no longer be Dr. Davidson, the medicine man with the fancy European medical degrees but just a half-assed physician, like the rest of us.” He chuckled at his own joke, then glanced up at the three stunned women. “Please pardon my language, ladies. Professional humor, you understand. Every so often at my age, I need a good laugh to keep me going.”

“Will he be all right?” Anne asked.

“Well that depends. If he keeps running around the countryside playing soldier, the prognosis is not good. But if he gets some rest and comes back to work soon, he’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

Jennifer spoke up. “When Anne and Luke get married, we would very much like you to attend the wedding. And you too, Mrs. Butler.”

“My dear lady, nothing would give me more pleasure. Marriage to your lovely daughter should keep this man from running off with those crackpots in the militia.”

“I certainly hope so,” Jennifer replied.

A sense of urgency drove Luke and Anne to wed in haste. Because of her father’s refusal to give his consent, they had waited all those years to be together as man and wife. Now, they feared the war might disrupt their lives again. So time – the shortest possible interval – loomed as a key factor in their decision. Besides, rapidly securing Anne’s future before returning home with her other children became the mother’s most pressing concern.

Without g the typical marriage agreement on a dowry, formal bans were announced almost immediately. The Indian custom where the groom makes a substantial gift to the bride’s family was ignored although Luke teased Anne she was surely worth five horses.

“Ten horses seems a fairer price,” she winked, “with two cows thrown in for good measure. I cannot be bought too cheaply, now can I?” She wagged a finger.

Henri Keppler offered to host the wedding ceremony and reception at his river mansion, and the planning for the event fell to both Marie and Jennifer. Because of her wealth, European travels and temperament, Marie would not let this affair be anything less than lavish.

“There are pleasures in life that should be enjoyed,” she firmly declared. “And this is a special occasion.”

Raised in a strict Puritan environment, Jennifer tended to be much more conservative. In her world elaborate merriment, feasting and dancing represented temptations to be shunned at all costs. A major collision between these two women appeared inevitable. To Jennifer, Marie Keppler stood out as a rare creature whose conduct confused her. She was everything Jennifer was not – outspoken, sarcastic, even bawdy at times. Marie’s sense of independence and audacious defiance of her husband shocked Jennifer, who had subtly placated male egos all her life, first her father’s, then her husband’s. While amazed at Mrs. Keppler’s behavior, Jennifer secretly ired the woman, for she had done what Jennifer was forbidden to do. Most assuredly, Marie’s warmth and generosity equally captivated her. Instead of a clash, this pair became fast friends and in time as close as sisters. Still Jennifer frequently caught herself deferring to Marie.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t do that,” Jennifer weakly resisted when Marie proposed more elaborate decorations.

“Why not?” Marie asked.

“Because it is too costly and gaudy.”

“Nonsense. You live but once, my dear. Learn to indulge yourself.”

“No, no. You’re much too kind and generous. I won’t hear of it, spending all that money on something to be used only once. It’s most impractical.”

“Pay it no mind. Luke’s our godson, you must .”

“Oh mercy me, how can I possibly protest. All right, if you insist.” she laughed. “I won’t raise any more objections.”

Jennifer told herself it was Henri’s house and his money was paying for it. Yet deep inside she wanted Anne and herself to experience what Marie had so meticulously planned. For Jennifer’s Puritan conscience, Marie served as the perfect excuse to savor extravagances rarely imagined and often deemed taboo.

The wedding took place mid-day on June 7, 1777 atop a high bluff outside the Keppler mansion. The dazzling sunlight speckled the bright blue waters below a sparkling silver. Like puffs of cotton, clouds dabbed the sky. From the northeast, a gentle breeze swept lightly off the river to cool the guests.

Reverend Pierre LaFouche, the Calvinist preacher from New Paltz, presided over the traditional ceremony. In a white wedding gown crowned with a lace veil, Anne, beautiful and poised, clasped a bouquet of yellow roses before the makeshift altar. Overshadowed, Luke proudly stood beside her in a favorite silk suit as they took their vows. At the rituals’ close, he lifted the veil and kissed her. Amid his own militia unit clad in their best uniforms, a volley of musket fire erupted. The couple quickly walked arm-in-arm toward the mansion where they ed under an arch of drawn swords held by of Captain Clark’s unit.

At this affair ladies in their long dresses of brocade, satins and taffeta sporting

high-heeled slippers gathered with gentlemen in equally elegant clothing, many from leading families in the Hudson Valley. Only a few of Anne’s relatives and friends from Connecticut could attend. Yet every adult member of Luke’s tribe watched in native garb, some wearing inventive adaptations of white man’s hats, shirts and tros. The whites and Indians easily mingled together.

The guests grew quiet and settled in their chairs for the final wedding rites. In front of Great Healer posed Anne and Luke – she in a beige, doe-skin dress, embroidered with colorful beads, garnets, and opals, her gleaming black hair folded and tied around a red cloth, and he in buckskin with the festooned plumage of a tribal chief on his head. In the background, the low, incessant beats of the tom-tom and chants of an Indian chorus captured the quiet of the hillside. In a priestly role the old medicine man mumbled barely audible Lenape phrases and waved his arms in seemingly erratic gestures. When he stopped, Luke cracked an ear of choice corn, giving half to Anne, then a deer’s foot. She, in turn, split a cake of corn bread from a small table, feeding him a portion while she ate the rest to symbolize their unity. The ceremony now concluded, loud whoops and hollers from the Indian guests resounded over the bluff.

At the reception in the Kepplers’ huge dining room, an elaborate collection of food overflowed on three large tables – venison, quail, pheasant and wild turkey from the surrounding woodlands and fields, salmon and striped bass from the river, smoked hams, rice, yams and fancy vegetables from their farm and sauces of creams, jellies, mustards and honey from the kitchen. For dessert the guests sampled fresh berries, custards, puddings, pastries and bride’s cake. Port, claret, and Madeira poured forth along with beer, hard cider and a punch made of rum, pineapple and lemons.

After this feast, the fiddlers and other musicians beckoned guests into the formal ballroom with enticing melodies. As the star attraction, Luke and Anne promenaded to the minuet, graceful and regal in style. Soon many romped through the steps of the Virginia Reel and Allemande. Gaiety and enthusiasm became contagious. Luke and Anne danced together countless times, then paired

off briefly with other family and friends. Jennifer Rutherford danced with Luke’s father, Dr. Deyo and Henri Keppler. The indomitable hostess Marie put her husband to shame when she outlasted him in one rousing Virginia Reel. For the finale, the bride and groom led guests in the Grand March.

As the white dancers grew weary and the musicians rested, Indians, until then mere observers, stepped forward to take center stage. Native musicians playing drums and flutes crafted haunting tunes to accompany braves in the raccoon, doll and bean dances. With turtle shell rattles in hand, the squaws ed them in a circle. Bodies straight, arms relaxed, they glided, yet rapidly stomped moccasinworn feet. At the end the white spectators vigorously applauded.

Afterward, Luke and Anne slipped away to a distant bedroom on the second floor of the mansion. There they spent the wedding night together. In the morning, after bidding farewell and thanks to their host, hostess and Anne’s family, they journeyed to New Paltz where they stayed at the Kepplers’ village home all alone. Several days later, the couple visited Luke’s tribe in the mountain village.

One evening while still on the honeymoon, Luke and Anne rode bareback on the black stallion to the lake below the village. It was warm and balmy. A full-moon sky, littered with stars, encircled them and lit the glimmering body of liquid. From overhead water cascaded 75 feet into a broad holding pool before tumbling another 20 feet into the lake. Wispy vapors clouded its final descent.

“I’ve never seen so enchanting a place, it’s almost magical,” remarked Anne with a dreamy sigh as she clung to Luke.

“Seeing it through your eyes has made me realize that,” Luke intoned. “We’ve always taken nature for granted. Never truly valuing its beauty.” Still embracing

her with one arm, he led the horse to the shore.

Sounds of falling water blocked out other noises, imparting a mask of utmost privacy. Luke dismounted, then slowly lower Anne from the horse into waiting arms to carry her to the waterfall where he placed her gently on a large flat rock.

Sitting next to her, he whispered, “Let’s go for a swim.”

“But we are not dressed for it.”

“We don’t need clothes.” Smiling, he began to undo her dress.

“Aren’t you the naughty one?” she teased, holding his broad shoulders, then kissing him on the neck.

He raised Anne’s dress, slipped it over her head, and undid her undergarments. Entirely nude, she resembled an exquisite mermaid amid the shallow waters, highlighted by the muted glow of moon and stars. Luke hurriedly disrobed, took her out-stretched hand and drew her to an embrace. Clothes rested on a rock nearby. Bodies flowed into one another, lips pressing against lips, arms enveloped, bare skin merging, lost in sheer pleasure.

After a while, they waded hand-in-hand into deeper water. With leisurely strokes, the couple swam to the center of the lake, where they hugged and kissed. Wet and closely matted to her head, Anne’s hair glistened, small beads of moisture covered her face. Below the surface, her full cleavage shimmered. In

that glorious instant, Luke visualized her as the most sensuous woman ever seen or imagined. The spell her beauty cast was broken when he submerged. Bewildered by his abrupt disappearance, Anne stared into the darkness ahead. A moment later she felt droplets falling on her upper back. As she turned, Luke was playfully sprinkling her. She smiled, back paddled and splashed him.

Before he could react, Anne raced toward the waterfall. Luke instantly pursued. After catching up, he submerged once more and tugged gently on her toes. In response, she rotated her arms and legs faster in the mistaken belief she could outdistance him. In the shallows, she stood, exposing her body, and turned to look for Luke. Yet he had disappeared again. Without warning, something moved between her legs to lift her skyward. Luke emerged from the lake, hoisting Anne on his shoulders, wrapping arms and hands around her legs. She clasped his chin, teasingly pulled hair, then twisted an ear in light-hearted retribution.

In front of the phallic-like waterfall, Luke shifted Anne from his shoulders. Downward she slid, her breasts rubbing against his chest until he encircled her waist. She flung her arms about his neck to kiss him, mutual sensations heightened by wet skin touching.

The couple moved to a rock at the pool’s edge where she sat on his lap. They embraced – stroking, caressing, fondling. Now leaning back on the rock, she parted her legs. He grew more excited as he slipped inside her. Anne’s shapely upper thighs squeezed him, moving back and forth, to massage his own.

Slowly, he rotated his torso, then penetrated more deeply with each forceful stroke. She quivered almost continually. Legs entwined, she dug her nails into his back and released ion in short pulsating bursts. Both in a trance, no words ed between them, just sounds of pleasure. His thrusts went on and on until she fully climaxed. In a comforting embrace they lay still, eyes fixed on stars in the firmament.

Afterward Luke, rising from the rock, plucked Anne up and carried her to the waterfall. As if part of a purification rite, they showered together, all the while caressing and kissing. Refreshing water splashed over bodies, again slippery to the touch, to resensitize skin. Desires intensified. Figure elevated with legs entwined about his waist, she tossed her head backwards, hair tumbling to the bubbly surface. Once more he entered her.

The moon at a new point in the heavens, Luke lifted her still-naked body onto the horse. As she grasped the reins, he gathered up the clothes to tie them in a bundle around its neck. Luke leaped on the mount directly behind Anne. One arm cradling her breasts, the other holding the reins, he urged the horse from the water’s edge upward along the trail to the Algonquin village and their wigwam.

A week later, Luke and Anne returned to the widow Butler’s house in Newburgh, to a surprising reception.

“You cannot stay here,” the old woman said. “I rented your room to someone else.”

“But where did you think we were going to live?” Luke asked.

“That’s not my concern,” she shot back. Then she smiled. “Perhaps you should go up to meet the new lodger.”

As Luke and Anne were about to knock on the door of the old chamber, it opened, and his brother Matthew appeared.

“What took you so long?” he asked. “I expected you back days ago.”

“We were otherwise engaged,” Anne happily replied, turning to kiss Luke’s cheek.

“Yes, I suspect you were,” Matthew remarked with raised eyebrows. “This is my room now. You’ll have to find other quarters.” Matthew had recently been appointed as the firm’s Newburgh agent to handle sales of supplies to the Continental Army.

“But where will we stay?” Anne asked.

Luke frowned. “Something strange is going on here.”

Outside the Butler house Matthew’s only words to them were, “follow me” as he charged off on horseback. Anne and Luke trailed him in their wagon to the west of town. A few miles further, they stopped in front of a red brick cottage surrounded by a garden and a grove of evergreens, a two-storied wooden red barn stood in the rear. Luke helped Anne down from the wagon.

Matthew led the pair through the house to show off the parlor, kitchen, loft and two bedrooms without revealing any reason for the tour. The cottage had been furnished with comfortable chairs, beds, cupboards, tables and a sofa. It was a perfect place for newlyweds.

“This wouldn’t be our new home, would it?” Anne hoped.

“How do you like it?” Matthew asked.

“It’s just the right size, so cozy, and the furniture is lovely!” Anne smiled.

“It’s all yours, a wedding gift from father,” Matthew grinned as he handed them the deed.

CHAPTER X - WAR IN THE VALLEY

The knock on his office door interrupted Luke just as he was finishing the examination of a patient. Without invitation Molly Jarvis stuck her head in. Having worked fifteen years for Dr. Deyo, she rarely stood on ceremony. Her respect for the medical men in the house was minimal.

“Doctor, you have a caller, a military man.”

“Who is it?”

“I did not get the name nor did I ask.”

“Tell him to wait if you will.” Luke could barely tolerate her brusqueness. Turning his attention back to the patient, he said, “Mr. Ellison, your arm seems to have mended well. Do you have any pain?”

“No, but when it gets damp or cold, I feel it.”

“That is only natural. After a while it should . You can put your shirt back on.”

“Thank you.”

Once Luke showed Mr. Ellison out, Molly again opened the office door without knocking and escorted in a captain from the Continental Army. It was William Hull.

Stunned, Luke jumped up and greeted his old friend. The two men vigorously shook each other’s hand.

“Are you healthy?” Hull asked.

“Indeed, but what about you? It has been such a long time. How are you faring in the Continental Army?”

“Just fine. They give me no time for myself. But the action is highly stimulating. The confounded food, the little we get, tis worse than the stuff served at the Yale Commons.”

Luke laughed. “Your stomach still rules your life, I see. What brings you to our fair town?”

“Just ing through on my way to Boston to recruit more troops, then I am off to Fort Ticonderoga. Our spies tell us the English General Burgoyne and his forces are planning an attack from Canada.”

“But where have you been?”

“With General Washington fighting redcoats in New Jersey.”

“That must have been exciting but dangerous. We had word there were serious clashes and many casualties.”

“Aye, there were, but I did not come to tell you war stories. How’s Anne?”

“As beautiful as ever. We’re married now, living together in a cottage not far from here.”

“Congratulations!” Hull grinned. “You made a wise choice, I am sure, but did she?”

“Ah, it is too late. She is stuck with me. There is no escape. But, Captain – that’s your rank – what can you tell me about Ben, Nat and David. How are they doing with the war in Pennsylvania?”

Hull cleared his throat. “Ben and David are well. Ben has been fighting in New Jersey near me. David has been in Connecticut recruiting, and he recently took part in a successful raid on Long Island at Sag Harbor.” Hull hesitated. “You have not heard about Nat?”

“No, what has happened to him? We hear so little war news here.”

“Sit down, please … brace yourself.”

Luke settled into a chair.

Hull came right out with it. “He was hung by the British as a spy last year. Outrageous!”

“I cannot believe it.” Luke was shocked. “What was Nat doing as a spy? He was in a cavalry unit the last I knew.”

“He wanted to do it.”

“But why?” The color drained from Luke’s face. He had always ired Nathan. In a way, they were brothers, like Hull, Tallmadge and even Humphreys.

“We needed information about British troops – their strength, deployment and plans – after we lost the battle of Long Island. General Washington asked for volunteers to go behind enemy lines. I tried to talk Nat out of it, but he insisted on going. He hadn’t seen any action in the Boston arena, and he desperately wanted to serve his country.”

Luke’s shock turned to anger. “You shouldn’t have let him go!”

“You’ve not heard what I said. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen!”

“You should have gone to his commanding officer and insisted he not go.”

“You obviously don’t know how the Army works. If one is foolish enough to volunteer, he is sent. They don’t tolerate interference from junior officers, especially when General Washington is involved. They have shot people for less.”

“He must have been a bad spy. He was too open and sincere. He did not know how to lie or deceive.” Luke slammed his fist on the desk.

“It was a terrible blow to all of us who knew him. He was the best of fellows, the very best.” Hull choked up.

Bent over with both hands on the desk, Luke paused to catch his breath, glanced up and said, “I’m sorry I was so tough on you. I know how stubborn Nat could be. Of course, you couldn’t stop him. Please have dinner with us and stay the night.”

“Yes, indeed. I was hoping you’d ask.”

“Good, Anne will be glad to see you.”

After so many years on his own, Luke was surprised how easily he had adjusted to married life. Living with Anne made all the difference. Her amiability and concern for him were a delight. Even her cooking, a talent she had concealed,

was as good as Marie Keppler’s and his mother’s. The extra weight he had gained since their honeymoon attested to Anne’s talents with the skillet and bowl.

Luke was becoming a good doctor. His record for improvements in patient health seemed astounding. The new devices and procedures brought from Europe gave him an advantage. Not only were the patients convinced he worked miracles, but Deyo grudgingly itted his successes – so much so he devoted little time to medicine anymore, heaping a growing workload on his younger partner. Deyo often bragged to the town’s leading citizens about his wisdom in selecting this colleague. Even Luke’s bedside manner, far superior to the cranky older doctor’s, had been well-received. As Deyo had astutely predicted, being an Indian had no effect on Luke’s reception by the community because he so perfectly fulfilled its needs. Almost a white gentleman, his fashionable appearance and good manners enabled him to associate with the town’s elite.

Yet Luke was not well organized, had an aversion to paperwork and occasionally suffered from bouts of absent-mindedness. Sometimes medical supplies would run low or be misplaced. Fees for his services often went uncollected for lengthy periods. While usually late for appointments, he would on occasion forget them entirely. Acting only as a housekeeper for Deyo, Mrs. Jarvis was absolutely useless to Luke in the office.

Anne came to the rescue. She understood the problems right away and, with his approval, threw herself into the middle of things. Utilizing experience from her uncle’s grocery business, she organized his office, set up books, then would tactfully press patients for payment of long overdue bills. She kept his calendar, constantly reminded Luke about appointments. From chaos arose order and reliability, much to Luke’s relief.

Though a religious skeptic, Luke had been taught a watered-down version of Calvinism when young. Because of his father’s insistence, the family had

attended church in New Paltz every Sunday. During the extended Great Awakening, the competing Puritan sects, prevalent on the Yale campus, exposed Luke to further indoctrination. The New Lights stressed Man’s sinful nature, damnation and faith in Christ as the savior. The Old Lights, not as evangelical and zealous, prescribed a less arduous road to heaven. In the end, Luke’s concept of God evolved into something closer to the Native Americans’ Great Spirit or the watchmaker who left his creation to run on its own without any further divine intervention.

Because of her own desire for spirituality, Anne would not let him languish so. At one point, she announced despite some reservations about organized religion: “We are going to attend Reverend Bancroft’s church next Sunday. It is Congregational. I want to sing in the choir and enjoy some Christian fellowship for a change.”

“I’d be happy to drop you off, but I’ve something else to do.”

“Luke Davidson, you mean you won’t go to church with your wife! Land sakes! What could you possibly have to do, that’s more important?”

“I’ve promised Henri Keppler I’d help his workers make gunpowder at the Armory. I’m the only one there who knows the rudiments of chemistry, thanks to a course or two at medical school.”

“Can’t that wait?”

“Not in the least. Have you forgotten there’s a war going on?”

“No,” Anne answered softly, “I have not, but please.”

“I’ll try it once, but I’m making no other promises. And after church I still have to go the Armory. The Continental Army is already running short of gunpowder.”

Luke escorted Anne to church services two Sundays in a row. While he enjoyed listening to the choir and singing hymns, the sermons of Reverend Bancroft struck him as dreadful, far worse than any he had heard in New Paltz or New Haven. After reciting several verses from the New or Old Testament in a barely audible voice, the pompous Bancroft would blunder on about the main topic, displaying little insight or reasoning. Often he lost his way and failed to get to the main point. Worse yet, he treated the congregation like children.

“You’ll never get me to go back. That man’s just terrible,” Luke told Anne on the way home the second Sunday.

“Oh, he’s not that bad. The music is uplifting, and the parishioners are so nice.”

“From here on, I’ll drive you to and from, but under no circumstances will I devote another Sunday morning to that church.”

“But what will I tell the Reverend and the others? They expect you to be there.”

“Tell them I’m immersed in the war effort. Until it is over, my country must

come before my religion! They’ll understand, believe me. They’ll have to.”

As the weeks drifted into months, Luke spent more and more time at the Armory, a dark stone building next to a stream. Matthew, having ed the same militia unit, was filling in for him irably as group leader whenever he was absent. The rebels’ pressing demand for gunpowder drove Luke onward. Meanwhile Anne began organizing church teas, visiting with fellow parishioners in their homes and arranging music for the choir. She even volunteered to play the organ on Sundays, when needed, practicing occasionally in preparation.

Mixing saltpeter, bits of charcoal and sulfur, Luke experimented with different recipes for gunpowder at the Armory. He tested each batch for stability, blasting force and consistent ignition. First, he tried every batch on a strictly dry basis, making a meal-like powder called serpentine. Then he added small amounts of water to squeeze the batches through sieves under pressure and produced a granulated or corn variety. Gunpowder fabricated without water proved less stable and effective, according to the few books he had found on the subject. Keeping meticulous notes on each batch meant the best proportion of ingredients. He instructed workmen how to mix and store the powder in kegs and assemble cartridges composed of paper, powder and lead. However, Luke realized, to make the quantities necessary for the rebels, more buildings would be required. With Henri Keppler’s approval, Luke supervised the construction of other facilities and machinery.

One day, an old incident in his village sparked an odd idea. Because a drunken Indian had forgotten to remove the ramrod from a musket when fired, both lead ball and metal rod hit a tree trunk with deadly force. As an experiment, Luke had the blacksmith at the Armory modify barrels of existing muskets and fabricate lengthy, pointed metal rods to fit them.

Later, Luke asked the carpenter to build a special wooden stand. When the equipment was ready, he lined up five gun barrels in the Armory yard at a 45-

degree angle along the stand, locked them in place, loaded a metal rod in every barrel before pouring a healthy charge of explosives into a special compartment at each barrel’s base. Cotton fuses were soaked in oil and inserted one at a time in each compartment. Curious, the Armory workmen watched him.

“It will never work,” one of them shouted. “I’ll wager a week’s pay.”

“Don’t be so certain. The doc is no dummy!” another shot back.

In quick succession, Luke lit the fuses. Five explosions boomed across the landscape, causing the observers to cover their ears. Once the smoke and dust had cleared, the barrels were still erect in the stand. Randomly stuck in the ground a hundred feet away stood five metal rods at varying angles.

“Good thing no one took your bet,” said the one workman to the other. “Else you’d be out real money.”

Determined to improve, Luke tried this experiment over and over with larger doses of gunpowder. The aim was to increase the range. Then he hit upon something new. At his direction, the blacksmith hollowed out the blunted tip of a metal rod to create a chamber. When completed, Luke packed the chamber with additional powder and sealed it. On a workbench in the yard, he secured the musket barrel, loaded it with the modified metal rod, and fired. Two explosions resounded in a row, the first in the musket propelling the rod, the next in the rod itself once it smacked the stone fence, gouging chunks out of large rocks.

A week later, Luke loaded a dry metal canteen with a heavy powder charge and inserted a long fuse in its mouth, sealed with molded clay. Placing it in a hole

dug under the stone fence, he lit the fuse. At a safe distance, Luke and two workmen witnessed the fence’s destruction, rocks flying in every direction. Later he discovered loading small stones or lead balls in the powder-packed canteens intensified the damage.

Another workman observed each of Luke’s experiments with interest. Born in Switzerland thirty years ago, Hans Reinhardt had apprenticed in his native Geneva to a clock maker at fifteen. Afterward, he worked as a mechanic in an armory in the same city, making the basic mechanisms for muskets. Recruited by one of Henri Keppler’s European agents, he came to the New World to work at the Armory. Hans’ specialty involved the inner workings of clocks and guns. A dense fringe of curly brown hair surrounded his baldpate; thick hairy arms hung from a tall, sturdy built.

“I don’t see much promise in the spear gun device,” he told Luke. “But there’s real utility in the exploding canteen.”

“Why do you like one and not the other?” asked Luke.

“I fail to see any advantage in the spear gun. Muskets and cannon balls do enough damage, and they’re easier to load.”

“You may have a point there, but I believe you’re missing something. The gun still serves a purpose.”

“Perhaps, the canteen indeed has merit,” Hans said with a twinkle in his green eyes. “It can be used to blow up a ship at sea or destroy a barricade on land. Two obstacles remain – how it reaches the target and a better firing mechanism.”

“You do not like the fuse?”

“It is all right in some instances, but it has drawbacks.”

“Yes, weather conditions must be good, and it is hard to hide.”

“Exactly. And the fuse limits the device’s application. It can only be used on dry land.”

“Do you have any ideas how to improve it?” Luke asked.

“Yes, I do. I’ll draw up plans, make components, then experiment with them.” Hans pursed his lips and folded arms as if lost in deep thought.

A little later Anne drove up in the wagon and pulled alongside the two men. She was annoyed at Luke for devoting so much time to work at the Armory and so little to her. Because his concentration on the task at hand was so intense, Luke failed to notice her arrival. She cleared her throat, but he still failed to respond. Finally, she spoke up. “Well, if you can’t go to church with me, at least you can drive me home promptly.”

Luke was stunned to realize she was there – and mortified that he hadn’t noticed her. “Oh, Anne, I’m sorry. Meet Hans Reinhardt. My wife, Hans.”

“How do you do, madam,” Hans said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

In a bright red bonnet Anne nodded at him. “Pleased to meet you.” Her smile was polite but strained.

“Hans was helping me correct the limitations of my latest invention,” Luke pointed out. The two men were dismantling one of the mines.

“You look like two boys playing with toy soldiers.”

“Not quite.” Privately, Luke thought the analogy quite apt.

“Let’s go home and have supper,” she pleaded.

“All right.” Luke turned to Hans. “We’ll work on this later. Thanks for your help.”

By the next weekend, Hans had replaced the fuse with an internal timing and firing mechanism. This would eliminate the manual lighting of the fuse, conceal the device from the enemy and protect it from the elements. Hans’s real objective was to make the mechanism impervious to water for use against British ships. That had never dawned on Luke, for he had envisioned it strictly as a land bomb.

During the following weeks, these inventors developed a new version for both land and water. Initial attempts failed, but after further experimentation, they made adjustments. At long last the pair floated logs on the river, with the devices attached, and set the timers. Soon an explosion caused the water to churn furiously, spouting high, as chunks and splinters from the logs littered the surface.

Such means of destruction inspired Luke. Perhaps, a normal reaction for fighting men, but how could he, a doctor, pledged to save lives, harbor these feelings? If anything, they seemed misplaced. Did patriotism resolve this paradox for him? Revenge for Nat Hale’s death? Or was Luke naturally drawn to violence and destruction? Did he even enjoy and relish them? Might there be a savage, considerably less noble, still lurking deep inside as with all men, one incited by the devil? Presumably, the white man’s education made him civilized and encouraged him to be humane. But whose war was this anyway? Certainly not the Indians’. It was definitely the white man’s contest, The Indians’ role at most reluctant or part-time. Electing to suppress such contradictions, Luke would not allow them to intrude on work.

Word that beacon fires raged on the mountaintops south of Newburgh just reached Matthew Davidson at the warehouse. This signified the British were coming up the Hudson in force, so he collected weapons and rode over to Dr. Deyo’s house on a pinto to fetch his brother. When he arrived, Molly told him the young doctor was visiting patients west of town. Matthew left a message for him that the militia was being mobilized against a surprise British attack downriver and urged him to hurry.

Spurring the horse on to Wiegand’s tavern, Matthew waited there for the citizensoldiers in the unit to gather. After about an hour a mere ten men had appeared out of thirty. At last a rider approached on horseback and ordered them to reinforce Fort Montgomery immediately. Though hoping to muster a larger force, Matthew led the men south and left one man behind with instructions for latecomers. During the fall most were away at farms outside town harvesting

crops.

Situated a good ten miles downriver at the end of a rough, mountainous trail, the journey to Fort Montgomery was no easy jaunt. Even if they hurried, it would take Matthew’s company at least two hours of hard marching, for only he rode a horse. As they wound their way up and down the trail’s narrow twists and turns, sporadic cannon fire rumbled through the valleys and defiles downriver. Matthew prayed these were American shots.

His mind wandered. Now that Luke was fully enmeshed in the practice of the white man’s medicine, Matthew realized Red Feather was grooming him to become the next chief. He had explained tribal rites and customs to his second oldest son and aided him in mastering the tribe’s business interests. Matthew accepted this role willingly, always secretly aspiring to it.

The leaves on the trees had just begun to turn; greenery still shone in the midday sunlight mixed with reds and yellows. Down in a hollow on the right, a small herd of deer chewed the tall grass and gazed curiously at the soldiers. Sounds of guns and canteens hitting men’s bodies, accompanying grunts and groans kept the animals alert, ears pricked as the soldiers climbed the trail.

“How do you feel about finally going up against the redcoats?” panted one soldier of the man next to him.

“I don’t mind telling ya: I am a bit scared,” said the other. “They’re the best army in the world and we…”

“We ain’t so bad.”

“Keep up the pace, men,” shouted Matthew impatiently. “We don’t want to miss the battle.”

“What do ya think of the new Indian officer?” queried the first militiaman.

“He’s a clever one and a hell of a shot,” responded the other. “I thought the doc was deadly till I seen the brother shoot.”

“They’re both damn good. We are lucky to have ‘em. Wish the doc were here now.”

Fort Montgomery, one of the two forts on the west side of the Hudson, stood astride a bluff overlooking Popolopen Creek to the north. On an adjacent hill, Fort Clinton jutted out south. A pontoon bridge connected them, spanning the creek below that flowed into the river. The forts protected a rudimentary iron chain and unfinished boom that stretched across the Hudson from Anthony’s Nose – a huge steep promontory on the eastern shore – to block British ships sailing upriver after the enemy’s occupation of New York City.

Matthew had recently delivered a supply of gunpowder by mules to these fortifications, so he knew them well. Their walls, composed of stones, logs and compacted earth, remained incomplete at the rear. Undermanned, they had been partially stripped of troops to beef up Gates’ forces at Saratoga awaiting Burgoyne’s attack and Washington’s Army in Pennsylvania after General Howe’s troops had seized Philadelphia.

As Matthew and his band reached Fort Montgomery, stray musket shots echoed afar. Matthew tied his horse out of harm’s way and ushered the men into the Fort. He reported to the commanding officer, General George Clinton. Also serving as New York’s first governor, Clinton was rugged, big-boned, almost gigantic in overall makeup.

“Where are the rest of your men, Lieutenant?” Clinton asked.

“Sir, I am sorry. This was all we could muster on such short notice.” Matthew was embarrassed. He took it personally more men had not turned up, as a sign of flawed leadership.

“So much for the concept of ‘Minute Men.’ They’ll have to do. Take up your positions along the outer wall.” Clinton directed them to the Fort’s western side, a half-built structure that offered little protection.

“Yes, sir.” Matthew saluted before marching off.

After positioning the men along the low-slung barrier, Matthew knelt in a corner, loaded the American rifle and stuck the long barrel out a loophole. He petted it for luck, tensely awaiting the coming battle.

Within the Fort, the defenders had a wide-angle view of the river as far downstream as Peekskill. From that direction, British ships sailed toward them. In front of Matthew to the west, hills and gullies, thick with trees and undergrowth, spread over the terrain. On his left in the distance towered the greenish-brown Bear Hill. So far no redcoats had appeared. The Fort’s southern wall fell off precipitously to the creek one hundred fifty feet below. As part of

Nature’s array, boulders of varying size were haphazardly strewn within the Fort itself and beyond.

Because the day’s events had been so rushed, Matthew had little opportunity to reflect on the battle itself. This would be his initiation, the first time he would be forced to kill or be killed. Without doubt a test of courage and manhood. He kneeled, placed his left shoulder against the half-wall, and wished his big brother would soon them for added .

Doubts assailed him. How would he fare in battle? Would he disappoint, do something cowardly or, God forbid, run away in the midst of the fighting? An inner voice reminded him he was now an officer and leader of his militia unit, skilled in the martial arts. He had to be a strong example for his men. Though still anxious, he grew steadier.

Before the arrival of Matthew and his men, Clinton, desperate for any news of the enemy, had dispatched a reconnaissance party. Led by Major Samuel Logan, a 100-man patrol marched along a narrow trail on the backside of Bear Hill and Dunderberg Mountain, south toward Stony Point. In the fog and mist of early morning, an advanced squad of Logan’s troops under Lieutenant English watched the enemy’s disembarkation from ships and whaleboats on the river’s west shore. After a hasty retreat to Logan’s position at Timp , English reported his findings.

“How many British soldiers were there?” Logan asked.

“I couldn’t say for sure, sir. The haze made it too hard to tell.”

“Well, that does it.”

Logan felt poorly. He was still shaking with fever and had no stomach for a fight. “We’ll head back to Fort Montgomery forthwith and tell General Clinton what we saw.”

“Sir,” a captain proposed, “We could hold out here for quite a while and kill many redcoats.” The officer would prove right. Timp was steep, narrow and rocky. Because the enemy would have no other choice than to approach the forts along this path, even a small number of soldiers could bar their age indefinitely.

“But our orders were to find out what the lobsterbacks were up to and report it without a clash,” Logan objected.

“Sir, with all due respect,” English contended, “I believe the captain’s right. We could send a messenger to the Fort, then stay and fight. If nothing else, we’ll give them a bloody nose.”

“ the Spartans at Thermopoli,” the captain observed. “Three hundred held off thousands of Persians for days in a narrow .”

“I’ve no interest in ancient history,” Logan said emphatically. “We’ve accomplished our purpose, and we’ll return to the fort now.”

Back at Fort Montgomery, Logan’s report had irritated Clinton. Not only had

Logan neglected to stand and fight at a most opportune place, but the information he provided was sketchy and incomplete. Logan had failed to discover the number of enemy troops, cannons or type of units. Realizing the enemy might overwhelm his depleted force, Clinton had earlier sent word to Peekskill for reinforcements. He ordered patrols to retrace Logan’s trail, but they were too late; by then the British had already traversed Timp without encountering any resistance. While fighting valiantly, the new patrols merely slowed and harassed the redcoats on their march.

Colonel Beverley Robinson, a Tory, served in the approaching enemy contingent. A resident of the Hudson Highlands, Robinson knew the surrounding countryside all too well. With his Loyal American Regiment, he spearheaded the advance of British and Hessian troops around Dunderberg Mountain and Bear Hill toward the rebel forts.

Inside Fort Montgomery an American major, creeping along its western wall, shouted, “Men, take aim and shoot when you think you have a clear shot. Don’t wait for orders to fire.”

Just then, a lone redcoat two hundred yards away barely stuck his head above the undergrowth. Lining him up in the gun’s sights, Matthew gently squeezed the trigger on his American rifle. The Englishman, stepping forward, slumped over to vanish in the bushes.

“Whose shot was that?” asked a captain in the Continental Army.

Matthew raised his hand in a tentative gesture. He hated to stick out, modesty had been so crucial in his upbringing.

“Good work. We need more sharpshooting like that. Keep at it, lads”

Gradually, enemy troops emerged from the west, puffs of white smoke arising from the green landscape. Musket shots flew back and forth between the two sides with greater frequency. They whizzed through the scrub often hitting British soldiers, ricocheted off the Fort’s stone walls or at times directly struck a rebel defender. One shot narrowly missed Matthew; another drilled a hole in his hat. Fortunately for the Americans, the foe lacked artillery to capitalize on greater numbers and the rebels’ unfinished fortifications.

Across the creek, the musket fire grew more intense as the British attacked Fort Clinton. On the river enemy men-of-war bombarded it with cannonballs. The smoke and noise from this quarter drifted toward Fort Montgomery and mixed indiscriminately with its own.

As hundreds of English, Hessian and Tory troops crept toward that fort, American marksmen discharged weapons, rapidly reloading and firing again. Whistling lead in flight and pungent odors of spent gunpowder drifted over the uneven terrain. Attackers fell in irregular rows, heaped on top of one another. Fewer in number, defenders too lost men, ranks thinning in the constant barrage. From redoubts beyond the fort’s western wall, other rebels lent , muskets and cannon firing at the invaders.

On the edge of the woods, a flag of truce broke through the smoke and haze that engulfed the battlefield. There a small English drummer boy appeared. Draped from his neck, the drum he beat emitted a slow distinctive cadence. Sounds of shooting ebbed, then ceased as an unsettling calm descended. A British lieutenant colonel, brilliantly clad in a bright red uniform with gold braids atop both shoulders, solemnly strode alongside the drummer boy.

Dripping with sweat from his exertions, Matthew rested while three senior officers hastily conferred at the rear of the Fort. Two American officers, Lieutenant Colonel Livingston and Captain Machin, soon advanced briskly toward the pair of British soldiers on the open field. In elegance, Livingston’s uniform matched that of the British officer. When they met, the British colonel saluted the Americans, with the rebels returning the gesture.

“My compliments, sirs,” the British colonel said. “You’ve fought valiantly today, but your cause here is doomed. We greatly outnumber you. Avoid further bloodshed and surrender. We promise you good treatment.”

“Never, sir.” Livingston was ignorant of the total strength of the British force. “We’re confident of victory, but if you care to surrender, we’ll treat you with proper respect.”

“My good man, that is simply out of the question.” The British officer saluted, then rapidly pivoted to head toward the woods and his comrades-in-arms.

On both sides the rattle and smoke again poured from muskets in the continuing struggle. During the temporary truce, an American marksman held the British colonel in his sights, never letting him escape even after his retreat. As soon as the fighting resumed, the rebels squeezed the trigger, and the colonel fell dead. Assuming command, Lieutenant Colonel Beverley Robinson reorganized his forces and led a phalanx of eight hundred enemy soldiers forward. Bayonets fixed, they shot muskets before charging. Casualties mounted on both sides with the American gunners in semi-exposed positions persistently hammering away at the foe. In the face of overpowering fire, the British retreated for a short time. Then, as if catching a second breath, the enemy surged forward again in even greater numbers. Sharp-tipped muskets tensely gripped, they leaped over fallen comrades scattered all about.

Across the creek at Fort Clinton, the Americans had run low on gunpowder. With so little firepower to block the advance, the much more numerous British soon surrounded and stormed the Fort. As the redcoats swept over the walls, the rebel defenders wielded bayonets, fists and musket butts, the only weapons left in their arsenal. Stubbornly contesting each foot of ground, most were killed, wounded or captured though a fortunate few managed to escape. A small rebel outpost still held out but not for long. Once the enemy had conquered Fort Clinton, they hollered in near unison – a sign of victory.

In the course of repelling another attack, the rebels at Fort Montgomery heard the enemy’s shouts from across the creek to instantly grasp the meaning. The loss of the southerly fortifications dampened morale. After a lull the redcoats assailed Fort Montgomery once more, this time breaking through. Bayonets and swords flashed in the fading autumn sunshine. Soldiers wrestled in a desperate struggle for life and territory.

Whipping a sword about with one hand and an axe-like weapon in the other, Matthew fought off two British infantrymen crossing the west wall. Never an accomplished swordsman, he still had enough skill to parry a bayonet thrust, then slash with the tomahawk loosely tied to his wrist with rawhide. Highly proficient with that instrument, he twirled and manipulated it with incredible dexterity. Yet a British bayonet jabbed the side of his uniform, slicing a waist belt in half. After he blocked a second thrust, Matthew’s rapidly moving hatchet caught the first redcoat with an uppercut to the throat. He sideswiped the next invader in the ear. Both men fell, stunned and bleeding at his feet.

A senior American officer, wounded in the hip, had hurriedly limped into the rear of the Fort from across the creek to seek out Clinton. A British soldier aimed a musket at the general. Before he could pull the trigger, Matthew’s tomahawk struck him on the side of the head, sinking him to his knees. After a cautious retreat Matthew hovered in front of the general to shield him from further harm.

“We can’t let them capture the governor of New York. You must go now!” cried the wounded American officer, James Clinton, to his younger brother.

“How can I leave like this?” General Clinton said. “It would be cowardly.”

“You must. The British will have a larger victory here if they seize you. Do what I say and now, before it is too late.”

The general reflected, then reluctantly acquiesced. “You are right.”

That afternoon the rebel defeat seemed inevitable. With no reinforcements in sight from General Putnam in Peekskill, the general hastily stepped through an opening in the Fort’s wall, slipped down the steep embankment to the shoreline and escaped in a ing boat.

News of the British raid reached Luke upon a return to the office. He changed into his uniform, grabbed a musket, medical bag, powder and shot, then rushed out the door. Once on the black stallion he rode hell bent for leather toward the battle downriver. Unsure whether he would be taking or saving lives, he was well prepared for either eventuality. The arduous climb up and down the craggy, constricted trail slowed progress. As the sun declined in the western sky, musket shots rang out afar, initially in quick succession, then more slowly and later only sporadically. Closer to the fortifications, American militiamen ran toward him along the trail.

“The British have taken the forts,” one shouted. “Run while you can.”

Instead Luke pressed on, until he met other fleeing American soldiers. Two were injured, so he stopped to treat their wounds. More men ran by him, seeking safety.

“It’s useless going any further. You’ll become a casualty or a prisoner,” warned an American officer. “All’s lost at the forts.”

“Have you seen an Indian officer in the militia?” Luke asked.

“Is he the one who wields tomahawks?”

A smile inched across Luke’s face. “In all likelihood.”

“At the end he was helping James Clinton make good an escape. Clinton is wounded. I am sure they are both off in the woods someplace hiding out.”

Hour after hour, Luke searched for Matthew but failed to find him. He worried about ever seeing his brother alive. That evening the doctor returned home to sleep, but the next afternoon he was summoned to the Widow’s Fall Inn in New Windsor, just south of Newburgh, to tend to the wounded there. As he entered the inn, Luke looked about in the dimly-lit barroom for the officer in charge.

“Whose in command here?” he asked an injured soldier, slumped over a bench.

“General George Clinton. He’s in the next room,” the soldier gasped.

Clinton sat at a round table with three officers.

Luke strode up to him. “Sir, excuse me, but I’m Dr. Luke Davidson.”

“Yes, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from Colonel Hasbrouck. Can you help with the wounded?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“My brother James over there needs tending. Seems he accidentally ran into a bayonet. Always was careless.”

“Sir, I’m looking for my own brother, Lieutenant Matthew Davidson. By chance have you seen him?”

Clinton nodded. “He fought bravely and well. Saved my life and my brother’s. Should get a commendation.”

All at once someone grabbed Luke from behind, using a special wrestling hold. Instinctively, Luke began to make a countermove, stopped and started laughing. Released by the would-be attacker, Luke turned to greet his brother.

“Where have you been?” Luke asked. “I was sick with worry.” The brothers

embraced briefly. Then Luke slapped Mathew on the back and smiled.

“We’ve been fighting the British while you were off doctoring,” Matthew boasted.

“By the time I got close to the Fort, the battle had ended,” Luke replied.

“No matter,” Clinton interjected. “You’ll have plenty of other chances. Unfortunately, the British are not leaving our country just yet.”

Luke went to work tending the wounded in another room. He treated James Clinton’s wounded hip, cleansing it with a home-brewed antiseptic and replacing the old bandages with fresh ones. Afterward, Luke extracted lead fragments from three other soldiers, cleaned and bandaged them. The next patient, Captain Thomas Machin, had sustained a superficial chest wound. A concerned Sergeant Michael McDuffy hovered over him. Still fighting off a cold, he coughed and blew his nose into a red handkerchief but stayed to watch.

“Doc, how long do you think it will take to heal?” asked Machin, trim yet stubble-faced.

“It is hard to tell, a week or two, perhaps longer.”

“I have duties to attend to,” Machin declared. “And I need to get started now.”

A fierce dedication to the cause imbued his every fiber. A participant in the Boston Tea Party, he had been wounded at Bunker Hill and now served as Clinton’s top aide.

“Sir, perhaps you ought listen to the doc,” McDuffy advised. “No sense mes your health.”

“Whatever it is, will have to wait, I am afraid,” Luke said.

“It cannot.” Machin shook his head. “The British are dismantling the chain across the river at Fort Montgomery. That means they can sail upstream and destroy our other obstructions just north of the Highlands, between Pollopel Island and Plum Point.”

“What can be done to stop them?” Luke asked.

“There is an artillery battery I could command. We have only two four-pounders there. Our twenty-four pounder has a broken axle and may be useless.” Machin looked worried.

“I gather you won’t do much good and you are not well enough to do anything strenuous,” Luke observed.

One of Clinton’s aides rushed in. “Doc, the general wants to see you. Please hurry!”

Luke returned to the large dining room where Clinton held sway and two soldiers grasped a man in civilian clothes.

Clinton explained. “When we caught him, he thought we were British. Once he discovered the error, the man swallowed a bullet. I venture to say he is a spy.”

“Let’s cut him open and retrieve it,” suggested an aide, displaying a long knife for effect. The prisoner shuddered.

“No need for anything so drastic,” Luke said. “I have a less painful remedy for the problem.” He removed a packet of white powder from his medical bag. “Fetch me a glass of water.” He mixed the powdered substance in the liquid and thrust the glass at the captive. “Drink it.”

The prisoner hesitated, then took the glass and drank, gulping the fluid downward.

“What is it?” Clinton asked Luke.

“Emetic tartar. It’ll flush the bullet out quickly enough.”

Before long, the prisoner confessed to being a British officer sent by Sir Henry Clinton from Fort Montgomery with a message for General Burgoyne at Saratoga. However, he insisted he was no spy, just a messenger. Soon, the elusive bullet was flushed from his body. All cleaned up, it appeared oval in shape, silver in color and hollow. It concealed a note. The small missive

confirmed the Englishman’s story then some. The confession and the inscribed piece of paper became his death warrant. The following morning he was hung as a spy.

Early the next day, Luke sent a carriage to the inn to carry Machin and McDuffy to Plum Point. At Luke’s request Hans Reinhardt and his men loaded two wagons with special equipment and drove to the same location.

Plum Point was a high bluff on the western side of the river between Newburgh and New Windsor. Linking the Point and Pollepel Island – a small, rocky formation just off the eastern shore – were sunken obstructions in the river called Chevaux-de-Frise, extremely large log boxes filled with rocks and topped off with pointed iron prods. Upon these devices rested the last American hope to block the British warships from going further north. Originally, Machin had proposed a substantial artillery battery on Plum Point armed with fourteen cannons to protect the Chevaux-de-Frise. Because of shortages his superiors never furnished the artillery sought. Only two small pieces functioned.

When Luke arrived at Plum Point, Machin and McDuffy were already there, Machin half-sitting, half-lying in a carriage still in pain. Luke ordered the Armory workmen to set up the wooden stands with his powered spear guns among some tall bushes to camouflage them from view.

“What are these strange devices?” Machin asked.

“It is either the doctor’s folly or something ingenious,” Hans said. “I’ve not decided which yet.”

“You’ll soon see.” Luke smiled, confident that his invention had practical value. “When you don’t have cannon, you make due.”

At Luke’s instructions, four small rafts were pushed into the river just off Plum Point. Adjusting the angle of the spear guns in one stand, Luke loaded them and lit the fuses. A series of loud explosions and smoke poured from the devices. As the smoke cleared, it became apparent these weapons were not toys. Two spears struck one raft, a third destroyed another and the remaining two spears had landed not far off their marks.

“Now I understand what you intend. Bravo!” shouted Hans.

“I am suitably impressed,” Machin said. “Do all country doctors have such weapon’s expertise?”

“Hardly.” Luke shrugged. “I need to make some adjustments to increase the range.”

“You won’t sink any British ships with these spears,” Machin said. “I hope you realize that.”

“Yes, I know, but it may discourage them. At least it is worth a try.”

Luke continued taking target practice for the rest of the day.

A few days later, beacon fires on surrounding mountains and cannons along the river proclaimed the arrival of British ships. It had taken the enemy that long to dismantle the chain at Fort Montgomery, destroy both forts and await more favorable sailing conditions. But Luke and his workmen were ready for them on Plum Point. At five o’clock in the afternoon one British ship, Diligent, a brig under the command of Captain Cecil Gordon sailed upriver, trying to slip by the obstructions. Three galleys and several transports, all part of one small fleet, trailed in its wake.

As Diligent neared Pollepel Island, scattered musket fire cracked harmlessly from both shorelines. The wind, blowing from the southwest at a brisk pace, pushed the ships rapidly forward as they skirted the partially exposed Chevauxde-Frise. Aware these river obstructions posed little threat, Gordon, still vigilant, kept his crew on full alert.

The cannon balls from the rebel artillery on Plum Point fell far short of Gordon’s ship. Their faint sounds scarcely seemed threatening. Then different noises came from the port quarter, half-musket, half-cannon.

Moments later, slashing through the brig’s upper rigging and sails, a hail of iron spears stabbed its decks. One shaft struck the helmsman in the back, piercing his abdomen. Out of control, the ship veered to starboard, almost striking the small island until the first mate seized the wheel.

“Captain, what was that?” he cried.

“Don’t know.” Flinching, Gordon ordered, “Get me one of those blasted rods.” A sailor hurriedly obeyed him.

As Gordon examined a pointed spear, another array of iron missiles struck the ship. But this time, a series of secondary explosions accompanied them. Because the crew appeared frightened and confused, Gordon sensed panic might erupt. Behind the brig metal spears, some silent and sharp, others dull and exploding, rained down on the rest of his squadron. Though baffled, Gordon realized these missiles could not inflict serious damage, especially if his ships kept moving north.

“Pin pricks!” shouted Gordon, “Pin pricks, pay them no mind. They can’t harm us.” He seized one spear and smashed it against the railing, bending the rod in half. His words and deed rallied the crew and steadied their morale.

Flustered by the onslaught, a small galley in the humble armada strayed westward to flounder on a sunken obstruction. The four-pounders on the high bluff at last found a target they could hit. Glancing back, Gordon grasped no rescue was possible without jeopardizing other boats. Abandoned, the injured galley sank as a sacrifice to permit safe age of the remaining ships. Later, six British vessels, forming still another squadron, slipped by the Chevaux-de-Frise unharmed and sailed north at twilight.

In mortal fear of an invasion, Newburgh residents buried valuables in their yards. At dusk a cannonball from a ing English ship killed one man on the river’s edge, the only casualty in the town. As the enemy headed further up the Hudson, it burned and destroyed indiscriminately along both banks. Once the British ships had departed, the rebel militia under Clinton’s command raced north toward Kingston, the capital of New York State, to protect it.

CHAPTER XI – HOMEFRONT

Ordinarily, Luke and Matthew would have ridden at the head of the militia to Kingston, but with Hasbrouck’s permission they stayed behind to work at the Armory. Because no outlets existed further north, the British ships would have to come downriver through the Highlands, right ed them. Aware of this, Luke conferred with Hans, and they agreed on a plan of action, each hastening to carry out an assigned task.

“I want four ten foot logs tampered at each end,” Luke indicated to Peter Dyckman, a Dutch carpenter, while pointing to a rough drawing in his hands.

“Yah, I see,” Dyckman said. “Vhat else?”

“Either thin flat boards or round sticks for a platform, two leather belts to be draped between and attached to the logs, each a foot wide, and wooden strips to secure the rear section,” Luke revealed in exacting tones. “See, right here.”

“Yah, I ken do dat.”

“Now comes the difficult part, small water wheels here and there.”

“Hmm,” Dyckman scratched his head. “Tat vill be tougha, but it vill be done.”

“How long will it take?”

“Maybe two day. Deez wessels vill be just wight”

“Good. As long as it is done before the British return.”

“Don’t ya vorry, it vill be, mit God’s help.”

After devising new modifications, Hans put the finishing touches on the marine mines and tested each of the timing and firing mechanisms. In the interim Luke explained the plan to Matthew and suggested they swim in the river to prepare for the mission.

At the end of the second day, Dyckman delivered two floating contrivances. After experimenting with one, Luke requested a few adjustments be made. The next morning, Matthew and he went for a trial run in the new water vehicles. With great curiosity Hans watched from the shoreline.

Fortunately, the British ships kept north of Newburgh. From upriver messengers had already ridden with reports about the English invasion and burning of Kingston. Every house in that fair town had been set on fire save the one owned by a Tory.

“We will wait for the enemy ships in the cove below Plum Point,” Luke said. “They’ll be back soon enough.”

“We should move down there tonight,” Hans suggested. “So we’ll be ready whenever they sail our way.”

“Come on, let’s go now,” Matthew was enthusiastic. “After our loss at Ft. Montgomery, I want another crack at them.”

They waited in the cove until late in the afternoon of the next day, but sighted no British ships. As the sun began to set, two arrays of sails streamed toward them from the north. Rather than chance a age through the narrows of the Highlands on a moonless night, the British brig and smaller sloop anchored midpoint in the widest part of the river, directly abreast of Newburgh. Amid the growing darkness, a mist arose. Matthew and Luke blackened their faces with charcoal, stripped to the waist and greased bodies with bear fat.

Dyckman’s handiwork floated gingerly in the cove. Grimly suited to the objective, the rafts were weapons of destruction camouflaged to look harmless and natural. Each craft consisted of two pointed logs held together by a flat wooden platform on the bow and rounded sticks of wood at the stern. A leather sling hung in the space midway between the longer logs. Outer edges, just below the water line, housed a pair of small paddle wheels, one between the forward platform and the sling, the other next to the cross sticks in the rear. Directly in front of the sling, crank handles turned the forward wheels, and in the rear two foot pedals rotated the stern ones. In a wooden box mounted on the forward platform lay marine mines, haphazardly concealed by green pine branches.

Positioned between the long logs, the brothers pushed the rafts from the shoreline into the river. Once the water reached their chests, each man slipped into a semi-prone position, ed by the sling, then propelled the craft ahead, manipulating the cranks and foot pedals. Quickly and quietly, they slipped through the water toward the British ships moored beyond.

On these ships, British marines kept watch, striding the lengths of the decks with muskets shouldered at the ready. During the night, as the mist grew thicker, visibility decreased. The river’s waters lapping against both hulls and currents pulling at the anchor chains, the boats constantly shifted in the foggy darkness.

Insulated from cold water splashing over their bodies by the bear fat, Luke and Matthew made headway. Lights flickered on each vessel to highlight their positions for the attackers. Luke’s concentration on the mission had caused him to suppress all emotions. Now that they were closing in on the ships, anxiety strengthened its grip. Edgy throughout the afternoon, Matthew had found the long wait excruciating. Once in the water, he relaxed. Amidst the paddling, he reviewed Luke’s instructions.

In the cabin on the Diligent, Gordon tossed and turned in his bunk. Unable to sleep, he rose to peer out a porthole. The night’s enveloping mist unnerved him. When the ship cruised further north, he was exhilarated and proud of British accomplishments – the burning and destruction of rebel boats and towns along the full course.

In this stretch of the river, he grew even more uneasy. Not far from this point, those bloody spears had assaulted the small fleet, he recalled only too vividly. A helmsman had been killed, the upper sails of the ship in tatters, the crew on the verge of panic.

An ordinary sailor, Gordon had worked his way up through the ranks of the British Navy without much formal education or outside influence to smooth the way. The war confused him. Why wouldn’t the colonists pay taxes? Every Englishman had to pay taxes in one way or another. How else could England maintain the best navy and Army in the world? And why should Americans be treated any differently? Englishmen took great pride in their military and ed it wholeheartedly.

The manner in which the rebels fought baffled Gordon much more. On land they would run away in the face of superior numbers and arms, then strike back in odd maneuvers from stone fences, behind trees and thickets. American raids, rapid and unexpected, showed boldness and daring. To the British these proved jarring experiences because they were so accustomed to set-to battles. The mysterious explosion near the Eagle in the river off Manhattan Island back in ‘76 stuck in his mind as a gnawing reminder. Rumors circulated the Americans had a new underwater weapon. How bloody sneaky they were.

Gordon grudgingly ired the colonists. Before the war, he had been drawn to their friendliness in various ports of call throughout the world. They were a refreshing contrast to the hide-bound class-consciousness prevalent in English society. As a member of the lower echelon, he had often been hampered by the prejudices of an arrogant upper class. Yet these rebels were a clever bunch, something he must never forget. They prided themselves on their Yankee ingenuity, a skill at inventing.

After dressing, Gordon wandered out on deck into the cool night air. Fears mounted as he watched the fog, drifting over the pitch-black river, engulf the brig. Even with a candled lantern hung from the mast, he could barely spot the marine sentry at his post. A light breeze rustled the rigging and interrupted the creaking and groaning of the ship in the flow of the river’s currents. No sane man, Gordon decided, would venture forth on a night like this, and certainly not in open water. That belief calmed him, lessening suspicions. Yet he paced back and forth on the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind him.

In the cove the brothers had bandied about the choice of targets. It came down to a flip of a coin. Matthew had won and almost selected the bigger ship, the brig, but because of his respect for Luke, he said, “I’ll take the sloop, smaller ship for younger brother.” He had laughed at the time. In a new-gained maturity, Matthew no longer strove to compete with big brother as he once did. Anointed heir-apparent to succeed his father as the tribe’s chief, he had already achieved

the goal sought and need not prove anything else.

“That is fine with me,” Luke replied, in a more serious vein. “Be careful and quiet out there,” were his last words of advice.

Now, at night in mid-river, the choice of targets seemed unimportant to the brothers. Anchored within a few hundred feet of one another, the British ships both appeared imposing and dangerous from the water’s surface. Drawing closer to the targets, they slowed the rafts to survey the men-of-war. The pause gave them a welcome breather after almost an hour of strenuous exertion. With a left hand, Luke signaled his brother to launch the attack, each approach timed to coincide with the other.

To ease the craft nearer, Luke paddled toward the brig’s stern. At the last moment he tied the raft to its rudder, slipping a rope neatly around it. A mine from the box in hand, he slid off the leather sling, submerged below one log, and swam underwater along the brig’s hull to mid-ship.

Hans had devised two different means of securing the mines to the vessel – a sharp iron screw inserted in the mine or a rope looped through iron rings on its sides. Luke, surfacing for air momentarily, submerged again to find an opportune spot under the ship for the mine. As he ran a free hand along the hull, he felt metal. The boat’s bottom was sheathed in copper. He reemerged and began screwing the mine between two wooden planks above the copper sheathing just below the water line.

Tying the craft to the sloop’s anchor chain off the bow, Matthew swam to the stern with a mine draped around his neck. There he hung the explosive device by rope around the rudder just under the surface. He set the firing mechanism before swimming back to the raft for another mine. With that in his grasp, he

submerged and stroked through the water until far forward along the sloop’s hull, where he screwed the device into the wooden bottom.

As air bubbles drifted upwards, the dark waters blocked out all sounds to envelop Luke in a wave of tranquility. The longer he stayed down, the more the danger.

“What’s that bloody noise?” Gordon shouted from above.

“Didn’t hear a thing, sir,” replied the marine sentry.

“I say are you deaf, man?” Gordon’s voice hardened. His respect for the mental capacity of marines on board never was particularly high.

“No, sir! What sound are you referring to?”

“Upon my soul, it is a soft banging noise … like two pieces of wood smacking together in the water.”

“Please, where is it coming from, sir?”

“Off the stern. Go take a look and step lively.”

Luke’s craft gently nudged the brig’s rudder in the river’s currents. The sentry peered over the railing but in the dark mist saw nothing. On the brig’s far side, Luke grappled underwater, screwing a second explosive into the hull. This proved arduous work. After setting the firing mechanism, he glided back around the bow, checked on the first mine, then pulled its triggering device.

“I can’t see anything, sir,” the sentry shouted.

“Get the blasted lantern and take a closer look!” Gordon cried. “Use that skull of yours for something other than a hat rack.”

The sentry hurried to the mast to grab the tin lantern. He leaned over the stern with the light in hand and spotted the raft.

“Looks like some logs and branches bumping up against the rudder.”

“What did you say?” Gordon exclaimed. “Logs, branches? What nonsense is this? Let’s have a look.” He stepped aft and craned downward. “I say that is the queerest thing I have ever seen.” He scratched his head.

Two hundred feet away the stern of the sloop exploded, showering flames into the misty night.

“What the hell was that?” Gordon yelled. “Blasted rebels, I’ll wager.” A shiver went through him. Fear gripped his entire being.

Dumbfounded, the sentry said, “I dunno the cause but our sister ship afire.” They stared again at the brig’s rudder; at last it dawned on Gordon.

“By Jupiter,” he said excitedly as if a blindfold had been ripped from his eyes. “That’s a raft!”

Underwater at the brig’s stern, Luke’s ears had picked up the muffled sounds of the first explosion. In the darkness a flickering light glowed above him. Because his lungs were almost bursting, he had to surface to breathe.

“There is a man,” shouted the sentry. Looking downward, he became agitated for the first time.

“Shoot the son of a bitch,” Gordon shouted. “Don’t ya dare miss.”

Luke realized the danger. Fear immobilized him for an instant; then his training took hold. He inhaled, submerged and swam away, abandoning the raft. Upset, the sentry dropped the lantern into the river as he fumbled with the musket. Everything went black on the brig except for the blaze from the British sloop. At last the sentry shot blindly into the night air below, missing all but the water. As he was reloading for another shot, a second explosion rocked the sloop. Gordon forgot about the raft and the man in the river to concentrate in silent wonder on the plight of the other ship.

“Damn those rebels,” he roared. “They are sneaky devils alright.”

The sentry shot again—this time hitting one of the mines still on the raft. The explosion was deafening. A burst of intense light surged upward from the river. The brig’s rudder and the raft were blown into a thousand pieces. Moments later, successive explosions blew out the brig’s mid-section, its hull gradually breaking apart as the ship sank with all hands aboard.

The next day the remainder of the British fleet sailed downstream. Almost totally submerged, the masts of the men-of-war jutted from the water. Having sustained so much punishment at the hands of their English cousins, Americans, watching from the shoreline, now had something to cheer. The British were retreating to Manhattan, tarnished by losses on the river.

Yet further north the enemy had sustained an even greater defeat. The thrust from Canada of Burgoyne and six thousand troops had been utterly routed at Saratoga near the river’s headwaters. For the moment the redcoats’ dream of splitting the colonies and controlling the Hudson had been transformed into a nightmare with their capture and imprisonment.

The snow began to descend before a late December dawn. It persisted all day and into the night. High gusts of wind drove the flakes, large and moist, more rapidly as evening fell. The total accumulation measured several feet. Her gaze out the front window of the brick cottage upset Anne. Having traveled to the office early that day, Luke was scheduled afterward to make the rounds of sick patients in their homes. It was getting late, and he should have been back by now. Though anxious, she tried to calm herself. After all he had taken the horsedrawn sleigh and his snowshoes. Anyway, Indians had a sixth sense about bad weather and special skills to deal with it, at least she believed as much.

The fire in the living room hearth crackled while it devoured the logs. Anne took comfort in the supply of cut wood stacked high in double rows on both sides of the fireplace. The flames emitted almost enough light to illuminate the room without the need for any candles. When she walked across the parlor, the light

from the hearth projected her shadow on the bare white plastered wall. Startled at first, she soon found it humorous.

My word, but her figure had changed greatly in the last few months. Standing more erect before the firelight, she observed her darkened silhouette on the wall. All that lovemaking … She was now with child. She calculated the due date to be mid-February, 1778.

A rush of cold air swept through the room with the slamming of the kitchen door. The wind raged outside. Disappointed, Anne managed a faint smile when Little Flower, Luke’s younger sister, crossed the threshold.

“How are the animals in the barn?” she asked. Little Flower’s Christian name was Rebecca.

“They are doing very well.” Rebecca closed the door. “The chickens seem to enjoy the snow. They love scratching it. The horses and cows have plenty of hay to nibble on.” She gently lowered her apron and let a dozen eggs roll slowly to a dead stop on the kitchen table.

“I am worried about Luke in this weather. He’s so late.”

Rebecca put hot coals from the hearth into a long-handled, covered brass pan, then sat at the table and slid it under her skirt to warm up. “He and my uncle would disappear for days hunting in the mountains in far worse winter weather. Believe me, there is nothing to worry about.” Now seventeen, she had finished her formal education at the new school house in the Indian village and was there to help out during Anne’s pregnancy and the baby’s birth. Under Great Healer’s

guidance, she had trained as a midwife.

“I am so glad you are here,” Anne replied. “I hate being left alone.”

“It is just the weather,” Rebecca replied. “Winter can be very bleak and makes life dull and somber. We get so much snow.”

“Yes, I know. It is not as bad on the seacoast, where I am from. But it’s not just the weather.”

“Luke should be home soon, and we’ll have dinner. That will cheer you up.”

“Strange, when he was in Europe all those years, I missed him, but I did not mind being alone. We wrote and that seemed enough to get us through.”

“But you were not married, living together and expecting a child. That makes a big difference. It would to me.”

“Perhaps, you’re right. Now I want, no demand, much from him … more than he can give sometimes.” Regret tinged Anne’s voice. In some ways her marriage had fallen short of her expectations. She longed for more attention, to be pampered by Luke. And he, so busy at the office and the Armory, had little time to spare. Nor did he take her advice or ask her opinions as he had done so often before. Rebecca patted Anne’s hand to reassure her.

The kitchen door flew open, and Luke appeared out of the white-speckled darkness, along with frigid air and howling wind. His outer coat and boots were laced with snow that he shook off by stomping feet on the wood-planked floor after closing the portal.

“It is getting nasty out there.” He was glad to be home, shielded from the tempestuous elements. “How is everyone inside? Warm at least?”

“We’re well, but where have you been?” Anne asked. “You’re so late, I was very worried about you.”

“Did you think some wolves had gobbled me up? I am too tough and mangy for them.”

“What kept you on such a horrible night?”

“Well, Mrs. Hutchinson decided to have her baby tonight. She was in labor from early afternoon until about an hour ago.”

“What was it?” Rebecca asked.

“A boy and was he big! That is why it took so long. Let us eat. Am I starved!”

A mere three months had elapsed since the British attack on the Valley in the fall, but Machin was already overseeing the assembly and installation of a new

chain across the Hudson this time at West Point. He and another Continental Army officer had negotiated with the owner of the Sterling Iron Works, a nearby foundry, for the fabrication of the iron links and other essential parts. Before the ice clogging the river melted in the spring, this larger chain had to be installed to block the British ships from advancing through the Highlands again.

At West Point, the Americans just began constructing fortifications where before none existed. Once completed and armed with cannon, these defenses, coupled with ones directly across the river on Constitution Island, should protect both ends of the new chain, making West Point the most crucial military post in America. The burdensome chore of assembling that chain in New Windsor, about eight miles north, had been heaped on the efficient Machin.

“Sergeant! Sergeant McDuffy!” Machin shouted, “Where is that team of horses!”

“Sir, it will be here shortly. Please don’t get your bowels in an uproar, no disrespect meant.”

“But it was supposed to be here over two hours ago.”

“I s’pose they ran into some problems, sir, what with this snow and all.”

“You promised me, McDuffy. You failed again.”

Machin stalked off in disgust. Exasperated by still another delay, he was

seriously reassessing McDuffy’s performance since last fall. McDuffy was a formidable physical specimen. He was more than six feet five inches tall and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. His natural aggressiveness and fighting skills, which Machin had witnessed, made McDuffy a potent force in a fray. Yet he was far less dependable as the top aide to an engineering officer charged with non-combat tasks. Actually, McDuffy did not act lazy or insubordinate, but temptations – women, a card game, an offer of grog or hard cider – easily distracted him.

Endowed with a delightful gift of gab, McDuffy would expound huge mouthfuls to anyone about anything. A short conversation turned out to be a rare event for him. He regaled people with stories, constantly exaggerated and frequently lied. Alibis and excuses had been legendary in his Massachusetts unit. Machin knew that people liked McDuffy. Women ired his rough-hewed charm; men viewed him as an amusing comrade-in-arms, though the smarter ones did not tolerate his hogwash for long.

Frustrated with McDuffy, Machin seemed trapped. Still when Machin was wounded in the battle for Fort Montgomery, it was none other than McDuffy who fended off a bayonet thrust from a British grenadier that would have killed Machin. Then McDuffy practically carried him from the lofty citadel to the safety and comfort of Widow Falls Inn where he received much needed rest and treatment. Indeed, he owed McDuffy his life.

If he berated McDuffy in front of the men for a foolish act or failure, McDuffy took it like a man without whimpering or whining. Despite occasional bouts of ill humor, he exhibited a puppy dog quality that reattached him to his master no matter what punishment he endured. Strangely, Machin had become that master by default and not design. When his unit had been transferred to New Jersey, McDuffy had gone off on some wild goose chase under the pretense of gathering forage for the unit’s horses and missed its departure by half a day. Shorthanded, the commander at Fort Montgomery had decided to keep him and assigned him to Machin as an aide. How could Machin now reassign McDuffy after all the

sergeant had done for him! If he had learned anything from this giant of a man, it was to preserve a sense of loyalty, however strained it might be.

When Luke pulled up in a sleigh, McDuffy was supervising ten soldiers who busily wielded axes against long tree trunks, trimming them of bark and branches.

“Sergeant,” Luke greeted him.

“Hello, Doc. What are you doing in these parts?”

“Looking for Captain Machin. Is he close by or off at West Point?”

“Yeah, he’s here about.”

“You don’t sound too happy.”

“Well, he is in one ugly mood today. So beware. Come hell or high water, he’s going to get that chain in the river by spring, even if we die of overwork or abuse.”

“Come, come, Sergeant, aren’t you exaggerating?”

“Me, exaggerate? Never. Ask anyone else here. It will be the devil to pay if we don’t get the chain in on time.”

“Where exactly is the captain?” Luke asked.

“Right over that rise.” McDuffy waved a hand in a southerly direction.

At the top of the small hill, Luke spotted Machin below, talking to a teamster on a wagon, piled high with iron links, bolts and swivels. When the sleigh drew near, Luke hailed Machin.

Turning to greet the visitor, Machin asked, “What brings you here?”

“I want to see how your wound’s doing.”

“That’s really not necessary. There’s no pain or soreness.”

“It won’t take long.”

“But I am perfectly fine. You do not have to bother.”

“That may be. Indulge me a bit. The examination will be short. Then I can make my own judgment. Why don’t we get out of the wind and go in there.” Luke

directed him to a shed by the river.

Once inside, Machin unbuttoned the shirt to let Luke view his right upper chest. Luke chided him.

“I wouldn’t be here if you had visited me last month in my office. , you promised me you would.”

“Yes, I recall but this chain has to be installed before the ice in the river melts. I just didn’t have the time.”

“Indeed, I know there’s a war going on.” Luke gently examined Machin’s chest injury. “It looks like you are fortunate. Your wound has healed properly. No infection and only a slight scar.”

“Good.” Machin buttoned his shirt. “Now I can get back to work.”

They strode outside together.

“We’ve sent teams of men to New Paltz to cut down tall trees, forty feet or more in height,” Machin said. “We split them into sixteen-foot lengths and combine four together as a raft to float each section of the chain when in place.”

Luke wrapped his hands around a portion of the chain. Made of iron, every link was rectangular, about eighteen inches long and twelve inches wide. Each of the

four sides was more than two inches thick. “Extremely sturdy! No ship is going to plow through this.”

“When we finish, it will be over eighteen hundred feet long – all forged in a foundry not far from here – just like these thirteen colonies are being forged into one nation in this war.”

“Very poetic, but how do you propose to get the chain to West Point?”

“Float it down the river on barges.”

“Good luck, Captain. Seems you’ve thought of everything.”

“Hopefully. By the way, thanks for all you’ve done for me. I appreciate it. But deterring British ships from coming up this river is on my shoulders.”

Reverend Timothy Dwight and Major David Humphreys traversed the rocky narrow path from the elevated plain at West Point to the river’s edge below. It was cold and raw; the snow had piled up in the last few weeks, making their trek an onerous one. Yet they had a rendezvous to keep with two young ladies across the river at the Robinson mansion, and the elements would not thwart them.

Fortunately, the river, frozen solid, allowed them to cross directly on foot to the mansion on the eastern side without fear of a mishap. Only occasional gusts of wind caused them any discomfort. For inexplicable reasons the snow on the river’s ice was always far less than on shore. From the east, Sugar Loaf

Mountain overlooked their wintry age. Last week they had climbed this snowy pinnacle together and marveled from its upper reaches at the stark beauty and grandeur of the surrounding land.

As they mounted the eastern bank, footfalls fell deeper in the drifting snow, breathing more visible in the cold air. Timothy, now pudgy, bewhiskered and in poor physical condition, grew short of breath. Once at the mansion they rapped the highly polished brass knocker on the front door. The sound echoed through the house’s interior. A finely dressed, black male servant opened the door, took their coats and hats and escorted them into the drawing room.

“The ladies will you presently, sirs,” the servant said, then left them alone.

The two gentlemen warmed themselves by the fire blazing in the hearth.

At the age of seventeen Timothy Dwight had distinguished himself as one of Yale’s few child prodigies, graduating first in the class. Having briefly taught school after Yale, he returned to tutor at the college and led the educational reforms instituted under President Daggett. Later, he had evolved into one of the most eloquent Protestant preachers in New England. Once the war broke out, he had enlisted as a chaplain in the Connecticut militia, serving in Westchester County and at West Point.

Having also performed well at Yale, David Humphreys became a schoolmaster in Weathersfield, Connecticut. Before the war he had been a private tutor to the children of the illustrious Philipse family at their Westchester manor house. In 1776 he had received an officer’s commission in the Connecticut militia and acted as an aide-de-camp to both Generals Putnam and Parsons at West Point. David and Timothy, friends at Yale, shared an ardent love of poetry.

The Philipses and Robinsons were leading Tory families in the Hudson Valley. One of the Philips’ girls, Hannah, was one of Humphreys’ former students. She had married Colonel Beverley Robinson and lived in the mansion. Humphreys had not seen her for three years. Robinson was away fighting for the British. The mansion’s close proximity to West Point gave Humphreys the opportunity to renew the friendship.

Hannah Robinson entered the room. She was a pretty redhead, with a sweet lightly freckled face. With her was Mildred Cortland, a friend. Mildred was tall and willowy with long blond hair.

“My goodness,” Hanna exclaimed, “I am so glad you could pay your respects on such a dreadful day.”

Humphreys made the introductions. “Ladies, let me present Reverend Timothy Dwight, the chaplain at West Point.” He motioned. “Timothy, this is Hannah Robinson and this lady, Mildred Cortland. Both as lovely as ever.”

“So pleased to make your acquaintance, good sir,” Hannah replied. Both ladies curtsied.

“Positively charmed, ladies.” Dwight smiled. “Reports of your beauty have intrigued me, you see, and now have been confirmed.”

“That is most kind of you.” Hannah appreciated the compliment. “Please gentlemen, have tea with us in the dining room.”

“It’s the least we can do in this awful weather,” Mildred said. “Must be the coldest winter in a decade. I only hope it stops snowing soon.”

“Thank you, ladies,” Dwight remarked. “The weather has been a bit trying. But your company makes it all the more bearable.”

At the dining room table, Hannah poured tea from an elegant silver pot into white bone china cups and offered them to her guests. The men drank the hot beverage hurriedly to warm themselves before Hannah refilled their cups.

“Please, sirs, have some cake and scones.” She gestured toward the serving platter.

“The cake looks delicious.” Humphreys took a bite. “And it is.”

“Are you also a devotee of poetry, Reverend Dwight?” asked Hannah.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“He is much more than that. He composes poems and songs,” Humphreys explained.

“Would you recite some for us, Reverend Dwight?” Hannah inquired.

“Perhaps, next time, but not now. I have not brought my verse book. Let us not forget David’s creations. He is quite accomplished.”

“Yes, we know,” Mildred observed. “He has recited for us before.”

“How is your family, Hannah?” asked Humphreys.

“I haven’t had any news for some time. They are still in New York City, I think.” She was careful not to mention her husband or his whereabouts. “I do miss them. Isn’t it not shameful the Sons of Liberty drove them out of their home just because they opposed this war? What is the world coming to when decent, lawabiding people are stripped of property because of political beliefs? Where has the quest for liberty taken us, I ask?

“I wish this war were over,” declared Mildred. “It is so hard and ruinous on everyone, whatever their persuasion.”

“I am sure it will be soon,” Dwight said. “Hopefully all wrongs will be righted.”

“I hear Parliament will give the colonies everything they demanded at the start,” Mildred offered as a token of peace. “Isn’t that good news?”

“Of course, it won’t grant independence,” added Hannah.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for such concessions,” Humphreys put it bluntly. “We’ve just come too far. There’s no returning to the prior state of affairs.”

“But, why?” Mildred wondered. “The King is willing to forgive and forget.”

“The baby’s been born and cannot be put back into the womb,” Dwight observed, then flushed at having spoken so indelicately in front of ladies. “My apologies.”

“What do you two have against being part of the British Empire?” Hannah was perplexed. “Once you gloried in being an English subject. Why not today?”

“Too many people have been killed and wounded on both sides. We simply want our own country now and to be left alone!” Humphreys said.

“It’s not only your country, the loyalists are Americans too. We’ve just as much right to it as you. Oh, David, how can you be a rebel?” Hannah shook her head.

“It’s in my blood,” Humphreys declared. “It’s in the water we drink and the air we breathe in this nation of ours.” His words echoed throughout the house.

“Please no more talk about politics.” Dwight intervened. “Let’s not spoil such a pleasant gathering.”

“Indeed, we should talk about something less controversial,” Mildred suggested.

“What should that be?” Hannah asked.

“Religion!” cried Humphreys, and they all burst out laughing.

Dinner at the Moores’ house on West Point a week later was a special occasion for Humphreys and Dwight. That evening they enticed Luke to them. They had not seen him since Yale. The meal was Spartan and uninspiring because of food shortages at the Point. However, Luke enlivened the party by donating three bottles of claret and a bottle of Madeira from his private stock for their table. General Parsons and officers of lower rank attended the get-together as well.

At the end of the meal, Dwight stood and briskly rapped a water glass with a knife to get everyone’s attention.

“Quiet, gentlemen,” said Parsons. “Let us give the reverend a chance to speak.

“Thank you,” Dwight replied, “but there will be no sermon tonight.”

“Thank the Lord!” Humphreys flashed a grin.

“I have only a few words to impart,” Dwight continued. “I want to welcome Dr. Luke Davidson, an old college mate, to our table this evening and thank him for the wine we are enjoying. He has agreed to treat our ailing troops tomorrow in a temporary dispensary he’ll set up. We thank him for this kindness as well. A captain in the local militia at Newburgh, he was recently instrumental in sinking

British ships in the Hudson.”

“Hear, hear!” shouted one of the lieutenants.

“For these feats and the ingenuity and courage displayed, he deserves much more than our heart-felt gratitude,” Dwight raised his glass. “To Dr. Davidson for intrepid heroism on the Hudson River and success in destroying three British war ships, we commend you, in the name of our new nation, the United States of America.”

The other officers at the table stood and drank to Luke and such brave deeds.

Surprised and touched, Luke extended a glass. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your kind tribute. Surely it is much more than I deserve.”

The next morning Humphreys gave Luke a tour of West Point. These fortifications were built of earth and logs, not more substantial stone and mortar.

“The urgency to finish before spring,” Humphreys explained, “meant using lesser, more available materials. Stronger walls will come later.” Several forts and redoubts were planned as interlocking defenses to protect against attacks from the river and inland. The surrounding high points would house redoubts, which were designed to reinforce and preserve the main citadels below.

“Because of the twists and turns in the river and the powerful currents,” Humphreys pointed downward to its narrow age, “enemy ships would

ordinarily find it tough going here, and nearly impossible with the new chain to break through. Our cannons in the fortifications will blow the British ships out of the water when they come upstream and the chain will bar the way.”

“Very interesting. It seems impregnable.”

What struck Luke were the men stationed at the camp. Many were improperly dressed for winter weather, some wearing only blankets as coats, others without shoes or boots, walking barefooted or with rags strapped around their feet. Despite their hardships, these soldiers cut and carried logs and shoveled dirt to complete the fortifications.

“Why do these men not have better clothes and shoes?”

“It has been a long-standing problem only made worse by time and the severe winter weather.” As they walked, the snow crunched under their feet.

“You mean to tell me we cannot get them the things they need?”

“We are trying all the time,” Humphreys said. “Congress does not provide either the necessary funds or supplies. It relies on individual states for funding, and the states often fail to make payments.”

“So there is not enough food for them?”

“No, I am afraid not.”

“That is unforgivable. Here these men are risking everything for our country, and they are not properly equipped or fed!”

“I agree it is awful.” Humphreys replied. “To make matters worse, they are owed a lot of back pay.”

“Why do they bother to stay?”

“I sometimes wonder myself. Is it patriotism, stubbornness, hatred of the British, or plain habit?”

“I have the greatest respect for these men.” Luke shook his head.

“When you open the dispensary,” Humphreys cautioned, “be prepared for cases of frostbite, malnutrition, bad colds and so on.”

“You mean all the afflictions that better clothing, shoes and food would have averted?”

“Exactly,” Humphreys exclaimed.

One late Thursday morning in mid-April, Molly Jarvis slipped into Luke’s office and told him a young lady wanted to see him. Minutes later a petite blond woman stepped through the doorway.

“I am Ida Ettrick,” she said softly.

“It is nice to meet you.” Luke stood to greet her and noticed how pretty she was. “Are you feeling ill?” he asked.

“Are you a captain in the local militia?”

“Yes, I am. Please have a seat.”

“Good. I have something important to tell you. I did not know where else to turn.” She appeared quite flustered, sitting on the edge of a chair opposite Luke.

“What is it? I hope I can be of assistance, my dear lady.”

“I overheard my father plotting with someone. He pretends to be a patriot, but he is really a loyalist.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps you misunderstood him.”

“I am certain. This man is not what he pretends to be.”

“What did you overhear?”

“He is planning something big.” She wrung her hands.

“Yes, but what is it?”

“He is going to kidnap someone important.”

“And who is he after?”

She paused, sadness in her eyes, then blurted it out. “Washington. General George Washington.”

There was a moment of silence. Luke’s mind raced between the possibilities. Was her news true? Or was she lying, setting a trap of some kind? Or was she honestly mistaken? Or had she in fact discovered a conspiracy?

“You are sure?”

“Very.”

He plied her with questions. When he was satisfied she had no other details to reveal, he sent her on her way, then rode over to Hasbrouck’s house. Hasbrouck listened attentively as Luke recounted the girl’s story, then ordered Luke to ride directly to the Ellison house, Washington’s temporary headquarters in New Windsor, and report what he had heard to Colonel Alexander Hamilton, one of his aides.

Dressed in a dark blue uniform with gold trim, Hamilton was no more than five feet seven inches tall, and had reddish brown hair and piercing blue eyes. At the moment, those eyes, alive with interest, were directed at Luke. He had conveyed Ida Ettrick’s report of a plan to kidnap Washington. Hamilton’s reaction was intense.

“That is absolutely insane. Captain, are you sure about your source of information?”

“Yes sir, I am. The man’s daughter told me.”

Hamilton gave a grim nod. “A daughter turning on her own father … This war has certainly turned families inside out. What is her name?”

“Ida Ettrick.”

“Ah, yes. I know the name. He has been friendly toward us at headquarters. He even invited the general to dinner next week.”

“Then that cinches it,” Luke said. “The Tories plan to seize the general when he is at Ettrick’s house. There’s a nearby stream that runs to the Hudson. The Tories probably plan to take him by boat to the river, then put him on board a British frigate moored below West Point.”

“Indeed. We must inform the general.”

Minutes later, Luke found himself standing before the illustrious man himself. Luke was a great irer of Washington, but he was not in awe of him. As a doctor, constantly exposed to human frailty, he was well aware that in the end, all men, no matter how celebrated, are merely flesh and bone. He now conveyed his report to Washington in clear, crisp tones, then awaited the general’s response. It was his aide who spoke first.

“General, I advise you not to go,” Hamilton said. “Avoid this trap.”

The massive gray-haired leader seemed strong but remote. He sat at the dining room table, drumming fingers and lost in thought. “No, I ought to go to that dinner,” he uttered finally. “But I will have a surprise for our friend Ettrick.”

“Sir, we cannot expose you to such danger.” Hamilton said. “Anything could happen if you walk into this ambush.”

Washington nodded at Luke and gave a faint smile. “Thanks to the kind doctor, we have been forewarned, and that,” he concluded, “gives us quite an advantage.”

On the evening of the dinner, Washington mounted a white stallion and rode over to Ettrick’s house. The general was resplendent in a blue coat with a white vest, frilled shirt and knee britches. He took only two of his Life Guards.

Everything appeared in order and normal on the exterior of the house. The front door opened as Washington drew up and Ettrick stepped out on the porch.

“Welcome, sir. I am honored to have you as my guest tonight.”

“It is indeed a pleasure,” Washington said and dismounted.

He posted his men outside the front door and allowed Ettrick to usher him inside. Two hundred yards away, a larger contingent of Life Guards quietly crouched in the woods near a stream surrounded by a large meadow.

As the sun’s rays receded, a party of armed civilians marched up from the river. One of them walked along the stream’s bank pulling a small boat through the water on a long rope. The commanding officer of the Life Guards secretly sent ten soldiers to circle behind these men to cut off any possible escape. Before approaching the Ettrick house to capture their prize, the Tories paused in the meadow.

Still in hiding, the Life Guards awaited further orders. A shrill whistle pierced the air prompting them to rush the civilians with fixed bayonets from both sides of the woods. Most of the Tories surrendered without any resistance. Others

grappling with the attackers were wrestled to the ground or clubbed with musket butts. No shots were fired.

Inside the house where dinner was being served, Ettrick acted as the gracious host.

“Can I get you some Madeira, General?” asked Ettrick.

“Yes, thank you,” Washington said, “but how on earth did you manage to obtain it with the British blockade?”

“I have my sources.” Ettrick poured wine from a crystal decanter into a goblet and handed it to Washington, who sniffed the beverage appreciatively and waited until Ettrick filled a glass before drinking it.

“Ah,” Washington uttered after the initial sip, “it has such a fine, mellow taste.”

“That it does. None better in the colonies, I mean, states.”

The sounds of tramping men penetrated the thin walls of the house. Ettrick leaned on his hearth and contemplated Washington with smug satisfaction.

“General, I believe you are my prisoner.”

“On the contrary,” said Washington, “I believe you are mine.”

Surprise, doubt and confusion flitted across Ettrick’s face. The front door of the house burst open to reveal four Life Guards. The officer-in-charge rushed forward, sword in hand, while the guards carrying their muskets remained at attention astride the doorway. The officer saluted Washington and delivered his report.

“General, we have seized the band of Tories.”

“Well done, Captain. Now take them all, including Mr. Ettrick here, to the local jail. They will be judged and sentenced later.”

Bitterness flashed across Ettrick’s eyes. “May I at least finish this last glass of wine, sir?”

Washington nodded. “Indeed, I suggest you enjoy it, and to the fullest, for it will no doubt be your last – your very last. Even false hospitality at times has its price.”

CHAPTER XII - THE SEARCH CONTINUES

That day had not been one of Byron Whithers’ better ones. It all started when an older Club member called to complain about last month’s bill. Byron’s mistake was answering the telephone in the first place, then trying to deal with her questions himself. Transferring her to the country club’s bookkeeper would have been the smart move. Her incessant pickiness exhausted patience and unleashed anger. The outburst shocked her, especially the language. Byron had a tendency, when mad, to pepper his talk with the infamous “F” word. Used as both an adjective and a verb, it chagrined most listeners.

A few hours later, the club’s president called to berate him. Byron took the criticism in silence. Fortunately for him, Brad McClain, the club’s most influential member, had always been there to protect him from the wrath of the hip. It was not the performance of Byron’s duties found objectionable, but rather a lack of tact and the awful temper which got him in trouble time and again.

By evening when Byron drove toward the Indian casino in the Shawangunck Mountains to meet Brad for dinner, the day had even gotten worse. After work he had shopped at the local super-market where the malfunction of a computerized bar-code scanner had trapped him in a checkout line. Festering for about ten minutes while a store technician tried to repair the device, he had bolted out of the store in a huff, a slew of groceries heaped high on the counter as glaring remnants of another loss of self-control. Almost irrationally, anticomputer, anti-voice mail, anti-ATM, anti-cellular, he stubbornly resisted technology, certain that it meant extra cost, more inconvenience and bad service. Whatever their shortcomings, he nostalgically clung to old ways of doing things.

With his large frame nestled behind the steering wheel, Byron had even grown ambivalent about a new mini-van. While iring its styling, ride and

versatility, he had difficulties with the newer features that frustrated him. His whole life, minor irritants had annoyed him, often propelling him to extremes.

A graduate of Cornell’s School of Hotel Management, Byron had landed a prized position with an international hotel chain after college. For a while, he kept his mouth shut, did the job well and played the corporate game to perfection at least superficially. Yet as he progressed up the corporate hierarchy, a natural obstreperousness burst forth at odd times. Something insignificant would inexplicably set him off, temper often flaring. Then came a fateful afternoon when he lost it in front of a superior, whose tolerance for such behavior was minimal. Despite twenty years with the company, he was fired on the spot.

For a time, Byron floundered in a state of unemployment, unaccustomed to jobhunting, before obtaining a middle-level management position in another hotel chain. Viewed as a demotion, this job bored him. Inevitably, he was forced out and bounced around in several lesser positions with other corporations. No job lasted long. Soon Byron waited on the unemployment line again. During this dismal stretch anger at both himself and the world dominated his life. Numbing the pain with increasing intakes of beer, wine, scotch and vodka, he only got worse.

A lack of money, tantrums and drunken stupors forced his wife and children to leave him. It resembled a straight downhill ride – loss of position, self-esteem, family, then nothingness. Even self-pity seemed to elude Byron in the grasp for a level of personal comfort.

One day his old friend Brad, grabbing hold, convinced him to attend Alcoholics Anonymous. He too rented a small apartment for him in Poughkeepsie. After many long talks with Brad, Byron decided to become a gourmet cook and enrolled in the Culinary Institute of America, an outstanding school for chefs in Hyde Park on the eastside of the Hudson. McClain gave him tuition, and Brian ed himself with odd jobs in his spare time. With Brad’s help, Byron

pulled himself out of the nosedive. Upon completion of the accelerated program, McClain got him a job as a chef at the country club where he later became the general manager. Now compensation from the club, together with consulting fees paid by local restaurants and hotels, enabled him to earn a good living. Byron owed Brad, clearly his savior, everything and would go to hell and back for him.

The large neon sign for the Lakeside Casino popped up in the darkness. Byron’s mini-van slowed, turning left off the main road into the casino’s driveway.

Inside, Brad sat at an enormous rectangular-shaped bar. “I was worried about you,” he said when Byron drew near.

Byron took a seat on the next barstool. “Sorry I’m late. It was one of those crazy days.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“I bet you did.”

“Don’t worry. I took care of everything.”

“Thanks. You’re just too good a friend.”

The mountain lake below, the surrounding cliffs and waterfall etched themselves

through the picture window behind the bar. Decorated with native artifacts, the casino itself was modeled after an Iroquoian longhouse. Contemporary paintings and prints depicting Indian hunts, dances and fishing excursions adorned the walls. A white, birch-bark canoe hung from the rafters over the bar with a pair of dummies dressed as braves paddling it. Actually part Indian, the casino’s personnel – the waitresses, bartenders, dealers, bouncers – were clad in Native American costumes. Brad ordered a scotch and soda for himself and a cranberry juice for Byron, who wasn’t allowed any alcohol. “The Lenapes, or is it the Delawares? I always get confused,” Byron said, “have done quite a job here and it’s so successful.”

Brad nodded. “No doubt about that.” He drained his glass of scotch. “Before we got the Indians drunk and took their land. Now they get us drunk and take our money.”

“Seems fair to me,” Byron smirked.

They both had a good laugh.

At dinner in the dining room, Brad and Byron dug into tasty dishes from a menu devoted mostly to indigenous fare. On the casino’s main floor customers gambled at roulette wheels, black jack and crap tables. Men and women of varied ages and ethnicities threw coins into electronic slot machines and video poker devices that flashed brightly throughout the large room.

“With the profits from this operation, The Indians are buying up the best available land in New Paltz,” Brad remarked.

“I didn’t know that.”

“The locals are fit to be tied. It drives prices up and takes property off the tax rolls.”

“So they’re using our money to buy back the property we stole from them. That is just too damn much!”

“The wheel has come full circle, hasn’t it?”

“Maybe it’s a weird sort of retribution. Almost makes you believe in God or a big computer in the sky that keeps track of everyone’s deeds. What about that old Indian village?” asked Bryon.

“Now that the archaeologists have stopped picking over things, the Lenapes are restoring it as a tourist attraction. There’ll be herds of people trooping through this place to spend even more money. These Indians will soon be richer than the Jehovah’s Witnesses hereabouts.”

The waitress brought them coffee and dessert.

“Are you still trying to solve that old murder?” Byron asked.

“In a way I am. I keep researching local history during the Revolution. So far I’ve found out nothing helpful.”

“How does Debbie cotton to your search?”

“Not too well. She’s a bit unhappy. It’s too time-consuming,” Brad said, purposely understating her dissatisfaction with him. Because they had known each other so long, he had usually been candid with Byron. Somehow, when it came to this, he could not bring himself to divulge the whole truth. He fudged it. For the rest of the evening, they chatted about the local sports teams and reminisced about playing high school football together.

Since the discovery, Brad continued to take college courses for a degree and to aid his understanding of the murder’s background. He also read voraciously on the Revolution, reviewing books and articles in historical periodicals, and consulted professors and archivists who specialized in Colonial and Revolutionary subjects at different universities.

These efforts took time – time away from home, family and business. Brad covered himself at the office by having his mother occasionally sit in for him, delegating projects to younger executives and utilizing a home fax and cellular telephones extensively. Things still got done on schedule, and the clients seemed satisfied. Though, neither trained substitutes nor technological devices could undo the harm these absences had caused his wife and family. Subconsciously, he realized their impact, but in his overconfidence and obliviousness, Brad thought he could just muddle through or set things right afterward.

At first, Debbie had gone along, hoping his obsession would exhaust itself. When it didn’t, she resorted to gentle sarcasm.

“Visiting your mistress today?” she would ask him.

“No such luck,” he’d respond.

Brad tried to humor her and at times brought home fresh flowers, clothing and jewelry. Yet gifts could not assuage Debbie. Soon the sarcasm took on a harder edge.

“Still going through your mid-life crisis?” she would ask.

“No, just puberty,” he’d reply.

He made no real attempt to explain or defend what he was doing. He didn’t see what the problem was. He was not running off and having an affair with a younger woman. If he was being unfaithful, it had to do with how he spent his time and a devotion to an avocation and not another person. That was hardly something to complain about.

Hadn’t he paid his dues to the family all these years? They were comfortably fixed, if not wealthy, by most standards. Wasn’t he entitled to pursue personal interests at this stage of life? Once he had sacrificed a college education for the family business. Damn it, now it was his turn to study and explore.

His wife deeply resented Brad spending so much time away from home. The burden of child rearing, she felt, was resting entirely on her shoulders, and the two younger children needed him. Their daughter was having academic troubles and started to experiment with drugs and alcohol. Debbie could only guess at what she was doing with her boyfriend. A frequent visitor to the principal’s

office, their younger son, just ten years old, was constantly involved in scuffles at school. Earlier in the year, he had already been suspended for a week. The one bright spot was Jed who fared well at Yale and seemed to be in control of his life. Yet he had already grown up. To make matters worse, Brad was not there for her either – no vacations together, dining out hardly at all, movies and shows a rarity, no longer entertaining their friends.

“You were out pretty late with Byron at the casino,” Debbie said dejectedly the next morning in the kitchen. “Where’re you going today?” At 8 a.m., Brad was already dressed and heading out the back door.

“West Point,” Brad said flatly. On a mission, he was intently focused, nothing could deter him.

“Why there?”

“To check on muster rolls for Continental Army units stationed in the area.”

“It’s more of the same. Isn’t this project of yours ever going to end?”

“Not until I’m satisfied with the answers.”

“And when will that be?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Her face tightened. She turned to confront him, hands on her hip.

“Brad, I can’t keep going on like this. I know the project is precious to you, but you’re just not around enough, and when you are, your attention is elsewhere. We see so little of you. You’re nothing but an absentee father and husband. This house is not a hotel, here simply for your convenience, and the maid, that’s me, is about to go out on strike.”

“I’m entitled to have my own interests.”

“But not to the exclusion of the kids and me.”

He took a long time to answer.

“I’m sorry, Deb, but I have to run out the string on this thing. I’ll make it up to you later.”

“That’s not good enough. You may already be too late. Anyway, you’ll never solve this murder. It’s too old. The trail got cold centuries ago. You’re not a detective or a scholar. Those people are trained for this sort of exercise.”

He was quiet again. “Maybe you’re right—I’m sure you are. But I still have to do this. I … just have to do this.”

For several long seconds, they stood there, physically close but mentally miles apart. Then he turned to go out. In utter frustration, she threw a coffee cup at him as he pulled the back door shut. It hit the closing door and shattered all over the kitchen floor. Brad paused, took a deep breath, and kept on going. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of even a look back.

The drive to West Point meant an immediate escape. Brad refused to accept the guilt his wife was trying to impose upon him. His mother had used the same ploy so he would perform according to her wishes. Typical female manipulation. He was tired of being everyone’s servant, writing the checks and not being able to lead the life he wanted. The problems his younger son and daughter were having, Brad rationalized, as mere phases which they would soon outgrow. They were good kids from a better than decent home who knew the differences between right and wrong. There was nothing to worry about, he argued to himself. Let nature take its course, and they will come out all right. With a sense of stubbornness, he put Debbie’s tantrum out of mind to concentrate on the trip south along the river.

As part of the project, Brad had taken to revisiting local historical sites prominent in the Revolution. In the city of Newburgh, Washington’s headquarters in the old stone Hasbrouck house overlooked the river. Despite periodic spurts of renewal and renovation, the surrounding neighborhood still looked tawdry and rundown, checkered with abandoned townhouses, manufacturing plants and old shops.

In New Windsor further south stood the remnants of the Cantonment, the last major camp of the Continental Army, located in a more countrified setting. Constructed after the battle of Yorktown while the of peace were being negotiated, it originally contained log huts that sheltered seven thousand enlisted men and officers and a large public meeting house. They were dismantled and sold after the war. In the intervening years a few wooden cabins and a replica of the meetinghouse had been built along with a museum and large stone monument. Both the headquarters and the Cantonment acted as magnets for

tourism.

In the museum’s small library Brad had reviewed copies of the orderly books of units stationed there – the First New York, the Eighth Massachusetts, the New Jersey Brigade. These books recorded daily events and procedures and were roughly similar to a ship’s log. He had also read the letterbook of Benjamin Gilbert, a lieutenant in the Fifth Massachusetts regiment, who had served in the same area. Searching for any shred of information that related to the murder, Brad checked other documents as well but came up empty. Nothing in his investigation mentioned the Armory, any of the Yale graduates, a murder or missing persons. It was like looking for that elusive needle in the haystack and was just as frustrating. The curator of the museum had suggested the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, about five miles further down the Hudson, as another possible source.

From Cornwall, south of Newburgh, Brad drove up the narrow, winding artery along the craggy face of Storm King Mountain, once called Butternut Hill. Ordinarily avoided in bad weather, today this old mountain road was free of ice and snow. Despite a partially overcast sky the sun was already warming the early December coolness. To savor the panoramic views, Brad pulled off the road higher up the mountain into a small parking area set aside for sightseers. After leaving the truck, he stepped up onto the low stone wall at the precipitous edge and scanned the river from north to south. In the past he rarely stopped to absorb the local scenery. Never seeming to have enough time, he had always been in a hurry even when going nowhere critical. Since the discovery he paused often to appreciate what was around him, more aware of what he had missed earlier.

Momentarily darkened by clouds, the river flowed below in narrow curves between the mountains. Bannerman’s Island jutted out from the eastern shore just north of where its course constricted. From the core rose a castle-like structure, deserted and ruined, that had once been a storage depot for guns and ammunition after the Spanish-American War. Upstream, the Hamilton Fish Bridge in two segments spanned the wide waterway to the interstate

highway between Newburgh and Beacon. Railroad tracks glinted toward Brad from both river banks until a enger train on the eastern shore emerged from a tunnel through Breakneck Mountain. From this vantage point, it resembled a set of model railroad cars.

South, the quaint village of Cold Spring, crammed with antique shops and restaurants, lay between the water’s edge and the surrounding hills. Pushed by tugs, a pair of gigantic barges inched their way upstream. In the burgeoning sunlight the river itself unfurled like a silvery ribbon to wrap a gift from another eon. On this lofty perch, Brad absorbed the beauty while inhaling deep gulps of crisp air. After the confrontation with Debbie, the vibrant scenery calmed him and restored his vigor.

At the West Point library, the archivist, a short frumpy woman in her early thirties, led Brad to the Revolutionary War section. With a yellow legal-size pad in hand, he browsed the shelves, occasionally removing a book and examining its contents. Many volumes he had seen elsewhere, but others were new to him. He noted a few, including, The General Orders of George Washington Issued at Newburgh on the Hudson (1782 to 1783), that might be of interest on the pad and mentally committed himself to read them. Later he entered the list into a laptop computer. Because of a curator friend at West Point, he was permitted to inspect books and journals in a special collection vault. There he found the handwritten orderly books of Captains Casper and Vandenberg from the New Windsor Cantonment and Captain Marshall’s at the Peekskill camp. He had these three books copied.

Having stood for so long, Brad’s legs and feet ached by noon. He took refuge in the lavish dining room of the Thayer Hotel on the edge of the campus next to the river. West Point serves as the nation’s primary college for training Army officers. Seated in an upholstered chair, eating a cold poached salmon salad and drinking several cups of black coffee revived Brad. Back in the library through the microfilm viewer, he read other orderly books plus muster and payroll records of Continental Army units stationed at the Cantonment and West Point.

The engineer in him was already redeg this device in his mind for more efficient use. Periodically, he entered information into the laptop. Though revealing a vivid picture of the military’s daily routines and personnel, these records furnished no helpful clues.

Afterward, Brad consulted the archivist. “Our library’s records on the Revolutionary War for this region are not extensive,” she said. “Your best bet may be the National Archives in Washington, D.C. But there’s always the Clements collection at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor and the Huntington Library near Pasadena, California.”

“Thanks for the advice,” he replied. “I just might have to visit them.”

As he was driving off the campus, Brad stopped near the outdoor concert area below Trophy Point. He recalled coming to band performances with his wife and children here years ago during the summers. On blankets stretched along sloping lawns at the river’s edge, they would enjoy picnic dinners while listening to the West Point Band. One evening when the Big Band music of the 1940s was being played, a large oil tanker was sailing south. Between the narrowness of the Hudson and the high rocky shorelines, the huge ship had appeared so dominant, it took on a surrealistic image in the twilight. Just as it made the turn in the river’s cramped bend, the tanker’s captain blew its horn in perfect timing with the musical number being performed. In appreciation, the crowd applauded both the band and the captain, who responded with several more toots, as the ship disappeared downstream behind the steep wooded terrain. Those had been happy days for Brad, Debbie and the kids. Now times had changed.

“I’ll be away for a while,” Brad told Debbie at home that evening.

“How long?”

“It depends on what I find and when. It could be a few days or as much as a couple of weeks.” He felt uneasy about leaving her and the kids.

“Where are you going?”

“Washington, D.C., then maybe Southern California.”

“All this for a wild goose chase,” she said bitterly.

He reached out to touch her hand, but she pulled it away.

“You could be right,” he sighed. “But I’m hopeful I can nail this thing down soon and be done with it.”

“I’m so tired of these shenanigans. This project has absorbed all your time and energy. There’s nothing left for me and the children.”

“I promise things will be different. Please be patient.”

“Patient?” she repeated. “You want me to be patient.” She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I want a separation.” She drew a deep breath, “and maybe even a divorce.”

“No!” He was stunned and hurt.

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet, firm, detached. “I can’t—and I won’t—go on like this.”

He had always thought of her as reasonable and sympathetic. He could not understand her resentment of his interest in the skeleton. It was as if she had taken an experimental drug that had transformed her whole personality. She appeared to be inexplicably more alien than friend, more disrupting than soothing. Now she wanted a divorce after all their years together. It seemed too much to bear.

Brad packed that evening after dinner, went to bed and left early the next morning while his wife and children still slept. At nearby Stewart Airport, catching a 727 jet to Washington, D.C. he arrived there in less than two hours. The cab from National Airport dropped him off at the Willard, an elegant old hotel in the heart of the capital. Once checked in, with luggage deposited in a pleasantly furnished room, he took another cab to the National Archives.

Anchored to the street level by long flights of steps, the mammoth structure dominated his view when he got out of the taxi and paid the fare. From this concrete monument protruded tall Doric columns, sculptured Corinthian porticos, heroic statutes and highly decorative facades. An impressive example of neoclassic architecture, the National Archives functions as the repository for many of the nation’s most important original documents, so he had been told by an overly educated cab driver. Upon reaching the top steps, Brad sensed he was entering a temple in ancient Rome to offer a sacrifice to the gods. In the huge rotunda paved in gray and rose-colored marble, a half dome rose seventy-five feet above him. On the walls two murals of the founding fathers inscribing documents caught his eye. Tourists lined up to glimpse the original Declaration

of Independence, Constitution and Bill of Rights, enshrined in bronze and glass floor cases in an altar-like setting.

Somehow in all his travels to the nation’s capital, Brad had missed the National Archives. This amazed him. In his family, visiting Washington, D.C. was a rite of age for each generation. As a boy in the early fifties, he had accompanied the family here. In the early 1990s he had taken his wife and kids. Still the first trip stood out more than any other. As a preteen, Brad walked with dad, mom, two brothers and a sister on the mall beside the Washington Monument, while a waiting crowd gathered along the roadway. A convertible headed toward them from the Capitol on the empty street with four other vehicles all in a line. In the back seat sat a man in sunglasses wearing an Army uniform with stars on his hat. When he waved to the crowd, they cheered him.

“That’s General MacArthur,” Dad explained. “He delivered a speech to Congress today.”

“President Truman just fired MacArthur,” his mother said with a note of disgust in her Republican voice. “Because of a dispute over how to wage the Korean War,” she added. “Truman was asserting civilian control over the military, at least that’s what he believed.”

As he got older and read more, Brad realized he and his family had witnessed the finale of an important historical event. After that experience, an interest in American history grew, and each subsequent visit to Washington, D.C. inspired him. He ired the varied architecture of the buildings and monuments, the manicured beauty of the grounds, the impressive exhibits. Though not normally patriotic, Brad felt exalted in their presence. Within his mind these national symbols represented the quintessence of America and its ideals. After all here lies the bastion of our democracy with its stable government, he mused. In this city the soul of the nation abides, and visitors come to commune with it. When they leave, they often return home with a sense of its spirituality and a truer

meaning of what America stands for.

At the National Archives, Brad sat in an office with an archivist whose expertise spanned the Revolutionary period through 1836. A tall, lanky fellow in his early forties, he removed thick eyeglasses, rubbed a tissue over both lenses, then fiddled with the frames. A badge hanging from around his neck identified him as Ira Johnson.

“I wish you had called before coming all the way to Washington,” said Johnson.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Brad asked, anticipating bad news that might make the trip a waste.

“After hearing what you’re looking for, you may be disappointed.”

“I don’t understand. Among other things, the National Archives should have a complete set of U.S. government records.”

“Yes and no. It’s just not that simple. In the first place, the documents you seek would have been kept at the original War Department. That burned down in 1800. Only some documents were salvaged. Then, much of what remained was destroyed by the British when they burned nearly every building in the capital in 1814. that war?”

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t know about the fires.”

“As a result, our records are anything but complete for the earlier period. Please feel free, though, to examine whatever we have.”

Initially, Brad ran the list of rebel Yale men from the Mid-Hudson Valley through one of the Archive’s computers. This turned up some correspondence and memoirs, which he had not seen before. He tried a new tack by typing on the computer’s keyboard three separate entries ‘Revolutionary War – Armories – Manufacture of muskets and gunpowder’. An old federal government report dated 1795 surprisingly popped up. This appeared novel. Lastly, he inputted ‘New Windsor Cantonment, Washington’s Newburgh headquarters, Hasbrouck house, General Knox’s headquarters’. He had already read the books and articles listed on the screen. Something else emerged which he never knew about – an old newspaper entitled the ‘New York Packet’ published weekly by Samuel Loudon from 1777 through 1783.

He discovered that a hospital, storage facilities, camp and the headquarters of General Von Steuben, the inspector general of the Continental Army had stood near Fishkill on the river’s east side across from Newburgh. Years later, after Brad’s research, archeologists would dig up the largest burial ground of American soldiers who fought in that war in that locale. They would find coffinfilled graves neatly arranged in rows throughout a 70-acre wooded tract. Small pox had caused many deaths.

In the village itself, the old Dutch Reform Church served as a prison for local Tories. A different complex, Fishkill Landing, now part of the city of Beacon, flourished five miles southwest on the river’s edge, the war-time home of a tavern, the Frankford warehouse and a complex of docks plus ferries that offered critical links between New England and other states.

More facts about his Yale men in the Archives pointed toward Ben Tallmadge and David Humphreys as suspected murderers. Both were at Newburgh toward the war’s end, with Tallmadge floating in and out periodically. He was

Washington’s chief spy and colluded in all sorts of skullduggery. A top aide to the general, Humphreys was permanently stationed in the vicinity for almost two years. Each indeed had the opportunity, but who exercised the motive and means to commit the crime?

The old government report listed armories during the Revolution and afterward throughout the country. The Newburgh one was called the KD Armory and Powder Mill. The report revealed it continued to operate after the war for a short while. Yet even in its earlier configuration the Armory had mushroomed beyond just two buildings and housed extensive machinery powered by water. The report revealed that a big explosion had shut down the Armory for several years but offered few details. Nothing surfaced about a homicide on the premises or any missing persons.

With turns of the microfilm machine, Brad scanned issues of old newspapers, each just a few pages long. They contained stories of births, marriages, deaths, weather, farming and other activities of the inhabitants along both sides of the river. News was divulged about the war, the rebel troops stationed in the area, the capture of suspected tories and local raids. Thefts of merchandise and livestock by rebel soldiers were strewn here and there. Brad even unearthed a brief reference to the Newburgh armory and the high-quality of its weapons and gunpowder. Yet no leads or clues about the murder came to light.

After he left the Archives in frustration, Brad checked out of the Willard and took a cab to National Airport. Before boarding a plane to Los Angeles, he telephoned Debbie. No one was home, so he spoke into the answering machine to explain his new itinerary.

The Huntington Library in Pasadena was reputed to have one of the best collections of Revolutionary War documents in the country containing rare books, manuscripts, letters, maps. Brad expected a conventional library in a typical suburban setting, but he was mistaken. When he drove a rental car

through the entrance gates, a world of horticultural and monumental splendor opened up with over two hundred acres of greenery, an orange grove, fifteen botanical gardens, three art galleries, a conservatory, pavilion, mausoleum and library. It was overwhelming.

Apart from the normal listings and bibliographies on cards, in books or computers, the library hoarded special research tools: a card file of rare books on New York during the eighteenth century, a highly organized list of period military maps and atlases, and a special index of orderly books for Continental Army units. The latter pair led Brad to several fascinating sources of information. Two maps of the Hudson Valley – one reflected the positions of all the American camps there; the other, more extensive and detailed, depicted patriot installations at Newburgh and New Windsor, namely a military hospital and the Armory as well. The orderly books showed the men missing in the MidHudson region during the war, many of whom were absent without leave or simply deserted. No one in these books matched the people on his Yale list.

After two more days in Pasadena, Brad flew back east late one April evening. In the pickup at the airport parking lot, he felt exhausted and rundown. On the drive home he itted the recent search, like earlier ones, had produced few revelations. Obviously, his knowledge of the Revolution had grown, but the mystery was no closer to being solved. Except for suspicions about Tallmadge and Humphreys, he had struck a series of dead-ends – and nothing solid emerged to tie any of these men to the Armory homicide. Yet Brad’s pride would not let him quit.

Pulling in the driveway of a darkened house, Brad pictured himself in a hot bath, then asleep in his own bed with an extra-firm mattress. His back had been acting up again, and he yearned for home cooking and family companionship. He unloaded the truck, carried the luggage to the backdoor and fumbled with the keys.

Brad insert the key in the lock, but the key wouldn’t turn. He tried it repeatedly, but that proved fruitless. He scooted around to the front door and fiddled with that key. The result was the same; it did not fit.

She had changed the locks. How could she have done that? Incredible.

Furious, he stepped back and yelled up at her bedroom window. “Debbie! Debbie! Open the damn door!”

He continued to shout. After several more minutes, there was still no response. He banged on the back door. Again nothing. So he trudged over to the pickup and blew the horn. He blasted it again and again. At last a light appeared in Debbie’s room, and she raised the window.

“What is it?” she cried. “Why all the racket?”

“Look, I’ve been on a plane for five hours. I’m exhausted. Please, let me in.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know. Don’t tell me you don’t.”

“No, I’m at a total loss. What’s going on? Damn it, let me in!”

“Brad, go to your mother’s. I’m not letting you inside. We’re separated now.”

“Locking me out of my own house, you bitch!” he yelled.

She shut the window. Brad grabbed a fractured brick from the ground, took aim and flung it at her window. The sound of splintering glass pierced the night’s stillness. Silence reigned once more until the pickup’s engine turned over, and Brad drove off.

A few days later, Brad met Cal Owens at ‘The Gondola,’ a local Italian restaurant, for lunch. They sat across from each other at a square table covered with a red and white-checkered cloth.

“So tell me the big news!” Brad urged.

“The items found on the skeleton were finally examined and tested. It wasn’t easy. The answers and the experts were found at Cambridge University in England. That’s why it took so long.”

“What are the conclusions?”

“They’re from the British Army. The brass chain and the scabbard are part of one of their Revolutionary War uniforms.”

“What? That makes no sense.”

“They’re positive.”

“How could these artifacts be of British origin?”

“And the knife became standard issue for the British Army only after 1780.”

“Impossible, damn it!” Brad pounded the table with his fist.

“Don’t get upset because of a change in expected facts. Use the new information to guide you,” Cal advised.

“But the British weren’t in this area and certainly not at the end of the War.”

“There are other explanations. It could’ve been captured equipment brought here by the rebels. Don’t forget Tories trooped all over the place.”

“Well, maybe,” Brad conceded. “Do they know the rank of the uniform? Was the knife issued to enlisted men or officers?”

“I asked that already. No one knows. The stuff found on the skeleton, they believe, is from the cavalry.”

“Interesting, but no way exists to identify the victim based on these items.”

“No way I’m aware. A skeletal analysis might reveal more, but it’ll cost a pretty penny.”

“Forget it then.” Having spent a small fortune on this hunt, Brad didn’t feel ready to shell out any more.

“What turned up about your Yale men?”

“Nothing involving the murder even after all that research in D.C. and California. But my two suspects remain – Tallmadge and Humphreys. One acted as our top spy, the other gathered arms for the troops. Both were at or near the Armory back then.”

“There’s something else I should’ve mentioned before but I’d forgotten,” Cal said. “Since the scabbard was found on the left side, that makes the skeleton right-handed. A swordsman always drew his blade from the opposite side. However, I doubt if it’s useful.”

That night, Brad pondered the new revelation about the scabbard and the knife. Perhaps these were vital clues, and he should not fight them, but rather exploit the news in a meaningful way. Of course, Cal was right. Amid his confusion,

Brad hit on another idea. In the Clement Collection at the University of Michigan were lodged the personal papers of British participants in the War. Those documents might have the answers. He telephoned the airlines and made reservations for a flight to Ann Arbor on the next day.

In the University of Michigan’s library, Brad focused on British officers who had played a major role in the Mid-Hudson Valley during the war. Starting with the extensive papers of Sir Henry Clinton, the commander in chief of the British forces in North America, Brad picked through the documents. Fortunately, they were well-organized and indexed. This made it much easier to pinpoint areas of interest.

Brad pored over the microfilm. Sir Henry’s of the British thrust up the Hudson in the fall of 1777, which he had planned and led, stood out. It described the capture of two forts and the burning of Kingston, then the capital of New York. Sir Henry had tried to link up with General Burgoyne as he and his troops marched down from Canada. However, the rebels defeated them at Saratoga beforehand. In letters and memoranda, Clinton depicted later British efforts to seize other American installations on the river further south. In one memorandum Clinton mentioned a woman spy alias ‘Scarlet Tanager,’ who worked for the British along the river. He attached her detailed report about the rebel artillery for the defense of West Point and Constitution Island. From these papers, it was apparent Sir Henry ired her accomplishments.

Almost by accident, Brad stumbled on Major John Andre’s Intelligence Book. An aide to Sir Henry Clinton, Andre ran a network of spies. Parts of this notebook were in code and unintelligible, but the non-coded portions rang out to expose a sketchy tale of intrigue involving British subterfuge during the Revolution. As Brad flipped the knob on the microfilm machine, a picture emerged about rebel troop units in the Hudson Valley, their movements, armament and morale.

Then a most astonishing item. On the viewing screen appeared an orderly book from a unit of the Continental Army. But what was it doing in Sir Henry’s papers? Stranger still, it was no ordinary unit, but an elite cavalry group, as Brad realized, commanded by the illustrious Major Harry Lee, father of General Robert E. Lee of Civil War fame. Yet these materials offered not the slightest hint of a redcoat or tory in or at the Newburgh Armory. Nor was the Armory itself cited.

With all this effort, the past had come to dominate Brad’s life. As his pursuit unfolded, he had less and less connection with the present. Perhaps these neat time divisions – the past, present and future – were meaningless, he pondered, because they embodied just one continuous flow or, more to the point, a hodgepodge of distorted events and epochs, blurred in rapid transitions.

Wherever he stopped the viewer marked where he temporarily existed, the way station at which he got off. This blessedly simple device had become a special time machine. He could accelerate or slow the movement of time, even reverse or halt it. Despite its many features it remained handicapped by a linearity, incapable of maneuvers through time warps or wormholes into worlds visited by astrophysicists and astronomers with their telescopes. For him this limitation mattered not a bit.

Time too meant change – it rearranged or erased the past. Bodies decayed making identification impossible. Wind, water, earthquakes and other forces – natural or man-made – eroded, buried or destroyed evidence of prior existence. Consequently, the past may become not what it truly was but today or in the future something different, an altered state whose original form vanishes forever, only partially recoverable, exact retrieval eluded. Alternatively, the past may well reach into the present and future to stir and shape with upsetting impact.

Why had he devoted so much activity to that past? Perhaps he too persisted in an earlier reality beyond redemption just like the skeleton whose identity he sought

to uncover. In his own mind doubts arose about actual control and direction of this investigation. Irresistible forces from a preceding life may be exerting pressures to drive him onward. Arguably, in the present he had been transformed into a servant of the past.

Lost in varied time zones, Brad’s mind wandered further still, buoyed by the realization of the past’s vital role in explaining what had happened, no doubt acting as a building block for what was to come, a tripwire that triggers evolution, enlightenment and progress. Without understanding the past, the basis for grasping the present or future would be seriously hampered, the past epitomizing the transmitter, the present and future, receivers and amplifiers, then repeaters for the next age. Indeed, where we’ve been, he reasoned, influences where we’re going.

He had to know what occurred in the Armory back then. Somehow the past had to yield up its secrets even if force were required. Yet how would that be done? No one could manhandle a prior time or situation, grab it by the lapels to shake or squeeze the truth out of it. What a foolish thought! Or better yet, he muttered to himself, didn’t this whole business amount to a fool’s errand as his wife contended?

CHAPTER XIII - A NEW MISSION

Luke was working at his office late one August morning, when a messenger arrived. It was a young sergeant from a Connecticut regiment. He said he’d been sent from New Windsor.

“Sir, you’re wanted at General Washington’s house this afternoon at two.”

“Did they tell you why I’m wanted?” Luke asked.

“No, sir, they didn’t, but they ordered me to escort you.”

“Why? Did they think I wouldn’t come?”

The sergeant refused to speculate. “I only know what I’ve been told, sir.”

Luke instructed Molly Jarvis to serve the young sergeant a meal on the back porch. While the sergeant ate, Luke finished tending his patients for the day. Soon they were cantering up to the Ellison house on the river’s western edge, two miles south of his office, there a detachment of cavalry were exercising their mounts in an adjacent field. Diverted for a short time, the pair watched this unit going through a series of coordinated movements. Tying the horses to the hitching post, they walked to the front door. The sergeant spoke to the guard on the steps, who itted Luke.

Inside a lieutenant, stationed in the entryway, ushered Luke into the dining room where he was asked to wait. McDuffy, his huge bulk straining the walnut side chair with its ball and claw feet, sat next to a large table. The two men nodded to each other but did not speak. Preferring to stand, Luke sauntered to the room’s far end to inspect an oil painting on the wall.

Why had he been summoned? Luke wondered. As far as he knew, no battles were being fought in the immediate vicinity, so his medical or fighting skills should not be in demand. Perplexed, after twenty minutes he grew impatient. Usually people waited for him. Now he was kept waiting and disliked the delay.

At last the lieutenant reentered the room and instructed both men to follow him. He led them to a larger chamber that had once been the Ellison living room. Before them Washington relaxed in a leather chair at a broad, flat desk with his back to a large window. He rose to greet them.

“Welcome gentlemen. I am pleased you could come at such short notice.” He shook hands with Luke and returned McDuffy’s salute.

“There’s someone I want you to meet, Dr. Davidson, a former acquaintance,” Washington said. “Major,” he called, raising his voice. “Would you come in, please?”

A side door opened, and an American officer, garbed in the distinctive blue uniform of the Dragoons, a tall plumed hat under his arm, strode into the room. Luke failed to recognize the smiling figure immediately. As he came closer, the visitor extended a hand in greeting, and his identity became clear. It was Ben Tallmadge, an old college friend.

“How are you?” Tallmadge shook Luke’s hand heartily.

Luke was so surprised he could hardly speak. “Very well, and you?”

“Active, always moving around.”

“What he means,” replied Washington, “is that he has been in nearly every major campaign with me and many minor ones without me.”

“Yes, sir, we’ve been through hell and back,” Tallmadge observed. “So this is McDuffy. I have heard much about you.”

“Yes, sir,” McDuffy nervously saluted.

“Some good, some bad,” Tallmadge returned the salute. “Relax, Sergeant.”

“Let’s get down to business,” Washington urged. “The major here will give you the necessary background information and tell you what we’re looking for.”

“A development in Westchester County, where I’ve been posted lately, requires a solution. In no-man’s land between our lines and the British lies a doctor’s residence called the Sanctuary.”

“Why Sanctuary?” asked Luke.

“I was just about to get to that,” Tallmadge said. “The doctor there treated the wounded of every stripe. He was a saint who took no sides in this war but helped each in need. The house represented a safe haven where no fighting or taking prisoners occurred. That became the primary condition of treatment.”

“Very unusual, sir, if I may say,” sounded McDuffy’s skeptical voice.

Tallmadge gave him a curt nod of agreement and continued. “Unlike the good doctor, his housekeeper is an avid patriot. She furnished us with vital information about both British and tories gleaned from his patients. Unfortunately, the doctor died last week of natural causes. So the flow of patients has stopped and the information from the housekeeper has dropped off. At first we thought we had a disaster on our hands, but now we consider this an opportunity to enlarge our spying and make everything more efficient.”

“Sir,” said McDuffy, “You’ve ed me around the bend. I am totally befuddled.”

“Bear with me, Sergeant,” the major onished. “I trust our intentions will soon be made crystal clear. As I was saying, we want to make things bigger and better … by putting our own people into the Sanctuary.”

“Have you picked them yet?” asked Luke, taking pride in hearing such secrets.

“Yes, we have,” the major smiled.

“You’re sure they’re the right people.” Luke was caught up in this , not suspecting why they confided in him.

“Definitely. Aren’t you curious to know who they are?” asked Tallmadge.

“Major, for Godsakes, stop playing games and get to the point,” pleaded Washington. So many urgent matters burdened his schedule and mind.

“Yes, sir. Dr. Davidson, we want you and McDuffy to go in there for us and act as the doctor and his assistant.”

“What!” Luke jumped up, staggered at the thought. “That’s impossible.”

“Why?” asked Ben.

“I’ve got family and professional obligations that keep me here. Anne and I are married and have a young son. She is expecting our second child.”

“Many have left family, friends and profession to fight in this war,” argued Ben unsympathetically. “That is not an acceptable excuse.”

“But I have an extensive medical practice. In fact, I should be looking for another doctor to help me,” claimed Luke, seeking any way out. “Who would handle my patients if I left?”

“All that can be dealt with,” Ben reasoned.

“From what I gather, Dr. Davidson, you are the only person we know qualified for this assignment,” the general advised. “Divine Providence has placed you in our hands. I exhort you to follow her lead.”

“Sir, I find all you say hard to fathom,” Luke responded.

“You have a unique blend of medical and military skills we seek,” Washington explained. “Now, please, don’t be too modest or too pigheaded about this.”

“What you fail to recognize is your exploits have preceded you—the capture of the tories, the destruction of the British ships, uncovering the plot to kidnap the general.” The major brandished a forefinger toward Luke. “You are perfect for this mission.”

“The information you will be collecting for us may be critical to the outcome of this war,” the general emphasized. “Your country needs you, Doctor. It is that simple.”

Luke was overwhelmed. How could he possibly defy the general’s wishes? Having no further excuses to offer, he kept his mouth shut.

“How do you feel about this, Sergeant?” asked Tallmadge. “Are you ready for this mission?”“Yes, sir, if you will have me,” McDuffy proudly replied, his eyes blinking several times.

“Good, but you’ll have to be disciplined. No distractions. Your life and the doctor’s will depend upon your steadiness.” Ben’s words rang clearly and firmly.

“I understand, sir,” came McDuffy’s answer. “You have my solemn promise.”

“We cannot order either of you men to go,” revealed the general. “This is strictly a volunteer effort. But we hope you will accept the assignment … and wish you every success.”

“Our sources of information about the enemy are usually excellent,” Tallmadge added. “What we need is faster, more reliable delivery. I’ll give you more details when we meet again in a few days. Now let’s discuss the excuse for your departure and handling your medical practice.”

On the ride back to the office, Luke was mentally numb. In the heady and disorienting presence of General Washington, the doctor had agreed to go on the mission, but now he was stunned at such foolishness. The loud smacks of the horse’s hoofs hitting the ground in a regular cadence jarred him back to reality. Why, in God’s name, had he volunteered, Luke mused. Obviously, something in his head had not been right. The last thing he wanted was to give up the comforts of family, friends and a prosperous medical practice to be a spy. How did anyone know he would be good at it? And how could a doctor pledged to helping mankind play a spy whose objective was to deceive and subvert? Besides, the risks were too great.

Yet, when Washington, the respected commander-in-chief of the Continental Army, insisted he had been the only man for such a crucial task—absolutely vital to the country’s interests—was there any real choice? No, of course not. For the first time he understood why Nathan Hale had gone on such a ill-fated mission.

Luke knew his wife would be upset, if not outraged, at the prospect of his extended absence from home. What about the medical practice? Who could he get to substitute for him? The general had offered an older army surgeon. He must discuss this with Dr. Deyo first. Recalling the old man’s reaction to that mysterious sojourn for Hasbrouck made Luke reluctant to raise the subject again.

Naturally, Luke could tell no one what he would be doing or why he was leaving. This complicated things in his mind. He would have to lie to family and friends; it made him feel even more uncomfortable. Still, Ben Tallmadge had created a false story for him. A doctor with his skills must ister three Army hospitals in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. It made perfect sense Luke would be called upon for this task. As he rode, the doctor kept repeating the fiction to himself so upon retelling the lie would sound convincing and truthful.

That afternoon the chess game at Weigand’s Tavern had left Deyo with an empty feeling. For most of the match, he felt Jonathan Hasbrouck was beaten. Yet that clever man had lured him on, unsuspecting as he was, into a trap at the end to checkmate him. Realizing Hasbrouck had the ability to think many moves ahead, Deyo should have been smarter or at least not as overconfident. Hasbrouck had made a fool out of him if not to the onlookers at the tavern, certainly in his own eyes. It was only a game, nothing more, Deyo reminded himself. Then why did it upset him? He decided the loss hadn’t been what disturbed him. It had to do with games in general. Since he had turned his practice over to Luke, he possessed all this free time. ittedly overworked and tired when Luke first ed him, Deyo now was extremely well rested. He had played too many games, drank entirely too much port and wasted enormous effort courting the widow of Parson Buckland until it became abundantly clear she harbored no romantic notions

about him. The only smart move he had made was not to propose marriage.

When early that evening Luke told Deyo that Washington had appointed him to an important position in the Army’s medical department, Deyo’s emptiness began to dissolve. He did not get mad but rather patted his assistant on the back, proud he had received such an esteemed appointment. Deyo grasped that he might be back in harness, practicing medicine until the end of the war.

Working, he thought, might cure his ailing. After that, he welcomed the opportunity. For he had been frivolous long enough and wanted to return to old routines. “Don’t you worry,” he told Luke, “I’ll take care of everything while you’re gone. It will all be here when you get back.”

“What a relief!” Luke said. Perhaps, Deyo was not such a cantankerous old fool, after all.

Once Anne washed the dishes later that evening, Luke reluctantly told her about the new position as head of the military hospitals.

She greeted the news with enthusiasm. “We’ll be moving to Pennsylvania then. Perhaps we could live in Philadelphia. How exciting!”

“No, no, that’s not possible.” Luke realized that Tallmadge’s story had its weaknesses.

“Why not? It should work out so nicely.”

Luke thought quickly. “Because I’ll be traveling much of the time, I won’t have a permanent residence.”

“But if we’re in the general vicinity, you would have a home base, that you could stay at often.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Anne, General Washington specifically ordered me not to bring my family. It’s still dangerous for civilians in that part of the country. But the general did say I could come home periodically for visits.”

“I’m not sure I like this general, anymore.”

“We’ve been lucky thus far that I’ve not been forced to go away. I’m in the militia. Others in this war have been separated from families for years.”

Anne became teary-eyed and began to sob. Luke felt helpless and grim. He tried to take her in his arms to console her, but she pushed him away and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Trying the door, he found it locked. In the other bedroom, he gazed at his son who was sound asleep. At least, Edmond was not angry with him.

With a sigh, Luke drifted into the parlor, where he slept uncomfortably on the couch that night, with only a cloak for a blanket.

For the trip downriver, Tallmadge had requisitioned a modest-sized sloop and

urged Luke to bring a generous amount of supplies and equipment. Together, they had composed a list of what was required. McDuffy gathered most of these items at Keppler-Davidson Armory and the firm’s warehouse where Matthew worked. Before leaving, Luke visited each site and bid farewell to Hans Reinhardt and his brother. When the supplies were assembled, enough weapons, ammunition and clothing existed to outfit a full company of militiamen. McDuffy also brought a string of horses and four canoes. Naturally, Luke carried medical instruments, books and supplies on board.

Feeling guilty about deserting Anne and Edmond, Luke fought off a rotten mood that day. He had arranged to have Rebecca and Matthew look after them. This gave him a degree of comfort. Grudgingly, Anne accepted the impending absence because Luke had made many promises to mollify her.

“Now we come to your personal story,” Tallmadge whispered, sitting next to Luke at the ship’s bow.

“What story?” Luke frowned.

“We cannot have you parading as an Indian doctor down there.”

“Why not?”

“It just won’t do. How many Indian doctors do you think there are? Such information will make it easy for the enemy to discover who you are. You would be in grave peril. Washington agrees with me.”

Luke thought about it and realized Tallmadge had a point. “But I cannot change the color of my skin or facial features.”

“No, but you could pretend to be of a different nationality and from another country.”

The suggestion piqued Luke’s interest. “What do you have in mind?”

“ how you were always taking Spanish lessons with Manuel in New Haven? And you told me the other day you visited Spain when you were in Europe.”

“Yes, and I do speak fluent Spanish.”

“That’s it then. You’ll pretend to be a European-trained, Spanish doctor who has recently immigrated here, one with no political allegiance to patriot or loyalist party.”

Luke inclined his head. The idea appealed to him.

Next, Tallmadge briefed Luke and McDuffy on the spy network in Westchester and the secret codes and names involved. Having furnished them with maps of the area, Tallmadge went over them carefully to point out vital roads, bridges, and villages.

Night cloaked the ship’s age downriver. The stars alone shed light and that, because of fluctuating cloud cover, was faint and fleeting. The sloop had carried them ten miles below West Point before the sharp-eyed lookout in the crow’s nest shouted, “Ship ahoy to starboard.” Luke stared in that direction, but failed to see anything. A hasty conference took place between the sloop’s captain and Tallmadge. A telescope held against his right eye, the captain swept the river to pick up the unidentified intruder, at the same time seeking a hiding place. He ordered the helmsman to steer for a small cove on the eastern side and whispered something to the first mate, who in short order positioned the crew along the full length of the deck.

The sloop headed for a wooded peninsula at the cove’s southern end. Just before reaching it, the sails were rapidly lowered as the helmsman spun the wheel hard to starboard. The sloop, making a quick turn, came to a dead stop, the bow perpendicular to the river’s course. The anchor dropped quietly into the water.

That had been good seamanship, Luke sensed. Better yet it seemed a wise stratagem. For when the other ship glided by, its view of the sloop would be reduced to the narrowest part. With sails lowered under the night sky, the sloop’s masts and hull would blend seamlessly into the adjacent woodside to become practically invisible.

Until the shadowy craft, heading upriver, ed within their field of vision, its full dimensions and identity would remain an enigma. At last the strange ship’s enormity took shape in the freshening breeze. Distantly silhouetted against the western bank, enough starlight shone to expose a British frigate with more than forty-four guns.

Fate shielded the sloop from detection, thwarting the ing monster’s appetite. After the frigate disappeared into the murkiness, the sloop’s sails and anchor were hoisted to resume the voyage south.

At midnight it docked along a short pier on the river’s eastern side. Hurriedly unloading the supplies and equipment, the crew toted them up a steep path to a house and barn on a high plateau above the shoreline. Clumps of bushes and trees dotted an open yard to encircle the buildings. Canoes and horses were stowed in the barn while Tallmadge led Luke and McDuffy toward the house.

A plump, attractive woman in her early thirties opened the front door. Tallmadge introduced her as Emma Ryan, the housekeeper. She had wire-rimmed spectacles and an amicable smile.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said. “Please come in.”

“Are you alone?” Tallmadge asked.

“Indeed, I am. Can I get you something to eat or drink? Some tea perhaps.”

“Tea would be enjoyable. Thank you.” Luke stepped inside.

“Could I get something stronger?” McDuffy inquired. “If you get my meaning?”

“Surely the trip was not that arduous,” she responded.

Tallmadge ushered Luke and McDuffy into the parlor. The doctor and sergeant

settled on a narrow green sofa, framed in mahogany. Tallmadge sat across from them in an upholstered chair and produced a black box.

“I have something important to show you.” He opened the box. “Washington and I want you to write dispatches and reports in a special kind of ink. This is something new. It was invented by James Jay, the brother of John Jay. Luke, you may know him?”

“No, but I’ve heard people speak of them,” Luke remarked. “They’re quite illustrious.”

“The ink’s called invisible because it first disappears, then reappears when another substance is applied. There are ten vials in this box. Apply it sparingly. It’s hard to get. And use this code book for your messages.”

Emma Ryan brought in a tray piled high with white cups and saucers, a copper teapot, a bottle of rum and a plate of plain cake. “Kindly help yourselves,” she offered.

The men poured and drank the beverages, then ate the evenly sliced pieces of cake.

“The general recommends invisible ink be used between the lines of a normal letter written in regular ink or on the blank pages of a book,” Tallmadge said. “This arouses less suspicion.”

“Have you told them about our signaling system?” Emma Ryan took a seat on a straight-back wooden chair.

“Perhaps, you should explain that.”

“Well, we have one set of signals for day-time and another at night. During the day, we use my clothesline. One white sheet means, ‘It is all clear or safe.’ Two petticoats, ‘Beware.’ Three handkerchiefs, ‘Danger. Keep away.’ At night, we use a widow’s walk on the third floor of the house. Because of a hoist, it can be lit up from any floor. If it is unlit, ‘All is well.’ If there is a light, ‘Proceed with caution or do not enter.’”

“As you can see,” Tallmadge remarked, “I am leaving you in good hands.”

Before breakfast the next morning, Tallmadge had Luke him in the barn. The two men talked while Tallmadge saddled a brown mare. He was to re a cavalry unit stationed at Peekskill, twenty-five miles north.

“I’m worried about you,” Tallmadge revealed, holding the reins in his left hand.

“It is a bit late for that, but you need not be. We’ll be all right.”

“Never forget, this is a dangerous enterprise. It’s not like the games we played at college. One slip and you’re doomed, so be very careful. what happened to Nat.”

“I know. Caution will be our byword. You can count on that.”

“Good. I’ll drop by every so often to deliver or pickup messages and see how you’re doing.” Tallmadge tightened the cinch beneath the horse’s midriff.

“I look forward to it.”

“Send all your dispatches to me straightaway. Use McDuffy as your bodyguard and messenger, but keep him on a tight leash. He has been known to wander.” From atop his horse Tallmadge leaned down, shook Luke’s hand, then set off.

Luke went back to the house. The aroma of sizzling bacon met him when he slipped through the back door. Mrs. Ryan was bending over the hearth to stir a pot of oats. In another pan, she was frying cakes of ground corn. A puffing tea kettle hung from a wrought iron bar beside her.

Until then, Luke had not the slightest thought of food. Yet these sights, sounds and smells aroused his appetite. When she invited him to sit at the kitchen table and partake of the meal, he readily accepted.

“Has Major Tallmadge explained the political and military conditions prevalent in Westchester?” she asked.

“Somewhat. Actually, he only gave us the history of the Sanctuary.”

“Has he told you about the irregulars on both sides?”

“No. Is it important?”

“I suppose he counted on me to tell you. They’re the worst menace in no-man’s land. The Cowboys are on the British side, and the Skinners are with the patriots.”

“Odd names.” Luke munched on the corncakes.

“Both groups usually raid, loot, burn and kill the partisans of their enemy, but sometimes they do not care whom they injure. The tories are called Cowboys because they herd cattle and horses from American territory to the British. You can imagine how the Skinners came by their name.”

“Then how do we tell them apart?”

“Both wear civilian clothes, with military garb sometimes mixed in, so that dress is not particularly helpful. Usually, they announce their allegiance at the start or you know them by sight from earlier run-ins.”

“We may have trouble figuring out who is on which side. We will have to be extra careful.”

After breakfast, McDuffy and Luke saddled their horses and rode out to survey

the countryside. The Sanctuary’s clinic would not open for a few more days. Though not mountainous, this area of Westchester resembled that of the Hudson Valley further north. The trees, gullies, rock outcroppings and meadows looked comfortably familiar to Luke. Relying primarily on Tallmadge’s maps, they covered a fair amount of territory by day’s end.

The one distinguishing feature was the county’s blatant lack of prosperity. Houses had been destroyed or were boarded up and deserted. Unplowed fields were often overgrown. In some cases they had been burned, lying utterly barren. Few people traveled the roads. Desolation seemed commonplace. When Luke attended Yale, he had often traveled through Westchester when returning home or to New Haven. Then it stood out as a rich and bountiful land. The war changed all that to leave a pattern of desolation and ruin.

That evening, Luke informed McDuffy and Emma of his new identity. He was now Dr. Antonio Torres, a Spanish émigré from Barcelona. He had obtained his medical training in Paris and lived and traveled extensively in Europe. Because he had only recently arrived in this country at the invitation of the now deceased Dr. Cornelius Von Kessel, the Sanctuary’s former owner and surgeon, Dr. Torres took no sides in the war.

Emma Ryan shared vital details about Von Kessel and the Sanctuary and the next day she gave them a special tour of the place. Von Kessel, she explained, had been alarmed at the prospects of a raid by the Cowboys or Skinners, so he’d taken extra precautions. In the library, a section of the bookcase pivoted when she pressed a device behind a set of books to open a secret back room. There a trap door, concealed by a rug, led to wooden stairs that descended into a large cellar. Once in the cellar, she guided them with a lantern to a spot behind the staircase where another device, hidden atop a beam, manually rotated a portion of a wall. A long ageway appeared. Filled with curiosity, the men trailed after her through the tunnel for sixty feet into a small chamber to discover still another staircase.

“We are under the back end of the barn,” she whispered. In an ascent up the narrow steps, she removed a round ceiling piece with a built-in handle. Now in a tight space, surrounded by bales of hay, they stood on the barn’s ground floor against a far wall. At Emma’s request McDuffy removed one bundle, and each of them took turns gazing out into the large barn. Then she moved a slat in the wall at floor-level, exposing a small crawl space to out-of-doors. The bale replaced, they hastily descended the stairs before covering up the floor.

On a wall in the underground room, dark drapes hung from the ceiling. She pushed them aside to reveal another subterranean ageway. Astounded at the labyrinth, Luke and McDuffy stepped lively to keep up with her as she traipsed forward, a tin lantern shedding light. The tunnel ended in the open air behind two tall bushes, ten yards from the steep path to the river which the men had negotiated that first night.

“Keep a pair of canoes hidden beneath the dock below,” she suggested, “and at least two outside this entrance under the bushes.”

“For a quick escape,” said McDuffy.

“Yes, indeed and for convenience too,” she answered. “We should also split up the supplies and equipment you brought. Put some in the barn and the rest in the cellar of the house.”

“What are you afraid of?” asked McDuffy.

“Sergeant, those villains, the Cowboys and Skinners that through here, will rob us blind if you give them half a chance.”

“What about the extra horses?” asked Luke. “Without doubt they are most tempting prizes.”

“To be sure. That is why Dr. Von Kessel had another barn built close by, concealed in the woods. We’ll keep the horses there.”

As they retraced their way through the tunnels to the house, Emma Ryan again demonstrated how to open the hidden s so the men would not forget.

The next few days were busy ones. The lack of a physician at the Sanctuary for six weeks had created a backlog of cases. Almost everyone in the surrounding villages seemed to have an ailment, which required treatment: mostly broken bones, severe colds, rheumatism and pregnancies. Yet Luke suspected that many came out of curiosity about the new physician.

Luke, alias Dr. Torres, kept to the old procedures established by Emma Ryan. She would question the patients about illness, families and military matters, covering the last topic subtly and casually. Luke treated the medical problems. Luke’s new name had an unfamiliar ring to his ears, and the speech, laced with a Spanish accent and words, was awkward at first, but he soon became accustomed to the nuances of this false identity and even enjoyed them. During office hours, he smiled often when the unmarried women openly flirted. As part of Luke’s personal background, Mrs. Ryan had earlier reported to people he was a childless widower from Europe.

One evening, weeks long after their arrival, McDuffy answered a loud rapping at the Sanctuary’s front door. On the porch, a gangling boy about sixteen years of age hunched.

“Can I see the doctor right away?” he cried. “It’s darn important.”

“What is the matter? I hope you are not bothering him at this hour with something foolish.”

“Ma is having a baby soon, and she needs him right quick.”

Upon hearing the commotion, Luke rushed to the center hall of the house. Told about the woman’s condition, he asked McDuffy to saddle a horse.

“Sure, Dr. Torres,” McDuffy said. “But don’t you think I should go, too? Never know what vermin are out at night.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Stay here with Mrs. Ryan.” Luke snatched up his medical bag and reached for a coat.

Luke and the boy rode hard and fast along the road north toward the lad’s home. They arrived in plenty of time. While the contractions were occurring frequently, the delivery still lay hours off. The mother struggled in her labor, perspiring, grunting and moaning as the pain grew worse. Late that night she gave birth to a healthy baby girl who wailed loudly with the first smack on her bottom.

After assuring himself that mother and child were doing well, Luke bid the family farewell and started back to the Sanctuary. Under the stars and quarter moon the horse trotted home along the narrow winding road. Tired from the long

day’s effort, Luke failed to spur it on, so the return trip took much longer than the earlier one.

With reins loosely held, Luke mused about the advantages and disadvantages of his chosen profession. Often yearning for regular office hours and a relaxing evening by the fire, he resented being called out in the middle of the night to treat patients. Still, when a child was successfully delivered, those inconveniences and discomforts were forgotten. Few experiences matched this joy, the gift of life to elate both doctor and parents. Years of sacrifice and hard work dissolved into a powerful sense of achievement.

Almost at the Sanctuary, Luke’s weary mind was anything but alert. Ordinarily reacting in an instant to any threats, several minutes ed before he recognized something seemed amiss. What did Emma Ryan say about a danger signal at night? Light in the widow’s walk ‘Beware’. A light glowed there. He veered off the road, dismounted and led the horse to the back of the barn, where he tied it to a birch tree. Luke carefully crept up to the building, crouching, and peered around a corner. Among a bevy of horses, five armed men in civilian dress loitered in the front yard as if on guard.

Luke crawled into the barn through the narrow opening after removing the slat at the rear. In the small recess behind the bales of hay, Luke took the lantern from the wall, lifted the floor and descended into the basement. At the foot of the stairs, he lit the candle in the lantern with the tinderbox in a pocket and searched the cellar for hidden weapons there.

A brace of double-barreled pistols in hand, primed and loaded, Luke inserted them in the holsters, belted to his waist. A long dagger in a sheath was slipped under the belt against the small of his back. Ready for whatever peril, he rapidly wound his way with the lantern through the tunnel toward the house. At the foot of the staircase in the cellar, he stopped to listen intently. Quiet reigned above until his hearing picked up the distant sound of muffled arguing.

Luke tiptoed up the stairs. On the top step, he paused, straining to hear more. The voices became more distinct. The trap door, lifted a fraction of an inch, concealed a dark empty alcove. In the alcove, he stepped to the back of the bookcase to feel along the wall for the peephole. The candle in the lantern doused, he uncovered the hole. The library loomed in the darkness but the voices, though louder, came from beyond.

Luke rotated the wall to walk into the room. Ear pressed to the door, he pulled out the two pistols. The voices’ origin became more apparent. Opening the library door, the physician slid along the hallway. Near the parlor, the sounds grew much louder. With both pistols in hand and in a crouched position to be less of a target, Luke rushed into the room.

“Drop that weapon,” Luke shouted.

Emma Ryan sat uncomfortably in an armchair while a short, scruffy man hovered over her. A red-headed fellow with a freckled face lay wounded on the green sofa against the far wall. Down on the floor sprawled McDuffy; an older bearded ruffian, dark hair flopping over the brow, towered over him, poking a musket in his back. The intruders wore drab civilian clothes.

“Who are you, and where did ya’ come from?” barked the armed man. He appeared to be the leader.

“Never mind, just put that musket on the floor,” Luke said firmly. The man lowered it. “McDuffy, get up and grab the gun,” Luke ordered. “There’s rope in the hall closet. Fetch it and tie these lowlifes up.”

McDuffy hastily obeyed.

“Why are you rogues here?” Luke demanded.

“We came for the old doc to get him to mend our man here.” The leader pointed to the figure on the sofa. “Where is he?”

“He’s dead. You must have known. Mrs. Ryan would have told you that right off even if you hadn’t asked her.” To Luke, the leader and the wounded man on the sofa appeared vaguely familiar.

“Believe me, these Cowboys knew that, but they came to rob us,” said Emma Ryan. “They are demanding gold, silver and other valuables.”

“You have violated the rules of this establishment,” Luke announced. “This is a sanctuary for the ill. No weapons, fighting or thieving allowed, and now you will pay the price.”

Once hands were tied, McDuffy forced the short, thick one to lie face down on the floor. Luke then called McDuffy over to whisper something to him. McDuffy grabbed their weapons and left the room.

Luke prodded the leader through the hallway toward the front door. The man turned, kicked him in the legs and butted his head against Luke’s stomach. Knocked to the floor with the Cowboy’s body on top, Luke rolled him over and

smashed the pistol against his forehead. Groggily the leader rose to his feet, groaning with pain. The pistol jammed into his back, Luke instructed him out of the others’ earshot. Without any more delay Luke opened the door and roughly pushed him over the threshold.

“Matt, Clem. Come here, damn it,” the boss shouted.

The pair walked toward the front of the house. When they reached the porch, the leader said, “Put your muskets against the wall. You won’t need ‘em.”

Luke pushed the boss out onto the porch and thrust a pistol at the three of them. “Get on the floor.”

Terrified, the men bent over and laid down.

McDuffy came up behind the other three marauders in the front yard, a loaded Blunderbuss in hand. “Drop your muskets,” he ordered.

Stunned, two of the men yielded. One lunged at McDuffy to catch him off guard. McDuffy hit the man squarely on the jaw with a powerful left hook and knocked him unconscious. McDuffy tied their hands and feet, strode to the porch, then bound the other two marauders lying down.

A loud crash resounded from the house. With the Cowboys’ leader in front, Luke, followed by McDuffy, rushed back inside. In the parlor, a shattered vase lay on the floor. Emma Ryan dug a foot into the man’s back.

“He started to get up, ignoring my advice,” she said. “So I let him have it … right on the noggin.”

Luke and McDuffy burst out laughing.

Luke treated the wounded Cowboy on the sofa while McDuffy guarded the others. In a closer look at this man and the leader, Luke recalled that day on the river so long ago when the teenager shot a pair of would-be thieves. The two were the same men, just older but sadly still engaged in skullduggery.

“Seems the last time I saw these two villains, they were trying to rob three Indian boys on the Hudson, but that day they got quite a drubbing,” Luke recounted for the benefit of McDuffy and Emma Ryan. In disbelief the two Cowboys stared back at him, unable to identify the tall doctor with the Spanish accent. “They’re always bent on taking someone else’s property,” he added.

Later, McDuffy hitched a team of horses to a large wagon, threw the bound marauders in it one by one and drove to the American outpost at Croton, a tenmile trip. After hearing about their misdeeds, the commanding officer jailed them.

CHAPTER XIV - OPERATION OF A SPY RING

Late one evening a week afterward, an unexpected knock thumped on the Sanctuary’s backdoor. In the kitchen, Emma Ryan extinguished the candles. Seated in the dark at the table knitting a shawl, she was in no hurry to open the outer portal and it any unknown visitors. Another knock echoed impatiently through the house.

In his office, Luke rose at the initial rapping, grabbed a loaded pistol and headed for the kitchen. In the front hallway, McDuffy rushed to a closet, picked up a musket, then strode toward the backdoor. Luke reached the kitchen first. It was in darkness.

“Mrs. Ryan, are you in here?” he asked and heard a soft reply.

“Yes, I am sitting at the table.”

“Did you see who it is?”

“No. And I don’t want to.”

“I’m right behind you,” McDuffy whispered. “And I’m armed.”

Luke stepped quietly over to the back door. “Who is out there?” he shouted.

“Major Tallmadge and friend. Let us in.”

Emma Ryan hastily lit the candles. Still wary, Luke opened the door with the pistol held ready. Ben Tallmadge and William Hull barged into the kitchen.

“Why did you douse the light and take so long to answer our knocks?” Tallmadge asked.

“We’re being careful,” Luke said. “Recall your own advice. We had a bad run-in with some overzealous Cowboys.”

“Ah, yes. A rambunctious lot,” Hull quipped. “Must be kicked often and hard. But how the hell are you?” He extended a hand to shake Luke’s. “Hope there was no damage.”

“We were not harmed, fortunately. Just frightened,” Luke said. “Everyone remains in fine spirits. But it is indeed good to see the pair of you.”

“The dangers of living in no-man’s land,” Tallmadge observed. “Didn’t I warn you?”

“In truth, you told us nothing about the Cowboys, but Mrs. Ryan surely did then some.”

At her suggestion the men took seats in the parlor while she brewed coffee.

“I have great news, Luke,” Tallmadge divulged.

“I can go home soon?”

Tallmadge ignored Luke’s remark. “Anne just had a healthy baby girl. Congratulations.”

“Is Annie all right?” Luke leaned forward.

“They’re both fine. She has written you a letter.” Tallmadge handed him a sealed envelope.

“You promised I could visit her. What better time than now?” Luke asked. He missed her horribly.

“I believe Ben has something else in mind for you,” Hull replied.

But Luke didn’t want to hear about anything else. “I don’t understand. What about your promise? Are you saying I cannot see my wife and baby daughter? Nothing else could be so confounded critical, anyway.”

Tallmadge held up a hand. “Give me a chance to explain. You have to see someone vital to our cause tomorrow, our top agent in New York City.”

“Why can’t it wait a few days?”

Tallmadge shook his head. “That is out of the question.”

Emma Ryan toted in a tray, loaded with coffee, crockery and biscuits into the room. Resting it on a table, she poured the hot coffee and ed the cups out to the men.

“William, what are you doing here anyway?” Luke inquired in a more friendly tone.

Tallmadge responded, “He is the new commanding officer guarding the neutral ground.”

“Congratulations,” Luke said. “Or should I convey my condolences?”

A grin gradually stretched across his face. “It makes no difference,” William answered. “The tasks and dangers stay the same. There will be raids and skirmishes between both sides.”

“I have news for you.” Luke glanced at Tallmadge. “It just came in so we haven’t had a chance to convert it into that strange code of yours. The time it

takes to look up each word in the dictionary and write down the corresponding number.” Luke shook his head. “You’re clever, Ben, but there must be a quicker means of disguise than this.”

“Skip the code now,” Tallmadge ordered. “Just let me see what you’ve written.” His mind was overburdened with other military matters.

After reading Luke’s report, the major nodded approvingly. “This is good solid intelligence. So you think Colonel Abercrombie with one hundred fifty men will attack Crompond soon. You mentioned the Tory Caleb Morgan will guide them. I’m more worried about Tarleton and Simcoe’s Rangers. What do you hear about them?”

“Not much. Our local sources are vague, but we expect a raid from them at any time as well,” Luke said. He wished he could be more specific but there were limits to their fact- gathering capabilities.

“Keep Bill and me advised,” Tallmadge directed. “It is crucial we get information immediately. Forget translating it. Save the code for stuff that doesn’t demand an instant military response. Get McDuffy to saddle a horse and ride to our nearest post as soon as you know something definite.”

“Mrs. Ryan, can we spike this coffee with some stronger substance?” Luke asked.

“Well, if you must,” she hesitated. “We still have some rum in the kitchen. I’ll fetch it.” She rose and walked away.

“I have individual tasks for you and McDuffy over the next few days,” Tallmadge related. “It will mean traveling into Manhattan separately. Let me describe what I want you both to do.”

The next morning, McDuffy got up early, ate breakfast and left for the city. With a long trip before him, he pushed his horse to a fast trot. Tallmadge had ordered him into the heart of Manhattan, now totally controlled by the British, on a special mission for Washington.

To deceive the enemy, McDuffy had been given a counterfeit with the forged signature of Sir Henry Clinton, the British commander. In case McDuffy met any American patrols along the way, he had been furnished with a real signed by the American General George Clinton. The similarity in names of the generals on both sides had always confused McDuffy. He knew the patriots had still another general named James Clinton, a brother of George. Somewhere he had heard the two branches were distantly related. Confusion grew when he had discovered there were General Howes in both camps and a British iral named Howe.

On his own and not under the thumb of any officer, McDuffy seemed poised to enjoy this trip into enemy territory. At Tallmadge’s instructions, he would pose as a tory. The major had made up a story for him, which he had memorized last night. Told he could deviate from the tale and fill in the details, McDuffy began fleshing out the new identity and quietly relished it. Had he not been doing this very thing his entire life? Telling stories, exaggerating, confusing people with lies and deceptions. For once he had stumbled upon a vocation that matched his true talents. Surely he had a gift, which he could now apply to his country’s advantage. The longer he weighed the new role of spy, the more bemused he became, smiling and even laughing out loud as he rode further south.

After several hours McDuffy crossed into British territory. Patrols of cavalry in redcoats continually ed him going north along the main road. Surprised no one stopped him or bothered to ask him any questions, he kept riding. A few miles ahead, the King’s Bridge spanned the Harlem Creek into upper Manhattan. It was guarded by two British sentinels armed with muskets and fixed bayonets. About a hundred yards from the creek, McDuffy, slowing the horse to a walk, nonchalantly approached the open wooden span.

“Halt!” one of the redcoats called out. “Where do you think you are going?”

“To Manhattan,” replied McDuffy confidently.

“Not if you’re shot first you won’t,” shouted the sentry. “Now who are ya and state your business.”

“I am Allister McCabe, a respectable merchant loyal to the King.”

“They all say that, matey. So what! Why are ya going to Manhattan?”

“To buy goods to sell to the English and loyalists.”

“How do I know ya not a rebel sympathizer or one of them damn spies?”

“Do you think they would make a chap that sticks out like me a spy? Are you daft? Let me show you my from Sir Henry Clinton.” McDuffy smiled.

“Don’t ya’ bother. It is likely to be forged.”

“No, no, you got it all wrong!”

“What ya’ going to do for two poor British soldiers?” the sentry asked.

At last McDuffy understood what was going on. This was a form of extortion, a demand for a bribe. Now they were speaking his language. “Well, I don’t mind telling ya I have but little spare cash.”

“I thought ya’ said you were a successful merchant coming to buy British goods,” observed the other sentry, who had been content with merely listening to this point.

“Well, I have bills of exchange for those transactions not hard cash,” McDuffy pointed out, surprised he had conjured up such a plausible explanation so quickly. “One must be careful of highwaymen.”

“We don’t want any of that American paper money. It ain’t worth a damn. Good English coin only or gold,” demanded the first sentry.

McDuffy pulled a few shillings out of his pocket and tossed them over. “Best I can do, I am afraid.”

“All right, you can ,” the first sentry muttered to his companion-in-arms. “Never get rich at this post.

Before they changed their minds, McDuffy hastened across the bridge and headed for lower Manhattan.

That sunny, mild morning, Luke had to decide whether to travel to the city by horseback or canoe. Because the destination was just off the East River, he chose the water route. Not having paddled a canoe in years, he felt the need for real physical exercise.

Luke bid Emma Ryan goodbye and left the house through the underground ages. That way no one could see him depart. With gear in hand, he uncovered a canoe hidden beneath the dock and started the voyage downriver, dipping the paddle again and again into the clear waters. Skill at canoeing had not deserted him, and the craft raced southward.

Smooth, calm waters made the trip easy enough. Within a few hours, Luke reached the imposing cliffs on the west bank less than six miles from the city. The short, even strokes of his paddling pushed the canoe onward. At the juncture with the Harlem Creek, he began mulling over the information Tallmadge had given him the night before.

Luke was instructed to meet Betsy Cromwell, a wealthy widow who pretended to be a devout loyalist though actually a premier patriot spy. With the time and resources to entertain lavishly, she often bestowed the hospitality of her river mansion on the many high-level British officers stationed in Manhattan. By such means this resourceful lady gleaned vital military facts. Connected to a network of rebel associates in the city itself, she would gather other critical news.

Induction into the patriot cause stemmed from Brigadier General Charles Scott, an American officer whose mother she had befriended many years earlier. After Scott was reassigned to another theater of operations, Ben Tallmadge became her primary rebel . As always, the real hardship for Betsy Cromwell was not obtaining the information but conveying it safely and rapidly across enemy territory into reliable American hands. Because Tallmadge had shown Luke the exact location of her countryside mansion on a detailed map, the doctor should have little trouble finding it.

Once in the Harlem Creek, Luke proceeded with more caution. On the Hudson the few boats he ed paid him no mind. Now traveling on a more narrow waterway, his concern mounted. Ahead a bridge spanned the creek with armed sentries patrolling it. The same one McDuffy had crossed earlier. Luke paddled toward it. At any moment he expected the guards to accost him and order him to stop. Preoccupied, they chatted, fiddled with muskets or marched about aimlessly as the canoe quietly slipped under the span. Without the slightest hesitancy Luke kept paddling at the same continuous rate. Gliding toward the East River, he dared not look back until the danger had long gone.

That morning Betsy Cromwell too had risen early. The preparations for the evening’s gala would be all consuming. Fresh food had just arrived from the city, and the cooks were already at work creating the culinary delicacies for which her parties were noted: a veal dish dipped in a batter, sautéed in a skillet with butter, smoked salmon encased in pastries, baked sea bass stuffed with crab, pate de foie gras and a vegetable and cheese soufflé. The housekeeper and servants were still cleaning the mansion and rearranging the furniture. As hostess, Betsy Cromwell not only had to look attractive and act graciously, but she also must organize the event to accord with a highly cultivated sensibilities and taste. As a self-driven perfectionist, she could easily exasperate the help. She readily adopted novel fashions and ideas, then conjured up her own – new dances and old with a special twist, and musical fads from Europe played by accomplished ensembles of strings, reeds and brass. Her parties, even though held in the middle of a war, must be magnificent. Their bell-weathers were variety,

uniqueness and elegance.

At that moment the dressmaker was adjusting the party gown Betsy Cromwell would wear. Before the full-length mirror in the mistress’s bedroom, she ired both the woman’s handiwork and her own shapely body. Even at forty, she still possessed a figure that stirred men’s adoring glances and lusty appetites. Priding herself on maintaining a youthful form, she adorned it with the finest fashions of silk and satin to accentuate physical endowments. The red hair, elaborately piled high on her head, displayed not a strand of gray. A fine bone structure gave her face a distinctive allure.

Yet the bane of her existence, a deteriorating complexion, showed more wrinkles and pastiness than a woman her age should have. She tried to overcome this flaw by applying costly powders and creams to her face, mostly imported from Europe. None had any lasting effect. The timeworn mask undercut the selfimage of a once beautiful femme fatale. This lady would give anything to reverse the years and regain that facial glow of youth. The search for the right ointment or powder – a magic potion – to cure blemished skin became an obsession and made her the zealous buyer of every new elixir d by the unscrupulous.

“Ouch, Nicole, what are you doing?” cried Betsy, as she jumped at the prick of the sewing needle.

“Madame, I am truly sorry. The needle, it slipped!” Nicole answered.

“You must be more careful. I am not a pincushion. Are you nearly finished?”

“Soon, very soon, Madame. In , we work at a slow, careful pace.”

“Yes, but you are in the New World now, Nicole, New York City. Things are done quicker here.”

“There, I am done.” The French woman clapped her hands and beamed. “The gown looks magnifique, Madame Cromwell.”

“Oh, mercy me, it certainly does.” She gasped in iration. “Excellent, my dear.”

A maid burst into the bedroom.

“Mrs. Cromwell, Dr. Antonio Torres has just arrived,” she said in a flutter. “He told me you were expecting him, so I asked him to wait in the library. He looks so handsome.”

“Ah, but he was supposed to be here tomorrow afternoon. I hate it when men turn up early, before I am ready. Inform him I will be down shortly.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” responded the maid.

In the large, wood-ed library with a high plaster ceiling, Luke browsed through shelves of leather-bound books. They overflowed with literature, religion, science, military affairs and geography. In English, French, Spanish,

German, Italian, Latin and Greek, this private collection, he thought, must be one of the finest in America and compared favorably with the one at the Keppler mansion. Leafing through pages of a pioneer work in medicine, On the Movement of Animals by Giovani Alfonso Borelli, he lost all track of time.

“Dr. Torres, is that you?” asked Betsy Cromwell, an hour later.

With a back to the door still reading, Luke did not see her enter the room. He turned to greet her and was struck by her comely appearance.

“Yes,” he replied, “I am Dr. Torres, your most humble servant, and you, Senora, I presume, are Mrs. Cromwell.” He took her hand and kissed it. “What a pleasure.”

“Indeed, I am, good sir,” she smiled graciously. “I did not expect you so soon.”

“I was told by Mr. Isaac Dunlap to visit you forthwith,” Luke volunteered, using Tallmadge’s code name and carefully stressing that Spanish accent. “He said you would have the flowers I needed.” ‘Flowers’ was the code word for information.

“Flowers, yes, I have two dozen roses for you.” ‘Roses’ meant the information was crucial and reliable. “Unfortunately, they will not be available until tomorrow afternoon. You are somewhat early.”

“Oh,” he paused. “I am sure Isaac wanted me here today, but perhaps I misunderstood when the roses would be ready.” Now what was he going to do

with himself for one whole day in enemy territory? The chance of getting caught was just that much greater.

“You need not worry,” she replied. “You are really quite lucky. I am giving a party tonight for some British officers and their lady friends. Of course, you will attend.”

“Do you think that wise?”

“It will give you an ideal opportunity to meet my friends and get to know them.” She smiled at his lack of enthusiasm. “You will have a splendid time,” she assured him. “Trust me.”

“Perhaps.” Was she playing the fool or was he being overly cautious? Tallmadge had indicated she was one of their best sources. He would have to trust her.

She put her arm through his and led him outside into the garden. It was a lovely spring day. “I require an escort, this evening,” she said as they strolled along the brick pathway through the rows of budding tulips, roses and daffodils. “You will be doing me a great service.” Her voice softened. “Everything will turn out perfectly.”

“Senora, I suppose since you put it that way, I cannot let you down.” He bowed. “I would be honored.” She was clever and manipulative, he sensed, and used to getting her way with men.

“Good,” she said. “Indeed you will enjoy yourself. I guarantee it.”

They reentered the house still arm-in-arm.

After the experience at the King’s bridge, the rest of McDuffy’s journey through Manhattan proved uneventful. Tallmadge had instructed him to go to the house of Amos and Mary Underhill in the vicinity of Wall Street near Hanover Square to find Robert Townsend. Soon McDuffy rode up to a redbrick, four-story house with stone trim and black wooden shutters.

The woman answering his knock introduced herself as Mary Underhill, the lady of the house. Thin and short, she seemed about thirty-five years old with long, straggly brown hair.

When asked about Townsend’s whereabouts, she reported, “He lives here but, I believe, he is at the coffee house next to Rivington’s printing shop, off Queen’s Street. It is a few blocks away. You cannot miss it.” Mary pointed west. “Many British officers frequent it,” she warned. “You could wait for him here.”

McDuffy moved on to the coffee house. British officers filled almost every table in the shop. McDuffy asked one of the waiters to please point out Townsend. The waiter led him through the noisy, congested room to the corner. Two British lieutenants sat at the table with a slender man in civilian dress who was writing on a piece of white paper.

McDuffy had been given Townsend’s description and recognized him right off when close.

“Mr. Townsend?” McDuffy asked, towering over them. “Pardon me, sir.”

“Yes?” Townsend glance up from his writings.

“I am Allister McCabe,” McDuffy announced, “a loyalist merchant from Westchester County. I was told you knew someone who could sell me special cloth.”

“What had you in mind, sir?”

“Silk, perhaps some satin.” These code words should with Townsend.

“Upon my word, sir,” one of the British officers said, “You are a big, strapping chap. We could use you in the new loyalist brigade being organized. Are you game?”

“Ordinarily, I would be, sir,” McDuffy said, “but I have six small children and a wife to , plus a business to run. I just cannot afford to be in His Majesty’s service. Mind you, I have the utmost affection and esteem for him.”

“That is too bloody bad. I could have made quite a soldier of you.”

“Gentlemen, my compliments.” Townsend gestured with a slight movement of

his right hand. “Now that our interview is over, I am afraid I shall have to take my leave to show Mr. McCabe where he can make those purchases. I must say our conversation was most stimulating. Please excuse me. Good day.” He rose from the table, bowed and left the coffee house with McDuffy.

As they walked down the street, Townsend looked the over-sized sergeant up and down. “Who sent you to me, Mr. McCabe?”

“John Bolton.”

Townsend visibly relaxed. “Let us go back to my boarding house. I have something there you can bring to Mr. Bolton.”

At twenty-six years old, Robert Townsend stood about five feet, nine inches tall and weighed less than one hundred fifty pounds. Dark, brown hair framed a high forehead, a slightly hooked nose and gray eyes. Well-educated with a college degree, he worked as a purchasing agent for his father’s importing firm on Long Island and on the side wrote for the tory newspaper, The Royal Gazette published by James Rivington. As the war progressed, Townsend, a nervous, shy man, grew to be a favorite of British officers. He wrote flattering newspaper articles about them, and such publicity often advanced their military careers. Not surprisingly, these officers openly sought his favor and divulged many military confidences to him.

What none of them knew, or even suspected, was that Townsend had no allegiance to King George. In fact, he was the leader of a major rebel spy ring based in New York City and the actual source of the vital information it transmitted.

Normally, someone from Westchester County like McDuffy would not have been sent to meet with Townsend and deliver messages to Washington. An elaborate system was already in place to convey Townsend’s information. Messengers on horseback, such as a tavern owner, Austin Roe, or Abraham Woodhull, the brother of Mary Underhill, would periodically ride between Manhattan and Setauket on Long Island, some fifty-five miles, carrying coded dispatches in invisible ink. On Strong’s Neck in Setauket, Anna Strong would signal them where to find Caleb Brewster, a lieutenant in the Continental Army, by the hangings on her clothesline. In whaleboats he and his crew ferried these messages across Long Island Sound. On the Connecticut side, Ben Tallmadge or those under his command would relay the information from Brewster to Washington found guarding the Hudson in New York or fighting the British in New Jersey.

On the one hand, this roundabout scheme protected Townsend’s identity by making it difficult to trace the leak back to him. On the other, it was slow. By the time the information reached Washington, it was often too late to act upon. And so a frustrated Washington had prodded Tallmadge to find a more direct and quicker means to retrieve Townsend’s handiwork. This prompted Tallmadge to initiate the ‘McDuffy Experiment.’

Once in Townsend’s room at the boarding house, the two men quickly proceeded with their actual business, far more pressing than the purchase of fancy material.

“John Bolton asked me to give you this.” McDuffy pulled a folded piece of paper out of an inside vest pocket and handed it over.

Townsend went to a closet, fetched a vial of liquid and sat down at a small table. He carefully brushed the liquid on the blank spaces between the written lines of Tallmadge’s letter. New words and sentences appeared on the page.

Looking over his shoulder, McDuffy’s eyes widened. “Indeed. It is the work of the devil all right.” He laughed.

Tallmadge sought more information about British troops and ships in the city, the strength of cavalry units, their latest forays and intentions. Washington suspected possible British attacks on rebel strong points below West Point on the river or in New Jersey.

“That is no problem,” said Townsend, “I have got it already. But I must convert my information into code.” From the drawer under the table, he removed several pieces of paper. “Here, read this just in case the coded message is lost or destroyed.”

McDuffy slowly read and absorbed its contents. It contained estimates of the numbers of British troops in the city and Long Island, the names and positions of each unit and recent movements. The arrivals and departures of ships and the number and type of cannons they carried were also mentioned. But absolutely nothing on any planned raids or attacks.

“I think I got it.” McDuffy handed the message back to Townsend. McDuffy was not at his best when memorizing detailed information.

“Excellent.”

During the next half hour Townsend converted the message into code, wrote it in invisible ink. Luke had been right about Tallmadge’s code, thought McDuffy, as he watched Townsend painstakingly look up each word in the major’s special dictionary and obtain its number to use. Once he finished, Townsend handed the

final product to McDuffy and burned the original in the fireplace.

“Go quickly,” Tallmadge said. “Be careful and God speed.”

“Thank you, sir.” McDuffy turned on his heels and trudged to the door.

“Wait! I almost forgot.” Townsend waved, then revisited the closet. He returned with two bolts of cloth, one of silk and the other of satin. “Your reason for meeting me, ? Here is the invoice.” He picked up a piece of paper from the table and thrust it at McDuffy. “It is marked ‘paid-in full.”

Betsy described the guests invited to her party that evening in exhausting detail, bombarding Luke with a slew of names and histories. He could not, and saw no reason to, retain it all. Fortunately, the servants would interrupt her, and she would excuse herself, leaving the library, to attend to something urgent. This gave him a much-needed reprieve. She would return to continue the discourse.

As the afternoon wore on, he became more and more impressed with her memory, intelligence and intense devotion to duty. She covered military topics with ease and displayed remarkable insight and judgment. Now Luke listened to her more intently, shedding earlier weariness and confusion. Familiar with the comings and goings of many British units, Betsy showed particular concern about the recent troop build-up in the city and suspected an attack at any time along a fifty-mile perimeter. Not knowing exactly what the redcoats were planning annoyed her as if they dared keep anything critical from her.

“You understand the British can strike at any position in the immediate area with a substantial force,” she explained. “What’s more, without any advance warning,

we’re not equipped to stop them. They are up to no good. I feel it in the depths of my soul. Perhaps it’ll be West Point or a key town on the Connecticut coast.”

“Can you find out for sure? Without something more specific, we are like blind men groping in the dark.”

“I will and soon. That you can count on. These feeble-minded Englishmen cannot keep a secret from me. Never. Why every time they’ve made a move in the past, I have received advanced warnings.”

Luke caught himself almost pitying the enemy.

At 6 p.m. Luke posed in the mansion’s ornate center hall with Betsy Cromwell at his side. In her elegant gown, coiffed hair and tiara, she could easily have ed for royalty. She graciously welcomed each guest by name and introduced Luke as her personal physician, who had journeyed from Europe to stay with her.

After the arrival of most guests, the party gradually assembled in the spacious, red-painted ballroom, adorned by two black marble fireplaces at each end. There on large silver trays the servants offered goblets of claret and tasty appetizers embellished with smoked trout, raw oysters, clams and goat’s cheese. Betsy left Luke to mingle.

“Dr. Torres,” said an older officer in an unfamiliar light blue uniform, holding a wine glass. “Forgive me, my English is not so good. Where are you from?”

“Barcelona,” Luke replied. “But I have not been there for some time. Where is your home if English is not your native language?”

“Bavaria.”

Luke began to speak in German about the landmarks of Munich, and the Hessian officer’s eyes lit up. His name was General Heinrich Braun.

“What a pleasure, sir, to speak to someone in my native tongue,” Braun said. “The English have very little talent for languages.”

After a while, they switched to French until a British colonel interrupted their conversation.

“So you are a Spaniard?” He looked Luke up and down. “I’ve never liked the Spanish. Sneaky lot.” The colonel scowled. “Much like the American rebels.”

“How can you generalize about a nationality like that?” asked Luke.

“That’s easy. All the ones I have met are that way,” the colonel said. “And my friends say the same damn thing.”

“Perhaps you have had too much to drink,” noted Braun. “We should not insult a close friend of our hostess.”

“Don’t bloody care! We will soon be at war with the Spaniards, anyway. They are the enemy, along with the French. This man is very likely one of their agents.”

Luke and Braun laughed as strains from a cello ensemble spiced the air.

“Hardly” Luke remarked. “I have just arrived in this country after years of training in Heidelberg and Paris and have no connection with the Spanish government whatsoever. I am more European than anything. Having no national allegiances, I am simply, I suppose, a man without a country.”

The colonel wandered off, still grumbling to himself. Luke and Braun continued to converse. Luke described the European cities where he had lived. Braun, in turn, recounted his experiences as a young Prussian officer in the War of the Austrian Succession. In a corner of the room, backs to the other guests, no one bothered them until Betsy came up behind Luke to tap him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, I want you to meet someone very dear to me,” she said. “A late arrival.”

Luke turned to find a tall, beautiful woman standing at Betsy’s side. Betsy introduced her as “my closest friend, Mrs. Lancaster.” For a moment, Luke was speechless.

She was blond and in her mid-twenties. Enhanced by a sparkling diamond centerpiece, a lustrous pearl necklace with matching earrings loosely encircled

her bare throat and a long red silk gown clung to her hourglass figure.

Luke was stunned, not so much by her beauty but by her identity. It was Renee Keppler, his first love. His lips parted in surprise and fear shot through him. Would she recognize him, say something that would destroy his cover?

Her eyes ed over him as though he were a stranger.

“Please, gentlemen, call me Renee.” She smiled coquettishly and held out a hand. Braun kissed it in a courtly manner and a dazed Luke bowed.

“Madam, I am your most humble servant and already an ardent irer,” Braun said. “Your beauty and charm are refreshing,”

“General, you honor me so. Dr. Torres, where are you from, may I ask?”

“Spain,” he answered in a low, careful voice.

“General, you should be flattering your hostess with such compliments,” Betsy Cromwell chided lightly, “Not women young enough to be your daughter.”

“Are you trying to deprive an older man of the few pleasures he has left?” Braun asked. “, Madame, the many times I have complimented you on your appearance and hospitality.”

“A woman always likes to hear more compliments,” she remarked. “Come, General, I have some people I want you to meet.”

In the corner of the room, Luke and Renee were alone at last after all those years, he masquerading under a false identity in the heart of enemy territory and she married to a high-ranking British officer. Closely sticking to his new role, he asked, “Senora, how do you like living in New York City?”

Renee failed to reply even after several moments. Undaunted, Luke tried again. “Is your husband here tonight?”

Still not a word from the fair lady.

“Is there something wrong? Are you ill?” he inquired. “I am a doctor. Perhaps I can help.”

Her face reddened as she frowned at him. To cloak her words, Renee began to speak in rapid-fire French. “Stop pretending we are strangers. We have known each other too many years for you not to recognize me. What is this new identity you have assumed? Dr. Antonio Torres. Ha! Is this some sort of joke? Did Betsy concoct this as a new social game? Change my name and nationality, guess who I am and where I am from. Do you take me for a fool, Luke?”

It was so stupid of him. How could he ever expect to deceive her? he scolded himself. Though caught in a lie, he dared not tell her the truth. Otherwise, she would be compromised. In slowly enunciated French, he tried to calm her.

“My sweet Renee, don’t be upset. Let me explain. Yes, Betsy wanted me to pretend to be European to fool her guests. It was her idea. Yes, just a game she enjoys playing. Besides, my coming from Europe elevates her standing. Better that than if I posed as a simple country doctor, Indian not Spanish. Reality would be too socially degrading.”

The knot deep in her belly dissolved, and the tensions faded. She fluttered a fan, folded it, then touched the right side of her face to signify approval.

“Please forgive me,” he pleaded with her.

Here stood the man she had loved so many years ago and probably still loved, she reflected. God knew, she did not love Major Clayton Lancaster any more, nor he her. Each had lost interest in the other, their constant bickering and his infidelities merely foretold an inevitable rupture. Renee realized she had only been a trophy for him—the beautiful, rich American girl. The novelty had worn off. Now Clayton’s military career and love affairs took precedence. Too busy pleasing generals, the wives and mistresses, he paid little attention to his wife.

No longer able to stomach her husband, she knew what had initially attracted her. In more sobering light, mere superficialities: height, handsome face, the uniform, surface charm and politeness and that air of sophistication, interspersed with strands of haughtiness. Yes, that scarlet uniform with the gold braids—-no provincial young woman could possibly have resisted. They stayed together solely out of habit and social convention. When the war was over, she planned to leave him and return to her parents’ home in New Paltz. How she missed them both. For the moment she was trapped in occupied territory with the wrong man.

Luke’s words had consoled her. “Of course, I forgive you,” she heard herself saying. “I never could stay mad at you for very long, no matter what you did or did not do. You must recall, we grew up together as brother and sister. When we were older, we almost became lovers. We had such good times – the fun, the excitement, the togetherness. For years I missed you terribly. Luke, where, oh where have you been?”

“At Yale, all over Europe and here in the Hudson Valley,” he replied gently, sensitive to her needs and aware of her vulnerabilities.

“And where do you practice medicine, doctor?” she asked.

“In Westchester,” came his answer. “And you, still so beautiful, are you happy?” His dark eyes, intense and penetrating, refused to release her. He must know the state of her heart.

She frowned again, then whispered, “What an unfair question! So impertinent, but you always took liberties.” His directness undermined her defenses yet elated her.

In an instant he sensed life had disappointed. He understood her too well, perhaps better than she knew herself. All the emotional points – how to make her laugh, mad, sympathize or even cry – became obvious to him without even thinking. Nothing about her had changed though she had married and matured. The years separating them had imparted an understanding youth had denied him.

Betsy Cromwell sauntered over to the couple. “What are you two up to all alone

in the corner?” she asked. “Did I hear you speaking French? Come to dinner with the rest of us. Enjoy the bounty of my table. The cooks have outdone themselves tonight.” Reluctantly, they nodded.

With Renee on one arm and Betsy on another, Luke strode proudly into the dining room. Seated at the long table awaiting them was the unsuspecting enemy attired in splendid regalia. That evening they laughed and flirted, drank and feasted, thoroughly enjoying themselves as if they were one big happy family. Yet at its heart this dinner party was a false show, an illusion staged to gain a hidden objective. The goal of the hostess was surely not to entertain the enemy but to evict them from American soil by any and all means.

At the evening’s end, Renee bid Luke farewell in the privacy of a small room off the center hall. They embraced and kissed like old lovers reunited after years of separation. She promised to return tomorrow to see him before he left. As a happily married man, the doctor could not explain an impulsive desire for this woman. Having lost all self-control, he just had to touch and hold her in his arms. Perhaps it was the culmination of a long-suppressed yearning, arising from deeper within him, something much less rational and more primitive.

In the library the next morning an elated Betsy told Luke, “I have figured it out!”

“Figured what out?” he asked, without any Spanish affectations.

“I know what the British build-up is for.”

“I am all ears!” He could relax with her, no pretenses needed.

“Not so quickly. You must be curious how I found out?”

Luke muttered something about women’s wiles, then told himself to be patient. “All right, tell me how you solved the puzzle,” he sighed.

“It was the good General Braun. You know, he liked you. Very impressed with your German … and French.”

“Yes, but what did he say about the troops?”

“Not much at first. But, after he had more to drink, the general let slip some basic facts, which, with what I already knew, completed the picture.”

“And?”

“About six thousand British will strike at the end of the month north along the Hudson River and seize the King’s Ferry between Verplanck and Stony Point.”

“Is this mere conjecture?” He frowned. “How can you be so certain?”

“It all makes perfect sense,” she reasoned. “The British, as we know, have just gotten sizable reinforcements. In weaker moments Braun mentioned ‘Verplanck’ once then something about a trip upriver. And we already know they are

planning a big raid. I’ll stake my life on it.”

“You may have to if the enemy ever catches us.”

“Perish the thought. You are such a pessimist!”

“No, my good woman, only careful. The King’s Ferry is a crucial communication and supply link between New England and the other states. It must be kept in our hands.”

“I am well-aware of that. One of the maids will get you some tasty tidbits from my kitchen while I convert this information into code and write my report. Then,” she winked slyly, “I want to hear all about you and Renee.”

Breakfast was served outdoors in a small courtyard on the edge of the East River. Cushioned by an upholstered armchair beside an ornamented table, Luke luxuriated in the balmy weather. From trees birds sang sweetly as boats sailed in the distance. Luke gulped down two helpings of scrambled eggs and smoked ham, then gorged himself on warm rye bread layered with freshly-churned butter and blackberry preserves. At last, Betsy reed him, having just finished the report to Tallmadge.

Asked about Renee, Luke described how they went to school, grew up together and later became something more than friends.

“So traditional and romantic,” she remarked “but you each married other

spouses. That is the real surprise. Usually people marry their first sweetheart, especially in a small town.” Then she asked, “I was wondering, can you help me with a personal problem?”

“Of course, but what is it?”

“You will pardon an older woman’s vanity, but …” She hesitated.

“Dear lady, please tell me what is bothering you. Do you recall telling the party guests I was your personal physician.”

“But I was lying, was I not?”

“Not that I have heard tell.”

“I did say you were keeping me young and healthy.”

“Are you going to reveal what is on your mind? Or do I have to guess?”

“It is my complexion. My skin is so awful!” she cried. “Is there anything you can do or recommend?”

He smiled. “Is that what worries you so?”

She nodded unhappily.

He examined her complexion. “Some old Indian remedies might be helpful,” he proposed. “Try mashing wild sarsaparilla root and applying it directly to your face with a clean damp cloth. Another treatment is to boil mustard seed in water. After cooling, soak the troubled area. For the best results, use both remedies in combination.”

“Will they work? I’ve tried so many different concoctions!”

“In many cases, they will. But there is no assurance.”

“Thank you so much.” She smiled broadly and hugged him. “I’ll try them. Those ingredients should be in the house. But I can always get them in the city. You’re a dear.”

The maid entered and announced Renee’s arrival.

“Bring Mrs. Lancaster out here,” ordered Betsy. She turned to Luke. “I should leave you two alone.”

“That is up to you,” he grinned. “We have been chaperoned before.”

“Not this time. I have too much to do.”

When Renee appeared in the courtyard, Betsy kissed her on the cheek. “Please excuse me. I am off to pursue the doctor’s advice.” She hurried away.

“Well, what was that all about?” Renee asked. “She was so mysterious.”

“Never mind,” Luke said as he embraced and kissed her.

“Did you sleep well last night? I did not. I was too excited about seeing you.” Her eyes sparkled.

“But, in my excitement about you, I forgot to ask about your brother, Paul. How is he? I have not heard much since he ed the Army.”

“Oh, he is a captain in the British Light Dragoons stationed on Long Island. But this war has changed him greatly. The poor man is not really well. He’s extremely angry the colonies broke away from England and takes the war personally. He wants things as they were before. Because of such unhappiness he drinks too much and acts very strangely at times. A cruel, vindictive streak runs inside him that shocks me.” Just thinking about Paul seemed to upset her.

“That is awful, but war does strange things to men. I’m so sorry. Can you help him?”

“But how?”

“Have you tried talking to him.”

“Indeed, but it does no good.” She looked exasperated. “I worry about him and the rest of my family. Have you seen my parents lately?”

“Several months ago. They were well, but they long to see their son and daughter again and soon.”

“When the war is over. I cannot wait for this tragic business to stop.” She sniffled, “With my brother and husband on one side and my parents on the other, I have no idea who is right.”

“Lord knows it cannot go on much longer. You will soon see where to take your stand. Just ask yourself, whose country is this, ours or theirs?” Luke hoped that, with her natural sense of fairness, she would eventually side with the patriots.

Instead of answering him directly, she changed the topic. “You lied to me last night,” she said. “I thought about what you told me. That false identity stuff. You’re a spy, aren’t you?”

Fear gripped his gut. “Of course not,” he feigned a smile as though amused. “You always had such a vivid imagination.”

She searched his eyes as he strove to keep his expression neutral. All the while, his thoughts churned. Would she give him away? Would she relate her suspicions to others?

“The risk you’re running,” she whispered, “it’s too great. What if you are caught? You will pay the ultimate penalty. Please stop whatever you are doing. I am so very worried about you now.”

He lowered his voice to match hers. “You need not be. As far as you are concerned, I am just a simple country doctor on a visit to the big city.” Again, he smiled, but this time with warmth and little fear.

They spent the day together strolling along the river, then had dinner in the evening. Afterward Renee took a carriage back to lower Manhattan. At Betsy’s suggestion, Luke borrowed a sturdy mare from the stable to head toward Westchester. Between the stars and houses along the way, the trip north on the King’s Road was well-lit before crossing the bridge over the Harlem Creek.

Clouds filled the night’s sky, light drizzle misted the cool air. With fewer houses along the road, the darkness thickened. Luke slowed the horse to a walk while thoughts of Renee absorbed him. He marveled at how the years had failed to change their relationship. Her beauty and grace never ceased to captivate him. Indeed, deep emotions still bound them. Despite respective spouses, the pair were magically drawn to one another. No guilt about these feelings burdened him. They seemed so natural, almost fated.

All at once, horses’ hooves smacked the ground both in front and behind him. Luke tried to spur the mare on, but it was too late. A pair of riders, holding muskets leveled at chest-high, blocked his path as a third man came up from the rear.

It happened so quickly; Luke had little time to react. Not a word was spoken. The man behind struck him on the head with a wooden club, and he fell to the ground. The marauders searched him, and grabbed pistols and purse. They took Betsy’s mare and rode off as swiftly as they had attacked, receding into the darkness–nothing but faint, unrecognizable images.

Throughout the night, Luke drifted between semi-consciousness and unconsciousness. At dawn, he still lay by the roadside. Finally the sun’s rays woke him, a tired brain throbbed. Dried blood coated his scalp. When standing, he grew dizzy. To clear his head, he bent down and placed hands on knees. For a few moments this helped, but he was soon reeling again until he found a large rock to sit on. The physician had become the patient, and the first priority was to heal himself.

As Luke rested, a pang of fear shot through a befogged mind. He reached for the left boot and clumsily pulled it off. Sheets of seemingly blank paper fell to the ground. He hastily picked them up to inspect each one. They were all there. “Thank God,” he whispered, greatly relieved. Though the highwaymen had stolen the horse, weapons and money, they had missed the most critical item he was carrying – the coded message prepared by Betsy Cromwell. It was she who suggested hiding the papers in his boot for he was initially inclined to put them in the saddlebags. If he’d done that, they would’ve been gone, strapped to the missing horse.

Later that morning, a peddler drove by in a wagon, filled with household wares. Luke propped himself up unsteadily to hail him. After he told the man what had happened, the peddler offered him a ride home. He accepted and before long dozed off in the back of the wagon. Much later, when the peddler nudged him, Luke awoke in the front yard of the Sanctuary.

Inside the house, he instructed McDuffy, who had already delivered Townsend’s note without mishap, to pay the peddler a generous sum for the ride. Afterward, Luke removed the boots, took Betsy’s coded message out and placed it in a leather satchel. He handed the satchel to McDuffy and ordered him to ride to the American outpost at Croton. There he delivered it to Tallmadge and at the same time reported Luke’s injury.

Emma Ryan cleansed his wounds with warm water and soap, then wrapped them in strips of white linen. For the next few days, he stayed in bed. The blow to the skull had set off ringing sounds in his ears and severe headaches. After a while these gradually disappeared. At long last feeling better, he rose to treat patients as they lined up at Sanctuary door.

CHAPTER XV - NEW HAVEN BOUND

A month later, Tallmadge appeared one night after dinner at the back door of the Sanctuary. Emma let him in without hesitation and called Luke. The two men soon retired to Luke’s office.

“The British took the King’s Ferry at Verplanck and Stony Point several weeks ago,” Tallmadge reported.

“I do not understand,” Luke said. “With the information Betsy furnished, there was more than enough time to mount a solid defense.”

“General Parsons did not believe it, so we failed to act. We were caught napping with our pants down.”

“Hell and damnation! All that effort and risk for naught.”

“Washington was away in New Jersey,” Tallmadge added. “Try as I did, I could not influence Parsons’ decision. When Washington got back and heard the news, he was outraged – almost sacked Parsons on the spot.”

“It makes no sense. If our intelligence is squandered, it’s just not worth the peril. We’re gambling lives to get the information! For these mistakes, we’ll have the devil to pay.

“Believe me, it won’t happen again,” Tallmadge promised. “Washington is taking complete charge of intelligence, and I’ll be the second-in-command.”

“Ben, I must say that crack on the head forced me do some serious thinking. For the first time I felt truly exposed. I was not far from death. A pull of a musket trigger or a harder blow with the club, and I could have easily been gone.”

Tallmadge patted Luke on the shoulder. “You underestimate the thickness of your skull, old friend. Take my advice, don’t dwell on such morbid thoughts. You’ll never get through this war sane if you do.”

“Ben, I started thinking about my life and what was important. I never told you this, but in the beginning, I had no desire to go to Yale. My father pushed me. Once there, I had difficulties. Medicine was much easier for me because of my inclinations and background. Then this damn war came along. I always believed in the rebellion, but due to my medical practice and family commitments, I resisted full-time duty, as you well know. Yet since my injury I now desperately want to win this war. You’ve my personal assurance I will do my utmost. Our cause is just.”

“Delighted to hear it,” responded Tallmadge. “Forgive me, if at times I questioned your commitment. Enough said. I have a temporary assignment for you which combines family pleasures and military duties.”

Luke’s face lit up. “Indeed,” he smiled, “What a surprise!”

“You are scheduled to meet your family in White Plains in two days and travel with them to New Haven. They will stay at Anne’s mother while you can

investigate something critical for us.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Governor Trumbull of Connecticut and David Humphreys have been urging Washington to try Dave Bushnell’s submarine on enemy shipping in New York harbor again. It almost sunk HMS Eagle off Manhattan in ‘76. Since you’re our expert on marine mines, who better to examine his inventions?”

“Hell’s bells! You’re at last making good on your promise to let me see my family. Is this to relieve your conscience?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” Tallmadge grinned. “I have to worry about your morale and satisfying the general.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“You recall David Bushnell from Yale,” Tallmadge continued. “He was a freshman when you were a senior though still the oldest student in his class and perhaps the college.”

“Indeed, I do. He was tall and serious, quite moody,”

“Yes, you’ve got the right one. Strange fellow, not very friendly, but his inventions could be our salvation. That’ll be for you to judge.”

Word about the New Haven trip elated Anne. It seemed too good to be true, seeing her husband and the Rutherford clan at the same time. Any anxiety or overwork in preparing for the journey did not trouble her. Washington was kind enough to furnish her and the children with a post chaise and driver. Matthew would accompany them as far as White Plains until his brother ed them. Content to stay behind, Little Flower would look after the farm animals. She had cultivated a special affection for them, one that Anne, having been reared in a large town, had difficulty understanding.

During Luke’s tour of duty in Pennsylvania, Anne had still been very upset. How could he abandon her when she was pregnant with their second child? Many a night, she had cried herself to sleep. For a time she stewed about her predicament. Yet neighbors and friends were so encouraging and helpful. They told her to cheer up; he would be back soon. Luke was doing the right thing, they said. He was helping his country in desperate times, treating wounded soldiers, saving lives. They argued she should be proud of him. What sacrifices he was making, what dangers he was enduring for the new nation. They watched over her and the children, brought them food, gifts and visited often. Months later, she came to accept his absence without rancor or disappointment, even now taking pride in her husband’s tour of duty.

In letter after letter she poured out all her feelings to Luke, and his responses, though infrequent, helped to calm the anguish. Tallmadge conveyed these messages himself. In wonderful ways Matthew and Little Flower buoyed her spirits with kindness and good humor, always helping do the many chores. Busy with young offspring, Anne could hardly dwell on her own worries. Their antics, often laughable, gave her a special joy and sense of worth. While the children had grown physically, she too was experiencing growth of another sort.

At the reunion with Luke in White Plains, Anne clung to him and refused to let go, afraid he would leave her again, not to return. Only the wails of baby Sally caused Anne to release the tight grip on him.

She took great pleasure in her husband as he held their daughter high over head and made funny faces at her. The dark-haired baby grinned, then drooled all over him. He laughed heartily. Afterward, Luke grasped their young son firmly under his arms to swing him around and around. With each circular motion Edmond’s big brown eyes reflected more delighted. He never seemed to tire. Weary, Luke sought to stop, but the boy shouted, “More, Father, more, please.” And Luke obliged him to the point of near exhaustion.

On the way to New Haven, sometimes the entire family traveled in the carriage together. Frequently, Luke rode his horse close by with Edmond on the saddle in front of him, teaching the boy how to guide the animal with the reins. The healthy appetite of the infant daughter kept Anne nursing her. Throughout the two day trip the weather stayed warm and clear to add to their enjoyment.

On the porch of the Rutherfords’ house, Jennifer, jubilant as a new grandmother, welcomed them warmly when they arrived. She playfully kissed Edmond on the cheek. “And what is your name?” she asked him, in confirmation of what she already knew.

“Edmond,” he said shyly, returning her affection with a hug.

“Aren’t you a big boy,” she said lovingly. “I have got toys and sweets for you inside.” The lad grinned and clapped his hands.

“And this is Sally,” Anne said proudly, ing the infant to her mother’s waiting arms.

“She is adorable,” cooed Jennifer. “Let’s hope she inherited her grandfather’s brains but not his disposition.”

Smiling and gurgling, the tiny offspring awkwardly ran her hand down the full length of grandma’s nose.

That night, the gathering of the Rutherford clan at dinner turned into a festive occasion. Anne’s brothers and sister, nearly grown-up, aunts, uncles and a raft of first cousins crowded around the large maple table in the dining room. Animated conversations among the adults mixed with the children’s chatter, laughter and cries to produce a constant din throughout the evening. Many times, poor Luke was pestered about the war in Pennsylvania, which he handled adeptly. Sleep, when he finally retired, became the refuge from the noisy household as Anne and her family continued to converse late into the night.

Although exhausted from the journey, Luke rose early the next morning and had breakfast in the kitchen before anyone else awoke. As far as the family knew, he was visiting New Haven to obtain the advice of physicians at the local hospital on new medical treatments for the troops. To cloak his real activities, he planned to meet with them at the house of Yale’s new president, Ezra Stiles, and later tour the local hospital as a representative of the Medical Department of the Continental Army. Aware of the true reason for Luke’s visit, Stiles would help keep his secret. An ardent er of Bushnell, Stiles had pressured Tallmadge and Washington to ply the inventor’s devices in the patriot cause.

From the kitchen window Luke eyed one squirrel, defying the laws of gravity and running head first down the trunk of a huge oak tree. Another scampered nonchalantly along the top of a picket fence, totally oblivious. With its tail arched, a third gray furry creature posed upright in the yard and nibbled on an acorn clenched in both paws. Alert to any danger, the animal, its head moving back and forth, surveyed the landscape for potential marauders – an aggressive tomcat from next door or a roving red fox. While the war raged elsewhere in the

country, life proceeded here unfazed – the conflict barely seemed to exist.

The next day Luke arrived at Stiles’ house an hour early to get better acquainted with the new president before meeting with David Bushnell. Ushered into the study, he found Bushnell already chatting with Stiles. The tall inventor, thin almost to the point of frailty, still appeared shy but intense.

For many years a tutor at Yale, then a prominent minister, Stiles was one of America’s foremost intellectuals. Along with Benjamin Franklin, he had entered a small coterie of budding science enthusiasts and experimenters with a wide array of s. After reintroducing Luke, to Bushnell, Stiles listed Bushnell’s wartime exploits – a few abortive attempts to sink British ships in New York Harbor, the destruction of an English sloop on Long Island Sound and a barge in the Delaware River. To many within the Connecticut political and intellectual hierarchy, Bushnell was a mechanical genius.

“And this May,” said Stiles, “poor David was swept up in an unexpected Tory raid and held captive on Long Island. Through the good offices of Governor Trumbull, we exchanged him for a loyalist prisoner, and he was returned to us unharmed. For this we must thank the Almighty.”

“They had no idea who I was,” Bushnell pointed out. “I was just picked up like anyone else in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“In some ways you were fortunate,” Luke remarked.

“We can talk about my devices at length, but until you actually inspect them,” Bushnell said, “they will never have value in your eyes.”

“That is why I am here,” Luke replied. “What do you propose?”

“I have a small workshop not far away. Come for a demonstration.”

“I’m ready to go,” Luke said. “Lead on.”

In the center of the workshop floor the submarine protruded upright on a flat end. Nicknamed the American Turtle, it resembled two tortoise shells ed together by iron bands. But to Luke the device seemed more like a gigantic wooden barrel. He wondered how such an ungainly vessel could move underwater.

Before letting Luke peer inside the Turtle, Bushnell showed him some explosive devices.

“We have several kinds,” he indicated, picking up a small, round object from one of the workbenches. “This one has a timer that can be set for up to twelve hours. When time runs out, a gun lock is released setting off the powder.”

Luke nodded. “We used something similar in blowing up British ships on the Hudson.”

“There are two others. One is a mine that explodes when it hits or touches another object.” Bushnell gestured toward a wooden keg on the floor. “These were partially effective in the Delaware River, but ice prevented us from

doing more damage.”

“What is this one?” Luke held up a smaller, wheeled device.

“This mine explodes when the spokes are turned. It assumes the enemy will pick it up and play with them. A case of curiosity killing the cat.”

“Ingenious. How did you ever manage it?” Luke scratched his head in wonderment and grinned.

“I didn’t do all this alone,” Bushnell confided. “I had help from Phineas Pratt, a local mechanic and clockmaker.” When exhibiting the inventions, Bushnell lost any natural shyness and spoke with conviction. “He made marvelous timers for the mines and other devices for the underwater boat.”

With a ladder positioned against the submarine’s side, Bushnell motioned for Luke to climb up after him. At the highest rung, Bushnell unscrewed the raised brass-rimmed lid, lined with two thick glass portholes, and stepped down into the submarine. Once at the top, Luke stuck his head into the narrow opening to get a better view. Bushnell lowered himself onto a wooden bench beside a set of cranks, levers, pipes and tubes.

Pointing to two cranks, Bushnell explained, “These provide the power. One turns a propeller so the boat can move horizontally and the other vertically underwater.”

“Yes, I see one screw here. But where is the other propeller?”

“On the opposite side. These two tubes allow the operator to breathe underwater, as long as the topmost portions remain above the surface. Otherwise, they close up, and he has about a thirty minute supply of air.”

“One its the good air,” Luke nodded, “and the other shows the bad air the door.”

“Exactly.”

“What causes the boat to submerge and to reemerge?”

“This valve on the side lets water into a compartment for the descent,” Bushnell explained, “and these two hand pumps on the sub’s floor push it out to make the boat rise. A detachable lead ballast on the bottom allows a shift of weight. It can function as an anchor too.”

“How do you steer?”

“By using this tiller.” Bushnell gripped a short wooden handle near the seat. “It is attached to a rudder opposite you.”

“Underwater, how does the operator set a course?”

“That is simple. I have installed a com with foxwood components that lights up in the dark, though, if too cold, it does not work well. Here is my depth gauge.”

“And the mine appears to be attached to the outer portion of the submarine.”

“Indeed, and with this handle it can be positioned against the enemy ship, then attached with an auger.”

“That’s unbelievable. Very impressive and sturdy.”

“If you want,” Bushnell offered, “tomorrow, we can take the Turtle out on the Sound for a test dive.”

The next morning a large wagon, pulled by a team of oxen, transported the bulky submarine down to the mouth of the Quinnipiac River on New Haven harbor. The dawn’s heavy rain had stopped, the sun breaking through an overcast sky.

At the water’s edge, three workmen carefully slid the craft off the back of the wagon into the harbor. Close by in a cutter sailed Phineas Pratt, a stocky, thicklimbed fellow in his early thirties. He steered the boat alongside the Turtle, looped a rope through an iron ring on its exterior and tied the line fast.

From the wagon’s rear, Bushnell, shouting to Pratt, introduced him to Luke, who was standing in the sub’s open hatch. With both Bushnell and Pratt as

instructors, Luke got a quick lesson in handling the craft on the surface. They then ran him through a series of drills aimed at sharpening his skills. At last, he closed the hatch and descended below the water line, connected by separate ropes to the wagon and cutter as a precaution. After submerging and ascending several times under these controlled conditions, Luke ventured toward Long Island Sound, towed by Pratt’s cutter. Once outside the harbor, Pratt disengaged the boats and sailed within hailing distance.

For a while, Luke cruised on the surface, propelled the sub toward the Sound farther from the cutter. Surface water splashed over the Turtle to douse the operator. Tightly closing the hatch, he prepared to submerge. The craft began to sink as water surged into the sealed compartment. The air gradually became stagnant, darkness filled the sub’s interior, but Luke seemed undisturbed in the close confinement. On each prior descent, a sense of excitement had welled up inside him. This time the excitement became that much greater because of the heightened danger. Ropes to secure the sub no longer existed, the currents and tides were now more powerful and the water much deeper. The depth gauge dimly ed fifteen feet and the heading on the flickering com indicated southeasterly. Luke raised and lowered the sub by cranking the upper propeller.

When he leveled off at twenty feet, Luke with twists of the other crank propelled the craft horizontally for an estimated twenty yards. This took much muscle power. Clearly, Bushnell was too puny for the task. The air getting worse, Luke operated the hand pumps to expel water from the sub for the ascent. According to the depth gauge, little progress was being made. He rapidly grew tired and paused for a rest. Yet breathable air would soon run out. Alarmed, he pumped more vigorously, then cranked the vertical propeller to pull the sub up. Again, it failed to rise enough.

Trying to rid the boat of the lead ballast, he lowered it to the sea floor. This, he hoped, would lighten the craft enough to float to the top. Since the depth here was more than one hundred feet, the heavyweight failed to touch bottom.

Frustrated and fearful, Luke had run out of ideas. In desperation, he started pumping at a feverish pace, but again got nowhere. One hand pump appeared ajar, so he bent over in the darkness and jiggled it. The device was loose. Moment by moment, breathing became harder.

At the pump’s base, Luke fingered empty holes where screws should have been, but soon found them scattered on the sub’s floor. Awkwardly squeezed into the narrow space and increasingly short of breath, he managed to reinsert the screws in the holes and tightened them. Back in the seat, he hurriedly raised the ballast and feverishly pumped both devices to force water out of the craft. Miraculously, the sub ascended. In the rush to get to the surface, he frantically cranked the vertical propeller. The depth gauge read fifteen feet, then ten feet, next five. At last the sub burst though the water’s surface. Air sluggishly seeped into the compartment from the outer tube, but Luke, still gasping, rapidly unscrewed the hatch to thrust his whole body upward. Despite seawater spilling into the Turtle from the open top, he gulped heavily, thankful as never before for the lifesustaining substance filling his lungs.

Off the starboard quarter eighty feet away loitered the cutter. Having caught sight of the sub, Pratt hastily adjusted the sails and steered for it.

“I feared you were done for,” he said once alongside. “I was very worried. What happened down there?”

“The pump failed to work, but I fixed it, thank heaven!” Luke still panted and coughed.

“Had enough for one day as a mariner?” Pratt eyed the drenched physician with pity.

“Yes, indeed! I would be obliged if you towed me back to shore. From here on, I’m sticking to the practice of medicine on dry land.”

Anne could not understand why Luke was so late. How did consulting and touring a hospital take this long? Luke had been at it for two full days now. All others in the Rutherford’s household had already dined that evening. Nonetheless she decided to wait and sup with him as if breaking bread together were an act of fidelity. Since his sojourn in Pennsylvania Anne aimed to spend as much time with him as possible.

Exhausted, wet and unnerved from the precarious day on the Sound, Luke finally opened the backdoor. With a glass of claret, a home-cooked dinner and a warm kiss on the cheek, Anne greeted him.

“What kept you so long?” she asked. “Everyone else has eaten. The children are in bed. Your clothes are so damp.”

“A ing shower, it took forever at the hospital,” he said. “Each doctor droned on with his own theory about this disease or that. Usually they were wrong, I might add.”

“I’m so relieved you’re home. Perhaps we can be together more.”

“Certainly.” He clutched her hand, happy to be alive, then pulled her to him. An embrace reassured him, wet clothes and all.

“Do you have anything planned for tomorrow?” She barely caught her breath.

“No.” He kissed her, first tenderly, then harder.

“Good, you know it is Sunday. I would like you to take us to church.”

“I was hoping to rest tomorrow. I don’t get much time off.”

“Please, my mother has her heart set on it. Anyway, the minister here is much better than the one in Newburgh … and her church is where we first met. Surely you recall?”

“Yes, I do,” he grinned. “How could I ever forget?”

On Sunday July 4, 1779, Luke rose and escorted his wife, son and in-laws to church. The service turned out to be less boring than he envisioned. Afterward, they returned home to a sumptuous family dinner. The rest of the day was devoted to playing with the children, talking to Anne and reading in the library.

The celebrations for the third anniversary of the nation’s independence, planned by the town fathers, had been scheduled for the next day since public demonstrations were not permitted on the Sabbath. They had organized a program of speeches, a reading of the Declaration of Independence, a large dinner, toasts and the firing of cannon salutes.

Late the same evening the Supreme Council met on board the British frigate, Camilla, part of the large fleet moored in the Sound off New Haven to hash over the invasion of the town. In attendance were Captain Jonathan Collins, the commander of the flagship; Commodore George Collier, who was commanderin-chief of British naval forces in North America; Major General William Tryon, the former royal governor of the New York colony; Brigadier General George Garth; Adjutant General William Campbell; Colonel Edmund Fanning, a loyalist Yale graduate; and William and Thomas Chandler, tory sons of a prominent New Haven attorney and guides for the coming raid.

Poised over a large map spread on a table in the captain’s cabin, Garth, the commander of the land forces, explained the strategy for the next morning. “As most of you know, we’ve planned a two pronged attack,” he began.

“Upon my word, we are going to teach those rebels a scorching lesson, aren’t we?” Collier inhaled a pinch of snuff from a small box, clenched in his fist.

“Yes, sir,” Garth replied. “They’ll get a good dose of British lead.”

“I say perhaps we can cure them, once and for all, of supplying the Continental Army and manning those blasted privateers that prey on British ships,” Collier said.

“That is surely our goal.”

On the map, Garth highlighted the U-shaped harbor, the town at its base and near

the promontories, the villages of East and West Haven. “Before dawn at high tide, fifteen hundred men in four companies will disembark in whaleboats, row to the western point and land at Savin Rock. The Guards, Fusileers, the 54th Regiment and a detachment of Yagers will participate, along with four field pieces.”

“How long will the landing take?” asked Tryon.

“It is hard to estimate precisely. We hope only a few hours,” Garth explained. “I’ll be leading this western force while our ships maintain covering fire when necessary.”

“We’ll be ready to assist, sir,” Collins volunteered. “You can count on us.”

“Excellent. After we’ve landed, General Tryon will lead the second Division: the 23rd regiment, Hessian Landgrave, and the King’s American regiment with two cannons, up the eastern edge of the harbor.”

“What kind of resistance can we expect?” asked Tryon.

“To be honest, we are not certain,” Garth answered. “We do not know what troops are in the town and how fast those outside can be assembled. No matter what, we should have superior forces at the outset.”

“They’ll call out the militia,” advised Thomas Chandler, thoroughly familiar with the terrain and the locals. “But it’ll take a good while for a full complement

to gather. For us speed is essential.”

“There are two major fortifications on the eastern shore with many cannons,” noted his brother, William.

“The two divisions, one from the east, the other from the west, will converge on the town at the lower end of the harbor,” concluded Garth, pinpointing specific locations on the map.

As if in a trance, the other officers gazed at it. An aura of excitement mixed with anxiety hung over this odd assembly. Tomorrow would be a time of testing, careers could be advanced or ruined, and soldiers might be killed or wounded. A midshipman was ing out goblets filled with Madeira. With the briefing complete, Collier offered a toast.

“Gentlemen, good luck to all on the morrow and God save the King.”

The cry of “God save the King” reverberated through the room as the officers hoisted glasses and drank.

Afterward, Collier whispered an aside to Tryon. “Let us hope this and other raids along the Connecticut coast will lure Washington and the rebel forces out of that West Point stronghold to defend rebels here on the coast. Methinks Sir Henry Clinton is intent on making the entire Hudson River a British waterway posthaste.”

“I’m well aware of that, sir,” replied Tryon. “And I dare say, I’m entirely in accord with him.”

In the early morning light, American cannon fire echoed along the streets of New Haven, signaling the presence of an enemy fleet in the Sound with about fifty ships and over five thousand armed men. At the sound of the first cannon Ezra Stiles woke. As the head of a major educational institution, he could ill afford to linger in bed. Before sunrise he hurriedly dressed and rushed from his house across College Street to the Yale campus. After notifying the tutors, he assembled the students in the courtyard’s semi-darkness and dismissed them and all classes until the British departed. He then began packing critical school records and his own manuscripts and books. Initially unsure what to do next, the students milled about, confused. Later some prepared for a hasty flight while many readied muskets and swords, intent on doing battle against the invaders.

Just after dawn, telescope in hand, Stiles mounted the stairwell of the Yale chapel tower, one of the town’s highest points. This July day already promised to be hot. Through the long tubular eyepiece, he detected small boats that disembarked from the British ships, loaded with troops and equipment to land on the western end of the harbor. He rushed downstairs to alert those students still on campus and fellow townsmen. With the school records safely on the way out of town, he coolly crossed the street to his house and organized the evacuation of his grown-up children and their personal effects. Later that morning he intended to follow them north. A veteran of sorts, he had been through all this once before when the British occupied Newport, Rhode Island where he served as pastor of one of its leading churches. His son, Ezra, Jr., prepared to lead a contingent of Yale students and volunteers, all on horseback, in defense of the town’s western section.

At the Rutherford house the hubbub in town – cannon fire, drums and bells – together with the banging on the up-stairs bedroom door finally aroused Luke and his wife from their deep slumber.

“Luke, Anne get up, please,” Jennifer cried. “The British are landing.” Her trembling voice rose an octave. “What should we do?”

“We’ll be right out!”

Luke and Anne crawled from under the sheets on their large double bed and got dressed. “Gather the children and the most precious valuables,” he told Anne. “We’ll load up your mother’s wagon and our carriage. You will head north and stay with your Aunt Sadie in Derby.”

“I am frightened,” she stammered. “This reminds me of the British invasion of New York City.”

“You’ll be perfectly safe. Don’t fret. It may be a false alarm or only a raid. You’ll be out of harm’s way soon enough.”

“But you are coming with us?”

“I cannot. I have to remain here to tend the wounded. It is my duty as a patriot and a doctor.”

“I understand, Luke, I truly do, but why can’t the local doctors deal with this?”

“Not without my help.”

Luke hitched the horses to the wagon and carriage. After loading valuables, clothing and food, he hurriedly escorted his family and in-laws outside. On the side of the carriage with the children, Anne threw arms around her husband, held him tightly and gave him a long hard kiss while he pressed against her.

“Please don’t take any unnecessary risks,” she cautioned. “I want you back, alive and well. Doubt not that I love you.”

“There is nothing to worry about, I will be alright.”

He clung to her, then bent down to kiss Edmond and reminded him to behave and obey his mother.

As they pulled away, Luke waved goodbye, then saddled the black stallion. Before mounting the horse, he armed himself with a musket, two pistols, several knives, powder and shot. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed the medical bag. Right now he felt less a physician and more a soldier, dedicated to defending family, college and town.

Adjutant General Campbell stepped from the longboat onto the stone-filled beach at Savin Rock. Troops assembled in squads and companies in an open meadow just above the shoreline. Strange, hardly any rebel fire had opposed the landing. Thankful for this good fortune, the confident Adjutant commanded the advance guard to march promptly north to West Haven.

By the time the main body of troops arrived, forward British units had already

seized the village, incurring only a few casualties in light skirmishes. The redcoats took up positions on the West Haven green in the village center, where they relaxed and ate food from knapsacks while the officers breakfasted at a nearby tavern. In front of the tavern’s entrance, three loyalists accosted Campbell with an older man in their grasp.

“General,” they shouted, “we got Reverend Williston here. We cannot abide this man. He is the rebel Congregationalist minister in the village. Please take him prisoner.”

“What did he do?” Campbell asked.

“Nigh on every Sunday, he preaches from the pulpit against the King in favor of Independence and the war against England.”

“I am sorry to hear that. But otherwise he seems harmless enough. He hasn’t taken up arms against the Crown himself, has he?

“Nay,” they replied in unison.

“Then unhand him. There’ll be plenty of armed, fighting rebels to capture, I dare say, before the day is out.”

With the young Captain James Hillhouse as their commander, the Governor’s guards of the Connecticut militia sallied forth across West Bridge and marched south along the road to West Haven. Now concealed behind rows of stone fences

and trees, these regulars, along with volunteers and Yale students, fired muskets upon advance British units, driving them back. After breakfast, the main body of British troops, organized in three groups of ten companies each, tramped northward in a central column and two flanking ones. Just above the village, they encountered the rebel militia. Yet the enemy so outnumbered Hillhouse’s rag-tag contingent, they forced them to retreat back across West Bridge. To prevent the British from following them, the rebels quickly dismantled the bridge by hand, stacked the boards at the riverside and loaded cannons to fend off any attacks.

Earlier, news of the British raid spurred Napthali Daggett, the former president of Yale, now its chaplain and professor of divinity, to the fight. Cloaked in black ministerial robes, he grabbed an antiquated fowling piece, jumped on an old black mare and rode westward toward the reported invasion. Upon crossing West Bridge, he encouraged its defenders, then lurked in a grove of trees on the other side of Milford Hill. When Hillhouse’s men retraced their steps across the bridge, Daggett stayed behind and sniped away at the advancing British with a musket. One enemy unit soon rooted him out, putting a quick end to such stubborn resistance.

“What are you doing, you old fool, firing on His Majesty’s troops?” asked the stunned British officer in charge after the capture of the professor.

“I am exercising the rights of war,” Daggett said, still attired in clerical costume.

Both the answer and appearance struck the officer so amusing as to forestall Daggett’s summary execution, then and there.

“If I spare your life, are you likely to do such a thing again?” the officer asked.

“Why, of course” snapped Daggett.

Shaking his head, the officer turned the eccentric old man over to the troops with the simple order: “Do not kill him. We will take him with us.”

Enemy soldiers were less merciful. After the officer left, they beat Daggett with the butts of muskets, pricked him with bayonets, and forced him to march at the head of the column. That day had already become a sweltering hell.

To get a better view of the American artillery at the dismantled West Bridge, Campbell rode up Milford Hill. There, another American sniper, who lingered behind like Daggett, took aim at this British officer and squeezed a rifle’s trigger. Campbell fell from his horse, fatally wounded, and died shortly afterward.

By the time Luke arrived at West Bridge, Hillhouse’s unit had already dismantled it. Luke helped Captain Phineas Bradley and his men maneuver the cannons so they could fire across to the opposite bank at General Garth’s troops. But during the enemy’s march toward them, they stayed on the other side of the river, ignoring the rebels and continuing north. Still, Bradley’s contingent got off effective shots to harass the ing redcoats.

On the harbor’s eastern shore, the British forces under General Tryon launched two attacks at Morris Cove but met stiff resistance and heavy casualties. After finally breaking through rebel defenses, they burned homes, barns and grain fields in retribution along the line of march. Greatly outnumbered, the rebels gave Tryon’s troops a pasting during their eastward retreat. At Rock Fort and Beacon Hill, patriots in fortifications hotly contested the British advance with cannon and musket fire. Yet as before the enemy’s overwhelming numbers and

firepower eventually prevailed. The next objective was the capture of East Haven, but there the rebels stopped them cold. Out of frustration and avarice, redcoats began looting and destroying the village’s outlying houses.

The temperature on that hot July day rose as noon approached. Even those who were not involved in the fighting suffered in the heat. In the town’s western sector, the rebels under Hillhouse and Bradley lacked a purpose now that the main British contingent moving north had outflanked them. A rider from the state’s militia arrived from the harbor’s east end to proclaim that the British had taken Rock Fort and Beacon Hill. After Hillhouse and Bradley consulted, they decided to split their forces.

Based on a hastily drawn plan, the bulk of the men would head north along the West River under Hillhouse to block enemy penetration of New Haven. Bradley and three men would continue to guard the West Bridge with their cannon while Ezra Stiles Jr. and Luke would lead the mounted Yale students, formerly under Hillhouse, in of the militia in the eastern sector. With canteens filled with fresh water from the West River, the sons of Eli moved smartly in double columns toward the next test of fire. As they cantered past the waterfront along the long wharf, Luke recognized a familiar neighborhood. During college days Manuel’s room and Arnold’s apothecary shop stood hereabouts. In plain view lay the British armada, now moored in the outer harbor before them. At the lower ferry at the mouth of the Mill River, the students reined in their horses.

“What do you advise, Captain Davidson?” asked Ezra Stiles Jr.

“We must avoid getting caught by a British gun-boat on a ferry rowing across the harbor,” Luke said. “If I recall, there’s a bridge over this river just north of here.”

“The Neck Bridge, yes. That would be the best crossing.”

“Come on then, let’s head for it.”

Clattering across that bridge, the Yale contingent came under sharp fire from an advance guard of redcoats, that had just crossed the Quinnipiac River from the east on the upper ferry. Dismounting, the rebels hid behind stone fences and trees and returned shots with deadly accuracy to drive the enemy back against the riverbank. Yet as more redcoats streamed across the Quinnipiac, this position became untenable. After a retreat north, Luke and party climbed a hill to an American artillery unit. From this bluff they had a sweeping view of New Haven behind them, the harbor filled with British ships to the right and the redcoats directly in front of them.

On the bluff in a grove of cedars surrounded by tall grass, Luke and the men tied their horses. At the top of the hill, the artillery unit had erected earthworks, which housed cannons, from an American schooner: two brass four-pounders and one iron six-pounder. Blasting away at the British below, they belched smoke, boomed, and pinned the foe down; the rifle and musket fire of the Yale students now made the rebels much more formidable. The heat stayed oppressive. With no cannons, the British troops on the banks of the Quinnipiac, though superior in numbers, were stymied. Even as their forces mushroomed, they could not seriously threaten the American stronghold on the hill. Despite the blazing sun Luke almost enjoyed taking potshots at the redcoats. The emerging stalemate forced the enemy to retreat from the hill’s base toward the harbor along the Neck.

On the west side of New Haven, the Americans did not fare as well. Armed with superior forces, General Garth pushed back Captain Hillhouse and his sparse band at the Derby Turnpike Bridge on the West River. The rebels, fighting bravely, failed to stop the enemy onslaught, so they retreated to the northeast. Soon the redcoats, in full possession of the town, began to loot and abuse the

remaining civilians, even in their homes. Having uncovered hard liquor in the quest for valuables, the British soldiers went on a drinking binge, which their officers helplessly watched or casually ignored.

Towards evening British leaders gathered at the old State House on the New Haven Green.

“Our scouts tell us rebel troops are increasing by the hour. Militia units from other villages are pouring in from the outskirts of town,” Garth reported.

“They’ve been a persistent, well-armed lot, inflicting many more casualties than we ever expected,” said General Tryon, who undid a collar button and removed a hat. Anything to cool himself.

“Dare I ask about foraging and gathering livestock?” inquired Commodore Collier.

“Colonel, advise Sir George on those subjects, if you please,” ordered Garth.

“We’ve rounded up plenty of hay, cattle and swine for the fleet,” responded Colonel Fanning, Tryon’s son-in-law. “But with new rebel troops moving in so rapidly, we won’t be able to obtain much more.”

“Upon my word, then it makes sense, all things considered, to leave,” Tryon said. “The truth is our men are exhausted from the heat, many are too drunk to fight and tomorrow they’ll feel like hell.” He wiped the perspiration from his

brow with a frilled white handkerchief.

“We’ve taught them a good lesson,” said Garth. “Perhaps you have a point, General. Let us evacuate and raid some other towns along the coast.”

“Quite right,” replied Collier, “but is that all? What do we do with this town?”

“Tis too pretty a place to burn,” said Garth, “but how else can we teach them that rebellion against the Crown commands a high price? We must make an example of it.”

“Sir, if I may interject,” argued Fanning, “there’s little to gain in burning this town except the ever-lasting enmity of its inhabitants. Don’t forget many loyalists live here among the rebels. Moreover, the place has no real strategic value.”

“General, with all due respect, I believe the colonel’s insights merit concern,” replied Tryon. “Nevertheless, I’ve an even more practical suggestion. Get word to the rebel leaders, we’ll spare the town the torch but only if allowed to reboard our ships without interference.”

“That, sir, is an absolutely capital idea!” Commodore Collier took some snuff.

“But, Sir George, we’ve hardly gotten our pound of flesh with this raid,” Garth contended. “I’m reluctant to let them off so lightly.”

“We’ll have other chances to punish the rebels and soon, I assure you,” Collier said. “Now let’s get on with it.”

Behind them, the sun descended in a rose-tinted sky as Luke and the band of patriots watched from hilltop trenches British troops set up camp below. The redcoats gathered hay and herded livestock, slaughtering and roasting animals and driving the rest down to the long wharf for transfer to the fleet. It was a galling sight – the invaders openly robbing their community. Except for an occasional shot, the defenders remained helpless to stop them. The distances were just too great and their numbers too few. The rebels’ hunger compounded a strong desire for revenge. No one had eaten at all that day. Now then breezes blowing from the British side would carry the aroma of roasting beef or fowl to further arouse appetites and hatred.

“I cannot abide lying here doing absolutely nothing. I’m going to reconnoiter,” whispered Luke to Ezra Stiles, Jr. The pair continued to gawk at the enemy campsites.

“Is that wise at this stage?” Ezra asked, still in a sweat from the day’s heat.

“Why, indeed it is! I’ll try to see what they are up to and, per chance, do some damage.”

“How about fetching us something to eat?” His empty belly growled in .

“That’ll be nigh impossible. Just imagine my asking the redcoats for ten steaks and two chickens, grilled just right, for my friends firing at them from the hill.”

Ezra grinned. “I still believe it is a mistake to go,” he argued. “You are bound to get yourself caught.” Yet if food had been Luke’s primary aim, he would have gone too.

“Humbug! I will be perfectly alright.” Such a self-imposed mission may not have been the wisest course of action. Head-strong and daring, he often ignored more conservative instincts, charging off into perilous paths without weighing the risks. So far a budding maturity had failed to restrain this impetuousness. In any event, he would bear the consequences – ill or favorable – with equanimity not blaming others or himself. A fatalism shaped his attitude; destiny, wrought by Indian spirits, the Christian God or other powerful forces, would guide him.

As Luke crept toward the enemy encampment in the growing darkness, his ears picked up the distant clangs of guns and equipment, soldiers cursing and yelling, plus officers shouting orders. Without firearms, Luke appeared to be not much of a threat. When close to the camp, he could barely make out the sentries walking their posts. Muskets at the ready on shoulders, silhouettes flickered in the light of campfires. Luke crawled on his stomach to avoid being detected and angled over to two wagons loaded with boxes and barrels. During this movement along the dusty ground, he coughed sporadically, but no one seemed to hear him.

Luke dragged himself next to the far set of wheels and slipped off a canteen. Empty of water, it held a large powder charge and numerous lead balls, assembled during the long afternoon on the bluff. Luke placed the canteen between the first and second wagons, lit its cotton fuse, then scrambled halfbent-over toward the bluff.

“Halt, halt,” yelled a sentry behind him, spotting the fleeing figure in the dim light. Two other redcoats, responding to the shouts of the first, confronted Luke. They stood directly in his path and pointed muskets at him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” shouted the larger of the two.

“Look what we have here,” the other squinted. “Is this what rebels look like up close? He’s awfully dark.”

“This is an Indian, he is,” said the big one. “I’ve seen lots of them at Fort Niagara.”

The barrels on the wagons exploded. The blast was ear-shattering and the light blinding. The blast itself riveted the redcoats’ attention to the wagons. Luke reached down and grabbed the knives hidden in his boots. How often his uncle had made him practice this maneuver? Luke threw his blades with deadly precision. Already distracted by the explosion, the guards were aghast when the knives struck deep in their chests, each fell.

Luke rushed toward the hill. He heard cries of anguish from the riverbank. The dazed enemy was beginning to unravel. Ten yards further, something sharp pricked Luke’s back, and a commanding voice resonated, “Lie face down and don’t dare move.”

It happened to be the first soldier – the one who had shouted at him to halt – poking him with a bayonet on the end of a musket. Luke thought about resisting, but realized that this would surely get him killed. Better to obey now and bide his time. He slumped to hands and knees. Reinforcements appeared and they bound him with a stout rope.

Early the next morning, the British troops, hung over and exhausted, evacuated New Haven faster than they had launched the raid. The rebels honored a pledge not to interfere if the town were left intact. With only a few storehouses and rebel boats next to the long wharf put to the torch, the enemy reboarded ships.

The British dragged Luke onto a frigate. His hands were tied behind him. Hungry and tired, he had spent a horrible night in filthy quarters, his thoughts restless, one minute thinking of escape, the other thinking of Anne and the children. Now, the British roughly pushed him and four other rebel prisoners amidship on the open deck. Under dark, overcast skies, a sharp breeze rattled the ship’s rigging while the exposed prisoners shivered in the cutting dampness. Luke glanced out over the harbor at the impressive British armada about to set sail. In the distance an explosion blasted off the starboard quarter and a large ship burst into flames.

“What happened there?” yelled one of the British marine guards.

“I dare say powder went off in its magazine,” surmised a sailor, while leaning on a port railing.

Gazing seaward, Luke detected a brass tube a foot above the water as it moved slowly away from the burning ship. No doubt, the handiwork of the American Turtle with Phineas Pratt at the helm. The sight of that success was a comfort. Seeing it, Luke could now more easily bear his own predicament.

Other British ships delivered captives in small boats to the frigate. Unofficially designated as the prison ship, it collected these unfortunates and sailed toward Manhattan.

During the next week, the rest of British fleet launched attacks against the Connecticut coastal towns of Norwalk and Fairfield, leaving them in conflagration.

CHAPTER XVI - A SLIVER OF ENLIGHTENMENT

Gusts of wind whipped along the river’s edge and chilled the small knot of hardy souls who gathered around the crackling fire in the open metal barrel. Clad in odd hats, woolen parkas and down-filled ski jackets, they warmed their hands over the blaze while sipping a local brew of cheap brandy, hot water and honey. The embracing mountains and hills offered them no shield against the persistent blasts of cold air. Snow flurries lightly littered the overcast skies, but the Hudson, a frozen mass of opaqueness, seemed rigid in time and devoid of snow despite frequent winter storms.

On the icy expanse inverted, white winged objects hurled pell mell through space without apparent concern about destination or course. Seen from the river bank, these highly mobile creations could have been man-made vehicles or anomalous freaks of nature. On closer scrutiny the uncertainty soon dissolved. Throwbacks to nineteenth century adventurism, the fleeting images skimming along the Hudson’s hardness were ice sailboats.

Mainsails and jibs full blown, these flimsy single-masted crafts consumed air currents as the fuel of choice. Made of varnished wooden frames, metal runners and tillers, they glided effortlessly on erratic courses set by helmsmen. On one boat, a large bearded man lay in the cockpit and skillfully maneuvered at high speeds. Brad McClain had not handled iceboats since his teens on Orange Lake close to home. Now immersed again in this sport, it helped soothe the anguish of separating from his wife. The air rushing by plus the swishing of the runners across the glassy surface refreshed and invigorated him.

The afternoon’s sub-zero temperatures and stiff breezes caused the most vibrant, cold-weather sailor so much discomfort he was forced to seek relief. At last numbed, Brad steered the craft toward a gathering next to the fire, slowed it to a standstill and lowered the sails.

“Brad,” yelled one of the men, “have some grog to warm yourself.”

Brad took the old tarnished tin mug extended to him and cupped his hands around it gratefully. “Thanks.” The grog was steaming hot. Taking a cautious sip, he instantly felt its warmth course through him. “The wind was terrific today. I got over sixty knots on two runs.”

“Exhilarating, wasn’t it?” said a short, thin fellow with a handlebar mustache huddled around the fire.

“Dad, Dad!” came a loud familiar voice from the shoreline where the cars and trucks were parked.

Brad turned to see Jed waving to him. Surprised, he hastened over to where his son was standing and grabbed him around the shoulders. “It’s good to see you. But shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Winter break,” Jed responded, then his smile faded. “It’s bad news. Grandma’s had a stroke.”

“That’s impossible. When I left home early this morning, she seemed alright.”

“The hospital called Mom, told her she had arrived in the ambulance and was just being examined. Mom sent me to get you. She went on to the hospital alone.”

“It can’t be true,” Brad said. When it came to parents, history seemed to be repeating itself. The pain of his father’s ing knifed through him. “Will you meet me at the hospital?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad. I’ll follow right behind you.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m okay. I’m just worried about you.”

Their conflict over Jed’s playing for the Texas Rangers was long forgotten. Yale had proved more rewarding than Jed had ever suspected.

On the Thruway traveling south to the hospital, Brad mulled over just how crucial his mother had been. She represented the one constant in life. She was there when he was growing up, when his father died, when he got married and had children and when the family business grew into a powerful regional force.

Through good times and bad, upcycles and down, she had worked alongside him in the business, cared for her children and grandchildren, and presided over family gatherings. She had been more than a mother; she had been a business partner. Her foresight, stubborn determination, and wisdom had made everything possible. Without her, the family economic engine, which ed them in highly comfortable lifestyles, would never have developed and endured. For Brad not having a business or the money it threw off appeared as inconceivable as her dying. In a moment of irrationality he wondered whether her

achievements would entirely vanish if she died.

Because she was so energetic, Brad had not consciously confronted his mother’s mortality before. Youthful in appearance, she had always been healthy and hardworking. Age never seemed the constraint it was for others of her generation. Unintentionally, she had fooled him.

Once at the hospital, Brad nearly panicked. His mother was in a coma and had been placed on the critical list. The attending physician advised him she had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage. While the most advanced systems labored, there existed little hope for her recovery.

She was barely clinging to life. Her links to this world weakened every hour. For two days, Brad stayed by her side until she died. She was eighty-four.

Five years before, Brad had failed to take seriously his mother’s precise written instructions on what to do when she ed away. She had selected the funeral home, church and cemetery and had dictated all particulars. She typically made up her mind on matters before anyone else. A woman who knew what she wanted, she was never bashful about articulating her wishes. Having selected a gravestone and even the words for her epitaph, his mother had only left the date of death to be filled in by the Almighty as she once quipped.

The phone calls poured in from friends and relatives once the news of her ing quickly spread by word-of-mouth through the community and beyond. The death notice and simple obituary, published in two local newspapers with the details about the wake and funeral, stirred even more people to call offering condolences. Brad and family hosted the wake at a local funeral home but were scarcely prepared for the deluge of mourners. When the three-day event had ended, over a thousand had signed the visitors’ books.

People knew the McClains from the PTA, Little League, church, the country club, or a string of civic, charitable and political organizations. Brad did not recognize all of them; and a few astonished him with their stories.

“Mr. McClain,” called a large woman with a short salt-and-pepper Afro, wearing a flowered print dress. “I’m Mrs. Cooper. Your mom used to bring us food and clothing when my husband was unemployed ten years ago. I’ll never forget her for that. She spared my family much suffering and even arranged a job for him with the town highway department.”

Then there was that tall well-dressed young man in his late twenties. He waited to talk with Brad for a half hour as friends and relatives, who gathered around him, slowly dispersed.

“My name’s Henry Conklin,” he said. “Your mother was a very special person to me and other young people from this area. We didn’t have the money to go to college, but we had the desire and intellect. She made it happen for us by setting up a foundation and funding it. Without any publicity, the foundation furnished college educations to deserving, underprivileged kids from this town like me. Today I’m an MIT graduate working as a scientist for a drug company in New Jersey.”

Though always generous to friends and family, Brad’s mother had kept her kindness to strangers a secret from Brad.

He had almost forgotten how extensive the McClain and Scudder families were. Aunts, uncles, and cousins magically appeared as though engraved formal invitations for a family reunion had been mailed to them. Reminding him of

youth and his parents, they comforted and buoyed him in his grief with their sincere expressions of sorrow.

Amid sparkling arrays of flowers, the elder Mrs. McClain lay in the mahogany casket cradled by the scarlet velvet lining. In repose she looked so natural and relaxed, completely at peace. Mahogany had dominated her taste in furniture, and red had been a favorite color. In the end, Brad’s mother had accomplished everything to which she had aspired. Married to a man she deeply loved and cherished, she had borne and raised their children. When he died, with Brad’s participation she had shaped the business into a highly successful venture. And along the way she had helped so many others.

In the public forum of the wake and funeral, no one would have suspected Brad and Debbie had separated. The pair acted naturally as a happily married couple surrounded by their children. They warmly greeted the mourners together, sometimes introduced them to one another and graciously as a team spoke to one and all. Yet in private the reality of their estrangement seeped through the outward cordiality.

“That beard doesn’t become you,” Debbie said. “You should really shave it off.”

“I rather like it!” He stroked the facial hairs fondly.

“Is it you who likes it or those young women you’ve been dating? Perhaps you’re making up for the bald spot on the top of your head.”

“Weren’t you the one who wanted me out of your life? Do I detect a note of regret?”

“Hardly,” she shot back. “What good’s a man who’s never home? Life’s too short to waste my time and affection.”

“You’ve said as much before, and I accept how you feel.”

Apparently this was not what she wanted to hear.

“Do you give them flowers?” she sneered. “Do you walk up to their door, like an over-aged Romeo—or is it sugar daddy? You look ludicrous, father of three nearly full-grown children, chasing after women almost young enough to be your daughter! When will you ever get over your mid-life crisis? And that horrible skeleton! You’re no Sherlock Holmes, you know.”

Because she had always gloried in the sun rising over the mountains across the river, Brad’s mother had set her burial for just after dawn. He wondered if she did it on purpose to discourage mourners from coming. During life she hated people fussing over her. Still, nearly two hundred people appeared at the hillside cemetery along the river that chilly winter day.

Brad had a pet theory about wakes and funerals. He firmly believed that people were motivated to show up primarily out of curiosity and fear. They seemed curious about who else would attend and what would be said. Subconsciously, they feared if they were absent, no one would attend funerals for them or their family . It was as if there existed an informal understanding, a pact among them: ‘I’ll come to yours, if you come to mine – health permitting, of course.’

At the funeral service the McClain boys looked sullen and stone-faced while Debbie and daughter Beth started to cry. During the wake, both of them had stoically kept up brave fronts of friendliness and serenity, but now at the end they let true emotions spew out. Debbie had grown closer to his mother than her own, always appreciating how large a contribution Mrs. McClain had made to their lives. In a state of mental paralysis, Brad remained calm. For him mourning would begin in earnest only after the finality of his mother’s ing penetrated emotional defenses.

Against the bare brittle trees, the sun glimmered faintly. Sparse, low-lying clouds crowned the mountains across the river and an even thinner strand of haze floated midway down their lofty flanks. A layer of snow, two inches deep, still clung to the ground. A light breeze blew off the water as the mourners crowded around the gravesite.

Tall and erect, the gray-haired minister read selected verses from the Old and New Testament before relating specific incidents in Mrs. McClain’s life to illustrate her good deeds. Though he listened, Brad stared blankly at the river’s icy fluidity in the distance, refusing to let the minister’s words move him.

Towards the eulogy’s end, the minister announced, “Mrs. McClain urged me to recite an excerpt from a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called The Song of Hiawatha.”

Why, Brad wondered, would she insist upon this poem? The minister’s voice began quietly but soon rose in volume.

“From his place rose Hiawatha, “Bade farewell to old Nokomis …

“‘I am going, O Nokomis, “On a long and distant journey, “To the portals of the Sunset, “To the regions of the home-wind’…” “Forth into the village went he, “Bade farewell to all the warriors, “Bade farewell to all the young men,… “‘I am going, O my people, “On a long and distant journey; “Many moons and many winters “Will have come, and will have vanished, “Ere I come again to see you’…” “On the shore stood Hiawatha, “Turned and waved his hand at parting; “On the clear and luminous water “Launched his birch canoe for sailing, “From the pebbles of the margin “Shoved it forth into the water; “Whispered to it, ‘Westward! Westward!’ “And with speed it darted forward.” “And the evening sun descending

“Set the clouds on fire with redness, “Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, “Left upon the level water “One long track and trail of splendor, “Down whose stream, as down a river, “Westward, Westward Hiawatha “Sailed into the fiery sunset, “Sailed into the purple vapors, “Sailed into the dusk of the evening.” “And the people from the margin “Watched him floating, rising, sinking, “Till the birch canoe seemed lifted “High into that sea of splendor, “Till it sank into the vapors “Like the new moon slowly, slowly “Sinking in the purple distance. “And they said ‘Farewell forever!’ “Said, ‘Farewell, O Hiawatha!’ “And the forests, dark and lonely, “Moved through all their depths of darkness, “Sighed, ‘Farewell, O Hiawatha!’

“And the waves upon the margin “Rising, rippling on the pebbles, “Sobbed, ‘Farewell, O Hiawatha!’ “Thus departed Hiawatha, “Hiawatha the Beloved, “In the glory of the sunset, “In the purple mists of evening, “To the regions of the home-wind,… “To the Islands of the Blessed,… “To the Land of the Hereafter!”

For most of the recitation, Brad let Longfellow’s cadences wash over him. At the end he fought back tears.

Maples, then larger oaks edged both sides of the long asphalt driveway to his mother’s house. Halfway there, it crossed a narrow stream. Brad’s pickup jolted as it sailed over the old iron bridge late one afternoon several weeks after her funeral. The Scudder property had been in his mother’s family for over a hundred years. Embedded at the end of the driveway, the three-story Victorian had been designed in the eighteen-nineties by a disciple of a famous local architect and landscape planner, Andrew Jackson Downing. A noted author on these subjects, Downing’s work adorned the more prosperous regions of the town and other communities.

The green shuttered, redbrick mansion rested on fifty mostly wooded acres and offered more than twenty rooms. The driveway ended in a circular sweep at the

house, ringed by a row of stark white birches – a particular favorite of his mother. Covered in splotches of melting snow and brown grass, the inner circle embraced a gray cement fountain in the shape of an over-sized birdbath, which seemed ugly and unbecoming to an otherwise stately residence. An open porch, surrounded on three sides by azaleas, white and pink dogwood trees and nondescript evergreen shrubs, separated the house from the driveway.

Twenty-five feet from the backdoor a large pond floated in the midst of an open lawn. Weeping willow trees canopied three wrought-iron benches on its bank, drooping branches in season almost touching the water. The level backyard stretched for almost one hundred yards until it descended precipitously. The vista of the Valley below with the silvery river flowing between the mountains embodied by far the property’s finest feature. On the other side of the house stood a five-car garage, a caretaker’s cottage and two greenhouses. Beyond in warmer weather thrived a more recent addition – an outdoor swimming pool, with a small, man-made waterfall at one end.

Brad pulled up in front of the house, looked around and smiled. This was the place where he had grown up. On the back lawn, he had played baseball and football with his dad and brothers. The McClain boys had explored the woods together, fed the ducks and geese in the pond and fished the stream for trout. His wedding had taken place in the main house and the reception under a gigantic tent in the backyard. He could still hear the band playing. Ever since the separation from Debbie, he had been staying here, once again girded by the family homestead, a haven to recuperate from personal suffering and defeats.

In the entryway, Brad started to call out his mother’s name as if she were still alive. He caught himself in time and merely shouted for Nellie, her old housekeeper. She failed to answer. Only the calico cat appeared to welcome him, brushing up against a leg. For years family retainers, Nellie, who had cooked and cleaned for his mother, and her husband Charlie, a handy man and gardener, lived in the cottage. Even before the construction business had become successful, extra money from the Scudder family afforded such amenities.

On the kitchen table a note from Nellie informed Brad dinner was in the microwave oven, all set to be reheated. Not hungry, he walked into the library and at the built-in mahogany bar mixed himself a dry vodka martini on the rocks. The drink in hand, he settled into the maroon leather easy chair where he propped his legs up on the matching ottoman.

Brad had much to consider, for tomorrow, Saturday, interested family would descend on the mansion to pore over his mother’s worldly goods. They were getting one last crack at family heirlooms and bric-a-brac before the local auction people emptied the place. His mother’s estate had yet to be probated. What to do with this vast property still troubled him. Should it be sold to outsiders and the proceeds distributed to the heirs or should Brad step in, buy it, then make the distribution? His mother’s will, failing to dictate which assets should be sold or kept, left those decisions to her executors. It simply bequeathed her shares in the business to Brad, who already owned sixty percent of it, in recognition of all his hard work and sacrifice, and divided the rest of her estate equally among her four children.

Brad disliked selling the property, but he thought that retaining it made little sense. How could he justify living there alone? The heating bill was astronomical, and the property taxes, already onerous, were rising next year. Apart from these expenses, other costs impinged, including the compensation of Nellie and Charlie. And if the place were sold, what would become of them?

Anyway, the property had been in his mother’s family for such a long time. Wasn’t it a shame just to sell it off? His grandchildren would then never savor this aspect of family life. Growing up here had meant so much to Brad. A part of him wanted to hold on to it and preserve the family’s heritage. Besides, the property symbolized one of the few sizable private estates still left in a community that once possessed many. A sale to third parties would immediately expose it to the developer’s chopping block. Another historical asset would be lost to the town. Brad nearly choked at that prospect. Sipping the martini, he

continued to debate the issue with himself.

The next morning Brad and his siblings gathered for a discussion in the mansion’s living room. The gathering included younger brother, Keith; George and Kate. The nieces and nephews were also there: Kate’s daughter, Amy, sat next to her mother on the sofa. One of Keith’s boys sprawled on the hardwood floor in the hallway, playing. George’s youngster, Jeff sat with his legs crossed in Indian fashion on the carpet.

“So, Brad, you’re going to write us a check for a million five?” asked Keith.

“Do you actually think it’ll be that much?” Brad asked.

“Well, I estimate the whole property is worth two million, and that’s on the low side. If the real estate market weren’t so soft at the moment, the value would be fifty percent higher.”

“That’s certainly a lot of money for the privilege of living in the house where you grew up,” said Kate. “Why don’t you let the co-executor sell it? Don’t burden yourself with this white elephant.”

“You haven’t that kind of cash, Brad.” George seemed convinced. “The interest charges on a million five would be damn high at current bank rates. And, we’re not in the lending business. So forget it.”

“You could have borrowed the money from Jed if you had only let him play

major league baseball,” Keith piped in, determined to get Brad’s goat.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Brad observed whimsically. “Don’t worry, folks, I’ll have the cash shortly. I’m liquidating some securities I hold, wise investments made years ago. You’re all welcome to visit when you wish, and I’ll hold the family gatherings here on holidays.”

“Are you sure this is what you really want, Brad?” Kate frowned and perched a pair of pinkish glasses on the edge of her nose.

“Don’t worry. I feel comfortable, even enthusiastic doing this. Listen, I put money in your pockets, save the old homestead from the predators and get to live in a mansion all by myself. What more can anyone hope to achieve in one transaction?”

“Uncle Brad,” shouted Keith’s son. “Can I have that old Lionel train set in the attic?”

“Why not!” Brad yelled back.

“I’d like the dolls in the black trunk in the cellar,” Amy said.

“What about the stamps and coins in the blue bedroom?” Jeff hollered.

“Nothing shy or bashful about the younger generation, is there?” Brad chuckled.

“Sure, take whatever you want. Let’s keep as much in the family as possible.”

Drawn by the sound of laughter, Debbie came in. “What’s so funny?” she asked as she slung her purse down on a chair.

“Haven’t you heard?” Kate said. “You’re husband’s buying out our interests in the Scudder property.”

“Shall I phone the insane asylum? Maybe they’ll send over a paddy wagon and straight jacket.” Debbie looked worried. “Brad, you can’t do this. It’s totally impractical.”

“Sure I can, and it depends on which system of logic you apply.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have come over,” Debbie muttered. “Brad, did you ever think of us when you made such a crazy decision? Of your kids or me?”

“Certainly. But I thought you’d see the wisdom in what I’m doing.”

“Sorry, I don’t. I suppose you’re going to stay in this big house all by yourself like your mother did. At least she had a good excuse. She had lived here her entire life. Or do you intend to move one of your young honeys in to keep you warm on cold nights?”

“Stop carrying on like this,” Brad put his foot down. “Haven’t you blabbed

enough already? Just go through the house and pick out what you want to keep.”

“That’s the only sensible thing you’ve said today,” Debbie snapped and walked out.

“Brad, you’ve always stuck your neck out for this family,” Kate said. “Sometimes I wonder why you bother.”

After lunch, most of the McClain clan had packed their vehicles with antiques, paintings, crockery, jewelry, plus nostalgic bric-a-brac and left the old mansion. Brad and Kate remained, she rummaging around in an upstairs bedroom, he in the library reading yet another book on local history. Amy had gone off with her Uncle George and his son.

Discouraged by earlier research, Brad had tried a new approach: historical archaeology. His examination of reports on other eighteenth-century sites, even the old Indian ruins at the mountain lake, should uncover clues and techniques that might lead to the homicide’s solution. Though having gained new insights into archaeology under Cal’s guidance, he had sadly not made much progress.

Later that afternoon, Kate, tired and slightly haggard, ed her brother. Looking up from the book, Brad asked, “have you finished?”

“No, there’s just too much stuff to go through in one day,” she professed, plainly irritated, then plopped down on the leather sofa across from him.

“Just take your time. The auction people aren’t due for a few days.”

“I found a whole box of old family photographs. Do you want to see them?”

“No, not really.” Brad shook his head. “I’ve probably been through them already.”

“They go pretty far back on Mom’s side. I always get a kick out of clothing styles from those eras.” She unrolled her bun of rust-colored locks and let the hair drape over her shoulders.

“So did she, as I recall. Can I get you a drink? The winery up the road in Marlboro has a 1993 barrel-aged estate red which is ready to drink. It’s quite good. Would you like to try it?”

“No thanks. Wine will just put me to sleep. How’s your homicide investigation going? You haven’t mentioned it lately.”

“Slowly,” he replied. “I’m about to trace the title on the country club property to determine the owner of the Armory. I keep putting it off because I know it’ll be so tedious. But there’s always the chance it could lead somewhere. It’s much more fun reading books on history and archaeology.”

“I don’t suppose you and Debbie can get back together? It’s a shame you two split up in the first place. You always seemed so happy.”

Brad chuckled. “Didn’t you hear her today? She won’t have me. , she threw me out.”

“You two belong together, and no crazy skeleton should drive you apart. I think she misses you and wants you back.”

“She’s just jealous I’m dating, that’s all. She’ll get over it in time.”

“If you gave up your investigation, she’d take you back in a flash. That’s my reading of her.”

“Well, I’m not giving it up. At least not until I come up with answers, or I’m satisfied none still exist. And she just can’t deal with that.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Kate yawned as she rose from the sofa. “In mom’s bedroom there’s an ancient brown trunk with brass fittings in the large closet. It’s filled with old family papers. Maybe you should go through them since you’re so into local history.”

“That’s strange.” Brad looked quizzical. “I don’t Mom saying anything about that.” He thought he’d known everything about this house.

“Well I’m off to contend with my brood.” Kate stretched on her toes, extending both arms. “See you later.”

Sunday morning Brad went for a walk around his mother’s property on a trail through the woods. When Jed left for Yale, Brad had stopped these daily jaunts and had only recently resumed the old practice.

Loneliness, accelerated by his mother’s ing, had begun once he separated from Debbie. Over the years he had become extremely dependent on both these dominant women. Like the tall trees adjacent to one another along the wooded path he trod, this threesome appeared on the surface to be strong, resilient and independent. But beneath the ground their roots intertwined, and the loss of anyone shook the stability of those remaining. He overcompensated with a busy schedule and academic interests though the homicide investigation dwarfed all else. Yet nothing relieved the emptiness he felt.

After the walk, he had breakfast, showered and dressed. Later in his mother’s bedroom, he flicked on the light in the empty closet and found the trunk Kate had recommended against the far wall. Inside, papers were stacked in four piles. Seated in a chair, he reached down, grabbed about half of the first stack, then laid it in his lap. Kate had been right; wills, letters, property deeds, contracts proliferated. The trunk obviously served as an age-old repository for critical family documents. Like his father’s family, the Scudder clan had been early settlers of the Hudson Highlands.

Apart from breaks for lunch and coffee, Brad pored over these papers for the rest of the day. Here in this oversized, wooden box lay the history of his mother’s family, its genealogy, the transfers of property, the disposition and inheritance of assets, news from friends and relatives, school diplomas, diaries, the hopes and dreams of ancestors stretching across generations. His mother had retold some of these stories before but never in this depth or volume. As Brad continued to browse, he became hooked and could not put them down.

The surnames were not all Scudders. Browns, Aldens, Halls, Morrises, and McFaddens cropped up as well. Dorothea and Thadeus, Rachel and Warren,

Benedict and Sarah, Enoch and Elizabeth, Polly and Ezra. Aunts, uncles and cousins, brothers, sisters, and grandparents. Then the written record ceased about 1820. This puzzled Brad because he knew his mother’s forbearers had settled in this area in the mid-1700s.

Before leaving the room, Brad carefully placed all the papers back in the trunk except for two diaries he had not read. With these in hand, he searched the rest of the house for additional records. Through trunks, boxes, footlockers and storage bins, he rummaged. Then he scoured closets, bureau drawers, cabinets, armoires and an old desk. No other family documents appeared to exist. At last he gave up the search.

After dinner he retired to the library with a cup of black coffee and the diaries. Leisurely sipping coffee in an easy chair, he scanned the pages of the first diary, written by great grandmother Scudder. Not a daily record, it covered a twentyyear span and noted mostly deaths, births, marriages, betrothals, birthdays and graduations of close friends and relatives. Less factual and more impressionistic, the second diary recorded the feelings of his maternal grandmother Hall as a teenager about places, persons and events in life and even her own short poem.

While immersed in these musings, Brad dozed off several times. Watery eyes, strained from hours of overuse, at last forced him to put the diary down for ten minutes until he forged through the last few pages. Glued to the back inside cover was an envelop that contained a letter. Brad carefully removed the brown, frayed paper. Dated June 8, 1896, it was addressed to his grandmother from one of her aunts. The first paragraph jumped out at him:

“There is something about our family you do not know. Your mother and I have intentionally kept certain facts from you and your brothers to shield the lot of you. Now I believe with all my heart you should be told the whole truth. We are not simply English and Scottish by descent. Neither are we all white in lineage. There is a full-blooded Indian in our family tree. The son of a great chief, he was

a highly educated and accomplished man. By all rights, we should be very proud of him. But somehow, a sense of shame permeated this family that Indian blood has somehow lessened us. So we have concealed it from you children, buried so to speak.”

The news struck Brad as a complete surprise. No one had ever mentioned an Indian ancestor. How interesting, he thought. But who was this man, when did he live and why was he so accomplished? The letter revealed more mundane matters, but failed to divulge anything more about this mysterious figure. Just in case he had missed something while growing up, Brad telephoned Kate and relayed what he had learned.

“Did you know about this?” he asked.

“No, absolutely nothing. Neither Mom nor Dad said a word to me.”

“Mom must have known about it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. After all, the Indian blood was in her line, and she was in possession of the letter.”

“But she kept it from us. I wonder why.”

“I don’t know. But that must be the reason she insisted the poem be recited at her funeral. She knew all right and in her own subtle way was telling us. She could then leave this world with a clear conscience.”

The next day, Brad returned to the cemetery where his mother was buried to survey the gravestones surrounding hers. Extremely old, the plot had been in his mother’s family from time immemorial. Amid these markers, his ancestors slept serenely. The new tombstones were elaborate, thick and composed of a highly polished, gray granite.

The older ones, clearly different in appearance and composition, were thin, rectangular tablets, square or round-shouldered, vertically embedded in the ground. Some were fashioned from red sandstone, others out of white limestone. Larger limestone obelisks marked a few graves on the site. Though many had no decorative features, numerous ones displayed winged cherubs at the top or a willow tree over an urn on a pedestal.

Most aged gravestones read “In memory of” the deceased, the wife, husband or child of so and so, and gave the dates of birth and death. Others read ‘Sacred to his or her memory, ‘This is the tomb or grave of’ or ‘Here lies interred the mortal remains of’ the person. The age upon death was often disclosed or a brief listing of accomplishments, such as – “Captain in the Union Army” or “Member of the New York Legislature.” This sort of information might yield the clues Brad was searching for, or so he hoped.

The top portion of one grave marker was gone, sheered off at the base with the remainder just below the surface. Brad suspected the work of neighborhood vandals because the cemetery resided in a run-down section of town. Some older tombstones had been so severely weathered that their lettering was either nonexistent or unreadable. Still, Brad was able to list the data for nearly every gravestone in the family plot – names of the deceased, relationships, accomplishments, ages, dates of birth and death. The task took him almost the

whole morning to complete. The stones seemed to reveal the Scudder line through the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries. But nothing identified or suggested any Indian relative.

After lunch, Brad called Cal at the local college for advice on reading deteriorated tombstones. From his office, the archaeologist advised him to purchase a special paper and graphite in an art supply store, place it on the stone where the faint letters were located and rub the graphite over it. Hopefully, the words and numbers would then appear on the opposite side of the paper.

Making these purchases, Brad experimented on the badly preserved gravestones. In every instance, he successfully retrieved the lost engraving, except for two that were beyond redemption. Still, nothing on this Native American ancestor emerged.

By the next morning, something his mother had once showed him clicked in Brad’s mind. In the library of the old Victorian, a map of the town revealed what he was looking for. A specific location now in mind, he drove off in the pickup truck. An hour of winding through the back roads beyond the airport brought Brad to an old single-story, brick house previously owned by his mother’s family. On the front mailbox, Brad noted the name and exact address of the residents, who, he hoped, were the current owners. Afterward, Brad traveled to the property records division of the County Clerk’s office at Goshen.

The clerk was a young woman, who appeared to be in her twenties. She was knowledgeable and friendly.

“In order to trace the title of any property,” she said, “you must have the name of the grantor or grantee in the title chain – preferably the most recent one – and the address. We enter that information in the computer, and it displays all property

transfers, along with the names of buyers and sellers, as far back as 1983 with the appropriate deed book and page references. Before that date, the search becomes more painstaking.”

“What does that mean?” Brad asked. In the past he had used real estate lawyers and title companies to handle all property transactions. Now he would do it himself.

“Before 1983, you trace the names of the grantors and grantees back to the beginning through our books and indexes. Let’s assume that Jacob Smith owned the property as of 1983 and his deed is located in book 1,000 on page 525. You go to the deed in that book and that page. If you’re lucky, it will cite the previous owner and his deed by book and page numbers. So then you go to that deed, extracting hopefully the same information.”

“That sounds simple enough.” Brad felt relieved.

“But here’s the tricky part. Not all deeds have references to prior book and page numbers, often they refer just to the previous owner by name only.”

“What do I do then? Call out the State Police?”

“No,” she smiled. “You consult indexes where the grantors and grantees are listed alphabetically. If you get the right one, it will reveal the previous owner and the book and pages numbers relating to his deed. The problem is these indexes are complied on a five to ten year basis. So reading the index for the immediately preceding period may not give you the references you’re looking for. If one owner has held the property for a long time, you may have to go

through many indexes to get a fix on the prior deed.”

“It sounds like a lot of work,” Brad sighed. “But I’m here, so I might as well get started. First could you run the following two properties through the computer for me: Springdale Country Club, 55 Hollingswood Drive, Newburgh and Dominick Rossini, 324 Ketchan Road, Newburgh?”

“You know, you could always hire title companies for this. Many people in this room work for them.”

“No, I’ll handle it myself. Thank you.”

The computer search revealed no change in title of the country club property since 1983, as he anticipated, while two took place on the old Scudder parcel. For both pieces of property, Brad used the earlier deed books then the indexes. Some were extremely old and musty. He noted the names of the various owners and each transfer stretching back through nineteenth century. The records suddenly ended around 1800. Nothing disclosed an Indian connection with the earlier Scudder property. The last recorded owner of the country club property was a man called Henri Keppler, a name that had never come up in his research. The last recorded owner of the Scudder piece was an Abraham McFadden, a name he recognized from the trunk’s papers and the gravestones. In the deed description on the Scudder property, something unusual arose. It contained references to a factory, warehouse and ovens. Brad wondered how could an old industrial complex have operated way back then on what was clearly a farm or residence.

Brad went back to the clerk. “Why don’t the Newburgh records go back before 1800?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “An anomaly of local history, sir. Before 1798, the Town of Newburgh was part of Ulster County. It became part of our County, Orange, after that date.”

“Does that mean the pre-1800 property records for Newburgh are at Kingston, the county seat of Ulster?”

“Perhaps, if they exist at all,” she said mysteriously. “Records that old have a way of disappearing.”

Undeterred, Brad jumped into the pickup and headed for Kingston. When he arrived at that County Clerk’s office, he walked over to an older gentleman in his early seventies, who manned the information desk.

“I’m looking for pre-1800 property records for the Town of Newburgh. I understand it was then part of Ulster County. Do you have those documents here?” Brad asked.

“That depends,” replied the old man. “Many records before 1777 don’t exist at all.”

“Why is that?” inquired Brad.

“Well, son, you’re obviously weak on local history. The British raided Kingston in 1777 and burned practically every building. Some records were salvaged by

Cornelia Tappen, Governor Clinton’s sister, but most were either lost, relocated or went up in flames. She absconded from the Senate House with a batch concealed under her petticoat and rode off with a few persons to Hurley.”

“I’ll be damned, you’re right!” Brad was angry with himself for forgetting the attack, something he had read about much earlier in his research.

“The town recreates the raid each October. Folks get all decked out in uniforms, hundreds of armed troops – British, Hessian, Tory – row ashore and invade. Our militia is smaller, so they fight in defense but get beaten back. The noise and smoke from cannons and muskets cover the whole place. There’s a guy on a loudspeaker doing a play-by-play. He explains everything, telling the history, and he talks to the fighters, too. Thousands of people come to watch it. You should too.”

“I’ll make a point of it,” Brad said, making a mental note. “Seems like a sporting event.”

Still no pre-1800 Newburgh records turned up in the Ulster County Clerk’s office, and their whereabouts or existence at any other place seemed highly doubtful. As a result the Native American ancestor in the Scudder clan remained elusive and unknown, the homicide victim at the Armory, even more so.

CHAPTER XVII - COUNTERATTACK

To the ing guards outside, the thick windowpanes of the Ellison house on the river’s edge distorted the solitary figure of General George Washington, seated at a huge desk. During that cool July morning he read dispatches from Connecticut. One set of papers reported in detail the attack on New Haven and British destruction of Norwalk and Fairfield; another conveyed an urgent plea from Governor Trumbull for military assistance. The news of British successes had been unsettling, and only heightened the anxiety of the commander-in-chief.

Early that year, both he and Congress had agreed on a defensive effort because of the severe shortage of men, supplies and money. A vital part of this defense called for the patriots to preserve and strengthen the American stronghold at West Point. It would prevent the enemy from controlling the Hudson River and splitting the New England states from the rest of the nation. Now Washington’s nemesis, Sir Henry Clinton, his British counterpart, was putting that strategy to a severe test.

The British capture of King’s Ferry at Verplanck and Stony Point in May 1779, along with July raids in Connecticut, forced Washington to rethink this approach. The map on his desk depicted the area surrounding New York City and the Hudson. He viewed it as a giant chessboard. Clinton’s first move of the season, the seizure of the King’s Ferry, had prompted Washington to shift more troops from New Jersey to the Hudson Highlands and West Point. For the time being, such a countermove had forestalled any direct attack on these installations.

Clinton’s Connecticut raids, the next major move, perplexed Washington to no end. Dropping the dispatches on the desk, Washington bolted from a chair and paced across the room. Hands grasped behind his back, he considered their meaning. After several minutes, the truth dawned on him.

“Yes!” he said aloud. “He wants to draw us out of the Highlands, away from West Point. Then he can attack there or in New Jersey. Clearly, I cannot send troops to Connecticut.”

But how could he deny Trumbull’s urgent request for help? This governor and his state had done so much for the American cause. They had furnished the Continental Army with badly needed supplies, equipment and men. Their privateers were vigorously raiding British ships at sea and causing the enemy immense damage. The new nation had an obligation to protect them. Still …

Suppose he did send troops? By the time they arrived, the British forces could be elsewhere. No, that would not be the best strategy. The Hudson still represented the key to the continent and ultimate victory. Trumbull would have to rely on the state’s militia and defend its people to the best of his ability. The Army must stay in the Highlands.

But he couldn’t simply stand by and do nothing—especially when the enemy was attacking points along the rebels’ perimeter. The very thought offended Washington’s sense of honor. Furthermore, it would undermine America’s interests and morale. There must be a countermove, one that strikes a vital British position but not jeopardize West Point. To hit the foe quickly and surreptitiously at just the right spot, that is what he was after. Such a move would shatter British dreams of controlling the river.

So far, he had avoided a major confrontation with the enemy because of manpower restraints. However, the situation now called for something bold.

But what?

He paced the wood-planked floor, lost in intense concentration. Time ed. Hunger was forgotten. At long last, a plan of action became evident. It should have been obvious from the start, he told himself. There it was, so lucid, so direct, the perfect solution to such an initially baffling dilemma.

Washington summoned General Von Steuben, a soldier and baron who had fought in many European campaigns for Frederick, the Great of Prussia. Knowledgeable in military arts, Von Steuben had authored the American manual of arms and trained the Continental Army to march and wield muskets with bayonets. He now functioned as its inspector general. As soon as Von Steuben entered the office, Washington briefed him on the latest developments.

“I agree with you,” said Von Steuben. “Clinton is maneuvering to draw us away from West Point. We cannot under any circumstances take the bait.”

“What do you think about my plan?” Washington asked.

“I trust it may be the best answer. We attack where they least expect us, and it is close enough to West Point so our troops can be pulled back in time if the British sail upriver.

“Good, I’m glad you appreciate its merits. I’ve considered it from all points, and it appears strategically sound.”

“But we require proper intelligence before finalizing our tactics. And, I am also obliged to say, we must maintain secrecy at all costs. If even a hint of this is

discovered by the enemy, victory may not be attained.”

“Tomorrow, I intend to send one of my best cavalry officers, Major Harry Lee from Virginia, to reconnoiter the area,” Washington promised. “The fewer people we tell, the safer our secret.”

“Who will command this bold expedition of yours?” asked Von Steuben.

“A very good question. I do not have a candidate at this moment, but we want someone who is aggressive and fearless.”

“There’s always General Arnold, unpleasant as he is.”

“If you disregard his abrasiveness and ethics, he’s an excellent soldier,” said Washington. “But no, he is not the right person. I fear he has too many problems – physical ailments as well as political ones. Few seem to like him except his men. Besides, he has command responsibilities in Philadelphia.”

“He performed superbly at Saratoga. Though disobeying orders, he entered the fray at critical points to rally the troops. Reports say his actions were crucial to our victory. And our success there, as you are well-aware, brought the French into the war on our side.”

“I agree with all you have said. But we still must find someone else.”

“Who else is there, General?”

Washington deliberated.

“What about Anthony Wayne?” he suggested. Wayne was not an obvious choice, but a savvy one.

“I had forgotten him.” Von Steuben mulled it over, then nodded. “Yes, indeed, he will serve your purpose well.”

Major William Hull had only recently been reassigned to West Point. In charge of a forward post in Westchester County for the prior six months, he had acted as the de facto leader of American forces in no man’s land. His tour of duty in that arena had been filled with action, leading numerous forays against fixed enemy positions and mobile formations. In his superiors’ eyes, Hull’s courageous and successful patrol of the territory stood out. Hardly a surprise for one with such a military record. During the war he had valiantly participated in major battles throughout the northern theater – Boston, New York City, New Jersey, Saratoga.

Washington ired this brave young major. Being at West Point, it was only natural Washington would select Hull to lead a major unit in the prospective raid on Stony Point. Hull became one of the few officers who knew in advance what was planned for the British garrison there.

Although not actively involved in the reconnaissance for the mission, Hull was kept fully apprised of the information being gathered. He learned Harry Lee and a one hundred fifty troopers and riflemen were roaming the countryside surrounding Stony Point. They had captured enemy deserters and forced them to

talk about the fortifications and its defenders. Farmers around Dunderberg Mountain next to the post had been recruited into Lee’s web of informants while selling fruits and vegetables to the unsuspecting enemy garrison. One of Lee’s officers even invented a pretext to approach the fort under a flag of truce, so he could observe the exact configuration of the defenses. Hull heard Colonel Rufus Putnam, an American engineering officer, had secretly traversed the surrounding hills and surveyed it. Aware that British forces referred to Stony Point as their ‘Little Gibraltar,’ both Washington and Wayne made separate trips there to view the terrain and the fortifications from a safe distance for themselves.

In quarters at West Point, Hull strained to see his face in the discolored semblance of a mirror, partially cracked and hanging from a nail in the wall. The moistened lather that eked out of the off-white clump of tallow was barely enough, so he stroked his face gingerly with the long straight-edged razor. After a moment’s pause, he felt the skin where the blade had just ed and muttered to himself. As he reached for a leather strop, a sergeant in his company knocked on the door and entered.

“Pardon me, Major. Lieutenant Davidson from the local militia is here to see you.”

“He’s early. Tell him to wait a few minutes until I’ve finished dressing.”

“Yes, sir. I will. But he is already pacing back and forth like a mountain lion.”

“That doesn’t faze me. He’s mad as hell about being here.”

Hull honed the razor against the strop, tested its sharpness with a thumb and

finished shaving. Once dressed, Hull met with Matthew in the small office next door to his bedroom.

“Why have you invited – or is it ordered – me here?” Matthew frowned. “I have to round up a band of horses for the Army in the western part of the county.”

“I cannot say at this moment,” Hull replied. “Except you are here for military purposes.”

“But I omitted to bring my uniform or any equipment.”

“That makes no difference. You can avail yourself of everything required right here.”

“Why am I so favored? You have plenty of troops in this fort.”

“I made a special request for you because your talents and experience should come in handy on our mission.”

“And what might that be?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Don’t fret about it or be too inquisitive, and to follow orders.” Hull arched his reddish brown eyebrows.

“All right, but I have just heard about the British raid on New Haven.” Matthew seemed both resigned and worried. “Have you learned anything about Luke, Anne and the children?”

“We’ve received no word about them.” Hull looked apologetic. “But be assured I’ve made inquiries in the proper quarters.”

Washington had sensed growing excitement among the officers who learned about Stony Point. Nervousness and guarded remarks betrayed them to the eyes and ears of a knowledgeable observer. At long last, after months of inactivity, they were about to strike back. Was it revenge they were seeking, or the release of pent-up frustrations? Washington could not say with certainty, and he was not sure it mattered.

Whatever was driving these men, Washington sympathized with them. He too was susceptible to emotion. While projecting a beguiling air of self-confidence, he at times boiled inside. In four years of war he had often encountered similar circumstances. By late December of 1776 Washington and the Army had suffered humiliating defeats at British hands in New York and New Jersey and were compelled to retreat into Pennsylvania. Morale hovered at a low ebb, and an American victory was desperately required to shore up the cause.

Washington shuddered as he recalled standing in the flatboat on that cold blustery night and rowing across the ice-clogged Delaware River. Sleet slashed the air. Rebel troops then had surprised the Hessians at Trenton. Later they successfully attacked the British at Princeton. Those gratifying triumphs, results of a bold unexpected stroke, had breathed new life into the rebellion and personally lifted his spirits. He regarded the raid on Stony Point in the same light.

Enormous obstacles still lay ahead. The terrain itself would have deterred most experienced commanders from considering an attack. A high rocky promontory, jutting out more than half a mile from the western shore into the Hudson, Stony Point was anchored to the mainland by a broad, swampy neck, frequently flooded at high tide, whose age at any time was extremely hazardous. A causeway over the swamp heavily patrolled by the British linked the mainland to the promontory and the King’s Ferry on its north edge. Sculptured by an ancient glacier during the last Ice Age, this isolated natural fortress rose to one hundred fifty feet at its highest point above the river.

A series of man-made contrivances made the promontory even more impregnable though the British earthworks themselves had not been finished. Six separate artillery batteries, interconnected by deep trenches, secured the summit. On the riverside the remnants of an American blockhouse added another protective element. Directly opposite the blockhouse, a rock formation shot upward to meld neatly into these fortifications. Just below the batteries stretched an uninterrupted line of abatis from north to south. With their upper portions pointing toward the mainland, these felled tree trunks and sharpened branches reached out like a roaring lion baring teeth to its prey. Nearer the swamp a second line of abatis fortified three sets of trenches that extended into Haverstraw Bay.

Almost six hundred British troops were stationed at Stony Point. Led by an experienced younger officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Johnson, the contingent comprised an infantry unit from the Seventeenth regiment, grenadiers of the British Seventy-first and a detachment of American loyalists with fifteen pieces of artillery. On the battlefields of Europe, the infantry troops had earned an unassailable reputation for aggressiveness. Just offshore lay anchored three British warships, including the powerful HMS Vulture that would lent to the promontory’s garrison in case of attack.

On the morning of July 16, 1779 at Sandy Beach, five miles below West Point, an American brigadier general in an immaculate blue and white uniform

reviewed troops of the Light Infantry Corps. Just shy of thirty-five, tall and well proportioned, this officer had earlier displayed outstanding leadership in battles. His darting hazel eyes conveyed intelligence and quickness. Under short brown hair, a high forehead and aquiline nose marked the man’s face, which grew so animated and sincere his thoughts seemed revealed even before he spoke.

The contingent, drawn from various states, represented a new command for General Anthony Wayne who had just returned from home in Pennsylvania. Shaped by four years of fighting, trained by Von Steuben at Valley Forge, and led by an impressive group of younger experienced officers, handpicked by Washington, they had developed, he was told, into the best America could muster against the British.

Certainly they appeared fresh shaven and well-powdered in compliance with Washington’s orders. This pleased Wayne. Almost all troops wore blue coats; the color of facings or lapels signified their state of origin. The New England men had white facings, those from Pennsylvania, Delaware and Maryland red and the North Carolinians blue with buttonholes edged in white. They were fully equipped and rationed for the expedition.

Bothered by something, Wayne called to Lieutenant Knox, a company commander in Colonel Meigs’ regiment. “What is this damned fellow doing here?” Wayne shouted, pointing to a soldier in the second row.

“Sir, he is part of the unit, Corporal James, a worthy fighting man.”

“How can he fight well if that blasted hair fouls his eyesight? Never see the confounded enemy,” yelled Wayne. He had a manifest aversion to long, unruly hair, firmly believing it made a soldier unmilitary.

“What do you suggest we do, sir?”

“Get the scissors and cut it off. Hell, we cannot have this sort of thing in my corps!”

At the outset, Wayne wanted to set things straight so the men would have no misunderstandings. Ordinarily charismatic and amiable, Wayne remained a tough disciplinarian. Quick to correct all infractions, he tolerated no slacking in military duty or appearance. On his part, this outburst was a calculated, if somewhat flamboyant, gesture to instill a personal creed in the troops.

The inspection done, Wayne took a position at the column’s front and marched the soldiers south along the Hudson until they ed the ruins of Fort Montgomery. Instead of advancing downstream, Wayne made an abrupt righthand turn to head westward around the base of Bear Mountain. Although more circuitous, travel along this route would prevent the enemy, whose naval vessels patrolled the river, from detecting them. It would also keep his own men ignorant of the objective. Earlier told this was a training exercise, they would not be permitted to drop out for any reason. In recognition of the personal danger in this assault, Wayne had executed a last will and testament before leaving West Point.

A winding stream in many guises and ever-changing dimensions roughly paralleled the path, both sides lined thickly by trees and bushes. At the start the stream itself cascaded from precipitous heights, raced over boulders, flowed rapidly, then slowly, deepening, swelling, and narrowing. Forced to crisscross it ten times or more, the troops jumped or forded the waters or tiptoed on slippery rocks and over fallen or chopped tree trunks. Often the trail rose or sank steeply until it leveled off to snake through the forest.

As a cavalry officer, Hull had long been accustomed to riding into battle. This lengthy march on foot had only progressed four miles before he began to tire. Another ten miles remained until the light infantry unit reached its campsite. Still in riding boots, Hull’s feet began to ache, his overall body longed for the saddle. Fortunately, when they reached Queensboro, a tiny way station, General Wayne issued orders to stop for a short rest.

The troops, when the march resumed, veered southward. The road traveled was seldom used, in disrepair and often narrow; the surrounding countryside rough and mountainous. Along the winding trail, Hull realized how strange were the twists and turns his young life had already taken. After graduation from Yale, he had delved into divinity studies. But once Alice Eaton firmly declared an aversion to marrying a man of the cloth, he had second thoughts about the clergy. Prodded by parents to be a minister, he never truly had the calling anyway. Hull switched to law before he and Alice announced their betrothal. By the time they were to marry, the war had erupted. In a patriotic frame of mind, Hull felt called to his country’s service and ed the Army without so much as a word to Alice Eaton. Upset with him, Alice broke off the engagement to wed a prosperous merchant from Hartford, a union arranged by her ambitious mother. Had the war saved Bill from a bad marriage or was his partnership with a marvelous woman sacrificed because of it? In the years since, he often wondered, sitting around campfires at night, what life would have been like had he married the irrepressible Alice.

Frequently forced to walk in single file, the men trekked along precipitous hillsides, through deep gorges and sweltering swamps. Annoying insects assaulted them the entire way. After a few more hours of marching, the troops arrived at the Springsteel farm just as the sun was setting. Now only a mile and a half from Stony Point, Major Lee and his horsemen ed them and gave General Wayne a briefing on the latest intelligence. Before darkness descended, Wayne and three field officers, Colonels Febiger and Butler plus Major Hull, set off to inspect the places where the attack would be launched. The plan of assault, although originally Washington’s brainchild, had been later refined by Wayne.

Despite a propensity for rashness, he had carefully studied the terrain, reviewed the intelligence reports and analyzed the plan. Rarely tentative about anything, the Brigadier confidently predicted the mission would succeed despite the odds. Once back at the farm, he had the officers assemble the troops.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is not a training exercise. We are about to assault the enemy at Stony Point.”

From the audience arose a low rumble of approvals and satisfied murmurs.

“Our goal has been kept from you until now because of the need for absolute secrecy,” he continued. “Tis heavily fortified. If any word had slipped out, no matter how inadvertent, the mission would be doomed from the start. Surprise is still critical. So I caution you to be as quiet as you can till we meet the enemy.

“For most of you, this battle will be fought with fixed bayonets only. Except for a select few, you will not be permitted to load or fire your muskets. This is imperative to deceive the enemy. Anyone in the attacking columns disobeying this order will be killed instantly by the nearest officer. I cannot stress this point enough. To distinguish ourselves, we will all wear a white piece of paper in our hats. When the citadel is taken, we shall shout the watchword, ‘The fort is our own.’ Do not forget that.

“For the first man who enters the enemy’s fortifications,” Wayne explained, “there will be a reward of five hundred dollars and an immediate promotion. The next four men inside will receive lesser sums. One large column coming from the south along the river will attack Stony Point while another smaller group will hit it from the north near the King’s Ferry. The column on the right, the southern one, consisting of regiments led by Colonels Febiger and Meigs and Major Hull, will execute the main thrust. The left column, made up of Colonel Butler’s

regiment, will furnish . Major Murfee’s two companies will create a diversion in the center, firing muskets, once the enemy discovers the other two columns’ assaults.”

Fully briefed beforehand, Wayne’s officers had already studied diagrams of the fortifications. Within the advance units of both columns were smaller groups called the ‘Forlorn Hope,’ a term that suggested their likely fate. Armed with only axes, these men would clear a path through the abatis for those behind them.

Now aware of the mission, the troops quietly buzzed with excitement. To Hull, who was standing in their midst, they seemed inspired. Obvious perils did not faze them because they were so intent on seizing the prize.

Before the battle Hull had an unpleasant task to perform and called over a captain in his detachment to a small grove of trees. “I have to raise a delicate matter,” said Hull in a low voice, “and it must be dealt with now.”

“Sir, what is it?”

“Some claim you displayed a lack of bravery at Monmouth.”

The captain’s face tightened. “Sir, I do not understand.”

“If you lacked fortitude then, the dangers now will be much greater. Assure me you can meet this challenge. If not, turn over the company’s command at once to

your Lieutenant and stay in camp. Otherwise, lead it yourself without hesitation or fear.”

Though distressed, the captain kept a firm grip on himself. “Thank you, sir, for your candor. I hope to prove myself worthy. Please wait a few moments until I return.”

A little later, the captain returned with a lieutenant and calmly recounted Hull’s concern about him. “Lieutenant,” he said, “watch me during the assault. If I fail to act bravely, you may kill me, then and there.”

Realizing his seriousness, the lieutenant reluctantly promised to obey.

At 11:30 p.m., Wayne gave the order to assemble, and the two columns marched off together, soon diverging toward locations above and below the promontory. With no moon or stars in the sky, the night loomed in full ebony. From the north the wind blew briskly through the trees on the surrounding hills. Nature elements meshed with rebel objectives to cloak their movements.

Assigned to Colonel Butler’s column, which was set to attack from the north, Matthew Davidson marched with a musket, elongated by a fixed bayonet, on the right shoulder. His primary weapons though were two tomahawks, the first strapped on one side and the other tied to the right wrist. Hull’s parting words had been, “Make certain no harm comes to Colonel Butler.”

A hardened veteran after Fort Montgomery and the destruction of British ships on the river, Matthew eagerly awaited the battle. No butterflies fluttered in his stomach this time. While a guide and bodyguard, he was prepared to kill a fair

share of redcoats. Twirling a tomahawk, he hummed an old Scottish air, learned at King’s College. A mental image of his father’s face, strong and steadfast, buttressed his will.

As Matthew’s column marched through a farm before the swamp, Major Murfee with two companies peeled off from Colonel Butler’s unit and dug in. At the head of the southern contingent trod General Wayne, who confidently guided the troops through the darkness toward the appointed spot just below the imposing promontory. Ten minutes to midnight, the ideal time Washington had set for the attack, the two columns arrived undetected at the starting points. Where the southern column assembled, a small creek flowed from the swamp into the Hudson to partially flood the ading beach.

“Damn it,” Wayne whispered to Colonel Meigs after a horned toad belched from the swamp. “The tide is higher than we figured. Now we’ll have to wade through all that water.”

“Tis true, it will slow us down a bit, General, but we will get there quick enough,” Meigs said. Far off, a watch dog howled a warning.

Under the night sky, the fortified hill dwarfed all else. The wind picked up as the other companies got in position. From the crotch of a beech tree, an owl’s hoots taunted. About two hundred yards of open water separated Wayne’s column from the point of attack on the far shore.

“Everyone ready?” asked Wayne softly.

“Yes, sir,” Febiger answered in a low voice.

“Forward then,” Wayne ordered, his words filtering down the ranks. “The storm is about to break. Those poor bastards.”

Just as the first company waded into Haverstraw Bay, an enemy sentinel, on the fortified hill directly opposite them, spotted the faint images of American troops in the darkness against the river’s edge. The whistling breeze muffled the shot from his musket, but the sentry gave the alarm to his comrades-in-arms.

Undeterred, the American column plunged forward in near-perfect formation, sloshing through water almost waist-high at varying places. A sandy bottom made their age less arduous. Noise from the British camp spurred the attackers to hurry. On the left, adjacent to the swamp’s causeway Major Murfee’s forces, pretending to attack from the west, shouted wildly and fired muskets at the British defenders in a deafening barrage. On Stony Point itself the redcoats let fly musket lead, cannon balls and grapeshot at Wayne’s unit lumbering through the bay. Enemy fire intensified as the southern vanguard neared the lower abatis, skirted it in the water, then climbed up the hilly edge behind. In the river three British ships, oblivious to the commotion, did not stir.

From the upper reaches of the promontory poured enemy shouts, “Come on, ya damn rebels, come on.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry, my lads, we’ll be with you presently,” one American soldier yelled back.

Soaked to the skin and aching from the strenuous trek through the bay, Hull groaned when he reached dry land to scramble up the steep, rocky terrain. In the blackness he tripped over a tree stump, his men scurrying along on both sides.

Hull slammed one riding boot into a rock. “Hell and damnation,” he muttered.

A musket ball pierced his hat, he cursed again, but Hull and the rebel soldiers swept onward and upward. The charge up the hill invoked a terrible strain on the out-of-shape cavalry officer. He huffed and puffed, gasping for breath. Wrenching pain ripped at his legs. His chest seethed with pressure from a pounding heart, his mouth grew dry. Yet he and the men pressed on. No time was wasted. Speed became essential as the shots from defenders repeatedly rained down on them. The upward climb took its toll, rebels were hit, some falling alone in the darkness, sacrifices for country and beliefs.

Lieutenant Knox and Lieutenant Colonel Fleury, a vigorous Frenchman, led the Forlorn Hope as these twenty brave soldiers chopped away at the upper abatis in the chaotic darkness. Little time existed to remove the barrier before the troops came up from behind to force them forward. Once the main body reached the abatis, a musket ball grazed Wayne’s head.

“Those bastards,” he shouted and fell, still his men surged up the steep hill without him. Other rebel officers were struck, but nearly all, refusing to halt, tramped on. During this mad dash the advancing American columns had not fired one shot.

When the alarm was first raised, Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson, the British commander of Stony Point, occupied the summit in the main fortifications. Hearing rebel muskets firing from the swamp, he presumed the main attack would come over the causeway. That dark windy night other experienced officers might have reached the same conclusion. With a large detachment of men, he moved to establish a line of defense opposite the swamp where the main attack was expected.

At the north side Matthew guided Colonel Butler and the column along the river’s edge toward the promontory. Having supplied this fort when in rebel hands, Matthew knew the terrain. The pace quickened at the first shot from the south. Initially encountering little opposition, they flowed easily up the hill. Led by Lieutenant Gibbons, the Forlorn Hope rapidly cleared away enough of the abatis but soon sustained overwhelming fire. Within less than three minutes seventeen out of twenty men were killed or wounded. Over and around fallen comrades, the main force charged forward, smoke and harsh sounds inundated the landscape.

The flash from a musket ahead exposed an enemy soldier on the hillside. Matthew, twirling a tomahawk twice, let it fly. The axe smacked into the man’s chest as he let out a cry of anguish, his fallen musket clanging on the stone wall below. Another tomahawk in hand, Matthew sped up the hill, but checked to make sure Colonel Butler was unharmed before he accosted the next victim.

Near the summit’s top, a second wind revived Hull as he leaped over the earthworks, his men in close pursuit. Out of the darkness a British grenadier reared up from behind a boulder, a musket tipped with a bayonet in his grasp, ready to thrust it. In a lunge at him with a longer espontoon, Hull impaled the redcoat. From a gaping stomach wound, blood gushed.

“That’ll teach him,” Hull shouted. “Not bad for my first time,” he related to anyone within earshot. His inexperience with this weapon, rarely employed by American dragoons, seemed not to matter. “But I prefer a saber.” Bill’s strident voice reached out in the darkness to no one in particular. Musket shots whistled by sporadically. The smell of spent gunpowder lurked everywhere, the air, pungent and rancid.

On the far edge of the summit Wayne’s vanguard from the south struck the enemy’s ramparts at a large rock formation. They rushed through the sally port and over the parapets as a conquering force, white paper in hats with bayonets

and spears flashing in the cool night air. Joyful shouts of, “The fort’s our own, the fort’s our own!” rang forth. First inside the enemy’s lair crashed Lieutenant Colonel Fleury, winner of the top prize. Next came Lieutenant Knox and three sergeants. Right behind them, others swarmed in. Fleury had the honor of lowering the British flag.

Wave after wave of attackers from the main southern force now stormed the upper fortifications. The patriots parried and thrust bayonets and spears at the British defenders, startled by the force and direction of the attack. Minutes later, Colonel Butler’s column from the north with Matthew in the vanguard burst into the fortress, pressuring the enemy to the breaking point. The attackers’ zeal and numbers overwhelmed this veteran garrison. Small bands of enemy soldiers were soon pleading, “Mercy, mercy, dear Americans – quarter, quarter.” In every instance when they surrendered, the rebels took their foe prisoners. Still some redcoats fought on.

With half his troops in the lower redoubts, Lieutenant Colonel Johnson awaited the main attack from the westerly swamp. It failed to materialize. He had yet to realize the primary rebel assault was occurring at the top of the promontory, above and behind the English position. There the din of battle and the Americans’ victory shouts at last signaled the outcome. Having been deceived and outmaneuvered, Johnson’s forces in the lower works were surrounded.

Colonel Febiger and his men captured him as he rushed toward the upper fortifications to discover what was happening. Not all the enemy surrendered so meekly. Units of the British Seventeenth held out, gallantly fighting until they fell victims to rebel bayonets. The patriots forced other English stragglers who retreated to the upper positions to yield or die.

The storming of the fort had taken just thirty minutes. How incredibly short, Hull thought – but wait, where was General Wayne? He glanced around the primary works. No Wayne in sight. With three fellow officers, Hull retraced their

steps to the upper abatis where they found him, dazed but alive, sitting upright on the bare ground.

“Sir, are you all right?” asked Hull.

“Yes, but did we take the fort?” Wayne impatiently demanded.

“Indeed we did, sir. I am pleased to report.”

“Splendid!” Wayne exclaimed, then touched the wound on his scalp and looked at his hand. “What a bloody mess, but no setting sun for me just yet.”

They carried him, bleeding yet triumphant, into the fort. That windy night, the cheers of the American forces at Stony Point loudly reverberated throughout the surrounding hills and along the water. From the British garrison across the river at Verplanck and the enemy ships nearby, shouts of joy answered in the mistaken belief British forces had successfully repulsed the attack.

Though still dizzy, Wayne had enough presence of mind to issue crucial orders. “Get those cannons loaded, damn it, and fire them at the ships and Fort Lafayette.”

The British artillery officer, a short, foppish captain, was brought before Hull.

“Give us the keys to the powder magazine,” Hull demanded.

“I only take orders from Colonel Johnson,” the man replied.

“Colonel Johnson is no longer in charge here,” Hull snapped. “He has obviously been superseded.”

The captain remained silent and sullen.

“Hand over the keys now,” Hull said, “or I will have you shot.”

At last the captain reached in a coat pocket and produced the keys. Within minutes the cannons at Stony Point were loaded, aimed, and discharged. Now the news of the battle’s actual outcome reached the enemy on the river. Without any return fire, the English warships, rapidly weighing anchor, slipped away downstream.

Minutes later, one of Hull’s lieutenants stopped him at the summit just before Matthew came up behind them and waited. The lieutenant, obviously upset, started rambling on.

“Sir, had to do something I deeply regret. But I followed orders. I swear I did.”

“What is it?” asked Hull, alarmed.

“I had to kill one of my own men,” he cried. “As we were moving up the hill, the man left his station and loaded a musket. I ordered him to get back to his position. But he refused saying, ‘I don’t understand fighting without firing.’ At that point I had no choice, so I ran him through with my spear.”

“I know how painful a duty it was.” Hull grabbed him by the shoulder. “But it had to be done. Our victory was assured, and the lives of many brave men were spared.”

“Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Alas, I’m truly sorry.”

“I understand. Did our questionable captain fight bravely?”

“Yes, sir, he set a marvelous example.” The lieutenant brightened then saluted. “I beg leave to attend to other duties.”

Returning his salute, Hull looked back at Matthew and smiled. “I trust you fared well?”

“Of course.” Matthew grinned. “It proved to be the most exhilarating experience of my life.”

“Any wounds? Lieutenant, even you must have a few scratches.”

“Not a one, I was fortunate, and Colonel Butler is all right too. What about

you?”

“A bullet hole in my hat and another in my boot. And every muscle and bone throbs. My body is nothing but a wrecked hulk.”

“If you have another party like this, don’t forget to invite me. It was much better than defending Fort Montgomery.”

“Something about winning, Matthew. Never, ever underrate it.”

In the early morning hours, Lieutenant Colonel Johnson remained a prisoner in his tent where three American officers had gathered. Defeat weighted heavily on him – he sat, bent over on the edge of a cot, head buried in both hands. In the Englishman’s brain whirled concerns about career and reputation. Before last night, he had an unblemished record. This stunning loss of a major post at the hands of a reputedly ill-equipped and poorly trained rabble tarnished it.

Hull had just entered the tent when one of the American officers said, “The British garrison was certainly surprised.”

This remark set Johnson off. “Surprised, sir? We were hardly surprised. Don’t do us such an injustice. At our stations, under arms and in full uniform, we fired on you before your troops crossed the water. Surely, we knew you were coming.”

“Yes, I understood that,” the American officer said. “I didn’t mean it quite the way it sounded.”

“And what’s more, by Jove,” Johnson said, “we kept up a continuous rate of fire until your forces overwhelmed us, and only then did we surrender.”

“Yes, of course. Please forgive my overzealousness.”

“Trouble was the fortifications were never completed, and they were too extensive for our numbers. My conscience is clear. I am perfectly satisfied my men did the best they could.”

Rationalizations had evidently taken hold, observed Hull. Anything plausible must be used to explain away defeat. Perhaps the British commander had not been at fault, but in his mind pride and reputation brushed aside any question of personal blame. All the same the timing, direction and tactics of the American assault had indeed surprised the British garrison. And this surprise became crucial to the outcome.

The next day, an exuberant Washington visited the victorious troops. As he shook hands with each officer, his face glowed with satisfaction.

“Well done,” he kept saying. “Magnificent.”

Washington inspected every portion of the fortifications retracing with care the routes taken by the two columns that climbed the promontory, mounted the parapets and forced entry. “How, pray tell, did you overcome these obstacles with such small losses?”

His men were unable to explain it.

“Credit must go to Providence as your shield and protector amid so much peril,” he concluded.

At Stony Point the fledgling Continental Army had gone head-to-head against Britain’s best troops and beaten them. They had seized sizable quantities of military supplies and artillery, killed or captured about six hundred enemy soldiers and forced a change in its strategy. In the grand scope of events, this may have been a small accomplishment. Yet the triumph definitely marred British military’s self-image and boosted American morale at a critical juncture. Though a brief episode, the rebels hoped it might be a harbinger of things to come.

CHAPTER XVIII - TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

On the sloop sailing to New York City, the British questioned Luke once then again at British headquarters in Manhattan. At all times, he clung to the same story. As a foreign physician practicing in Westchester, he had been visiting medical colleagues in New Haven to discuss new treatments for smallpox and gout. Returning from these consultations, he had accidentally gotten caught in the crossfire between the two sides. His name, Luke confessed, was Dr. Antonio Torres. For effect he slipped Spanish words and expressions into speech patterns with an appropriate accent.

The captain of the sloop greeted Luke’s tale with skepticism. “Upon my word, Doctor, that is quite interesting, but the sentry who captured you claims you killed two soldiers and blew up a pair of wagons filled with gunpowder. Now, that’s hardly the act of an innocent bystander accidentally caught in the thick of battle.”

“Mi Dios, he must have been confused in the darkness and mistaken me for someone else,” Luke proclaimed.

“I’ll let the higher authorities sort this out. In the meantime, Mr. Torres, you will remain our prisoner.”

“If there are any sick or wounded on board, I will gladly treat them, senor.”

“I say, that’s kind of you, sir. We do have some soldiers on board who are badly hurt. I would be grateful for any help.”

During the two-day trip, Luke tended ten British soldiers. Removing pieces of lead from bodies, cleaning and bandaging wounds with fresh linens, the physician diligently patched the men up. When the word spread among the crew, five ailing sailors sought Luke out, and he treated them as well. In his spare time he gave whatever comfort he could to the American prisoners on the ship.

Thankful, the captain made sure he was well fed, then went one step further. In the only official papers that accompanied each captured rebel, he praised Luke’s medical aid, omitting any charges he had killed British soldiers or blown up any wagons. So when the authorities interrogated Luke in Manhattan, no document contradicted his version of events. Still, he was detained in a local jail for a few weeks.

By that time, reports of a new conflict between Spain and Britain had reached New York. His assumed identity sealed Luke’s fate for the time being, and officials at British headquarters decided not to let him go. Instead poised to make other arrangements, they interrogated him once more.

“Confess what you were actually doing in the New Haven battle, Torres, if that is your real name!” exhorted the English infantry captain in mocking tones.

“Nothing much, just returning from the office of a colleague to my temporary lodging near the waterfront,” Luke said, his face calm and composed.

“Highly suspicious, I dare say. A battle was going on, and you merely traipsed through the area to go home,” remarked a major in the dragoons. “If you were innocent, you would have avoided the fighting at all costs.”

“It stretches the imagination that in July a Spaniard innocently walks through a British war zone, and in August his country declares war on Britain,” declared the captain. “You’ve been a Spanish agent all along, haven’t you?”

“No, senor, never,” Luke insisted. “As I told you at our earlier meeting, I’ve been estranged from my homeland for many years, living in London, Paris, northern Italy and parts of Bavaria. I am a Spaniard no more. I am European.” Tallmadge’s ploy to make him Spanish now seemed destined to be his undoing.

“This is a waste of time,” the major bawled. “Two months on the Jersey should do much to loosen your tongue and force you to cough up the truth.”

Early the next morning, after a breakfast of hot tea and buttered hard bread in his cell, Luke was bound and taken under guard to a wagon.

Before he left, one of the Tory jailers said, “I feel sorry for ya, Doc.” The man had many friends on both sides. “The Jersey’s a death trap. Hope ya get out of there damn quick.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Luke replied. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll survive.”

They shook hands.

The humidity and heat of that August day grew far worse as the horse-drawn

wagon conveyed Luke to a wharf at the southern tip of Manhattan. He was put in a longboat and rowed out to where the East River converged with the Hudson, just off Brooklyn Heights. The smell of salt water laced the stifling air. In the thick haze, a ship grew larger and more menacing with each pull of the oars. Having gun ports for fifty cannons, the Jersey, a decommissioned frigate, was now serving as a prison for rebels. Anchored fore and aft by sets of dual chains, the huge hulk swayed slightly in the gentle swells of the two rivers’ confluence.

Instead of the usual three, the ship had only a single mast, and without yardarms, spars, lines or sails flaunted her nakedness. At mid-ship both port and starboard, gangplanks stretched from the main deck down to small floating platforms, each separately moored to the bottom. Shorn of any means of movement, the desolate Jersey floated, a horrifying way station for forgotten souls.

Luke dug deep for his courage. He knew that nothing he had experienced before would compare to what he faced now. Earlier captivity had been mere inconveniences, rather than perilous. On the sloop from New Haven, he was free to tend patients and often took meals with the ships’ officers. Even in Manhattan, enough food had been supplied for his upkeep, with jailers slipping him a tankard of ale now then.

Existence was about to change, and for the worse. Once Luke climbed the long gangplank to the Jersey’s deck, he would venture into a realm, devoid of normal human considerations. As a doctor and soldier, he had witnessed human suffering, and was not intimidated by misery or death, but the moment he stepped aboard that ship, he felt a sharp stab of fear. The rap on his head from those highwaymen would be child’s play in comparison to the terrible mistreatment and neglect he might soon undergo.

Once the paperwork for his transfer was turned over to the guards on the ship, a wiry blacksmith sporting a scraggly red beard fitted Luke for chains to bind his hands and ankles. A British marine pushed and dragged the manacled Luke

below deck to a small cubicle, formerly the station of a twenty-four pounder. The marine fastened Luke’s ankle chains to a closed iron hook driven into the base of a wooden bulkhead. Then he kicked Luke in the groin as a parting shot. Luke doubled-over in pain, but he was grateful the kick was all the guard had meted out. Another prisoner lay nearby, stretched out beside him, looking pale and weak.

It took Luke time to adjust to the special conditions on the Jersey. His eyes had difficulties focusing in the semi-light of the cubicle during the daytime and pitch black of night. The foul odors, which drenched the whole ship, overwhelmed one’s sense of smell. To a trained physician, the sources were apparent – unwashed bodies, urine, defecation, vomit, disease and death. The sanitary conditions on board were barbaric, medical treatment non-existent, and the disposal of corpses, a tortuously slow process. The summer’s lack of cleansing breezes and a torrid humidity merely made life worse.

The cries and screams of men in agony assaulted Luke’s ears at all hours. The harsh orders from the officers to their men then to the prisoners were laden with hostility, even desperation. The two rivers offered little relief; the monotonous lapping on the ship’s hull in hot, sultry weather and a fiercer chop on stormier days lent more tedium to the imprisonment.

“We’re treated worse than dogs here,” cried Luke’s middle-aged cellmate in a startling introduction that first morning. “My name is Elijah Strong. What might yours be?” Bathed in sweat, he twisted his body around, still restrained by chains.

“Antonio Torres,” gasped Luke, dizzy and nauseous from the heat, humidity and the ship’s swaying motions.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. You sure got yourself into a pretty pickle.”

“I understand that, senor.” Luke was beginning to feel seasick.

“What nationality are you, anyway?” Strong asked.

“I am Spanish.”

“Ah, there are few Spaniards in this part of the country, and none on Long Island, where I am from. How were you captured?”

“In the British raid on New Haven. I was accidentally caught in middle of the battle. What town are you from on Long Island?”

“Setauket, on the north shore.” This meant something to Luke. “But why are you here? You are no soldier, are you?”

“Only in my dreams,” Strong observed. “They claim I’ve been consorting with the enemy and suspect me of spying but have no proof.”

“Are you guilty of what they charge?”

“Tis not true,” Strong said, “but I know things. Yes, I am a patriot, and proud of

it. What about you?”

“Just a plain country doctor, aiding the sick and infirmed.”

“That’s exactly what we need here, but the British will not let you practice your trade on this ship. They want us to die quickly without pulling the trigger themselves. If the brutality here doesn’t crush us, then what they give us to eat and drink indeed will. Hard tack with maggots, dark horrid mixtures ing for soup and stew with rotten scraps of meat and bone are all we get. The water is often fouled with salt or worse.”

“Naturally, all this hastens the sickness and disease already on board,” Luke emphasized.

Over the next few hours, he yanked on chains, but failed to break free, now resigned to the confinement. Relying on native toughness, he hardened himself to the dismal surroundings. In daylight he would converse with Strong, dream about his wife, Renee, or his mountain village to block out the grim reality. Sometimes he rationalized his predicament as the consequence of a perverse form of equity. Had he not caused the British much pain and anguish? He had destroyed their ships and wagons, killed or injured countless soldiers and sailors. By a quirk of fate, they had captured him, for the time being it was his turn to suffer – simply the fortunes of war.

Weeks drifted by. Luke could feel his strength and energy draining away. When at last he grew to trust his fellow prisoner, he asked about Ben Tallmadge, who originally hailed from Strong’s hometown.

“Of course, I know him.” The lanky, big-boned tradesman said, awkwardly stretching both legs in the restricted space. “His father was the minister of the Congregational church. But how are you acquainted with him?”

“We go back many years together. He’s a good fellow,” Luke said.

A deep friendship blossomed between the two men. Strong, who had served as a local justice of the peace, took a paternal interest in Luke. Strong’s enterprising and persistent wife, Anna managed to smuggle food to him at odd intervals, and he shared it with Luke. Through Tory relatives, she was constantly exerting family influence to obtain her husband’s release.

Like Luke, she too acted as a spy. Part of Robert Townsend’s network, she signaled cohorts in code on a clothesline with her laundry to report local conditions. In their house she presided over clandestine meetings between Tallmadge and others. Luke knew nothing of this, but her husband was fully aware of these activities.

News that his family, driven from their Long Island home, were refugees in Connecticut upset Ben Tallmadge, at present ensconced in Betsy Cromwell’s parlor. To calm himself, he reflected on more pleasant thoughts – the belles from Wethersfield and that infatuating young lady at the Wadsworth dinner party last month in Hartford. The constant tick-tock of the brass grandfather clock, wrapped in dark cherry wood, lulled him. Still he fidgeted, growing more and more impatient with Betsy’s tardiness. Alas, unable to tolerate further delay, he got up to leave, only to retrace his steps when he reached the door. The realization no other choice existed compelled the spymaster to sit on the sofa again.

With Betsy Cromwell almost everything was done for effect and with a purpose.

She intentionally kept men waiting to weaken their resolve and self-esteem. This would increase her control over them. She had a knack for making appearances at just the right moment as if she had calculated the exact extent of a man’s endurance and came to his rescue in the nick of time. How glad Tallmadge would be to see her and how beautiful she would look saving him, like a guardian angel, from further tedium, frustration or anger. She created a crisis, resolved it, then took all the credit for having saved the day. A brilliant feminine tactic. And why shouldn’t she, especially with the likes of Tallmadge? No romance was involved, only risk and peril. Through him she willingly served her country without compensation or reward. If ever caught, her life and fortune would be sacrificed. Such an unpleasant thought!

“What kept you so long?” Tallmadge asked testily as Betsy sashayed into the parlor.

“It is a woman’s prerogative to be late for no particular reason.” She sat and fluttered a fan in the hot air.

“My dear lady, I’m here on important business. “This is not a social call. We are fighting a war for our very existence as a nation.”

“Please, I have already heard enough patriotic dribble to last several lifetimes. Beware, walls have ears. Just get to the point and please be quiet about it.”

“All right, then. Our sources report the British have captured Dr. Torres.”

She stiffened. “When and where?” she asked, instantly forgetting the friction between them. “The poor man.”

“Early July, in New Haven. Worse yet, he is trapped on the Jersey.”

“God help him! That is a terrible hell hole, so I am told.”

“We have to free him. I pray it can be done quickly lest he suffer any physical harm or death.” He swore, gritting his teeth.

“Agreed and by all means possible.”

“Can you arrange it through your s? I implore you to act on his behalf.”

“Yes, I believe so. But I’m uncertain if I can act fast enough.”

Betsy and Tallmadge grew pale. They both knew what she meant.

Renee had donned the prettiest nightgown in the hope of inducing Clayton to honor her request without delay. A sliver of light filtered thought the crack of the bedroom door when she softly knocked, then entered without waiting for an invitation. For the first time she had made the journey from her room to his. On the few occasions they shared the same bedroom at night, her husband had approached her.

In bed Clayton looked up from the official papers he was reading by candlelight.

He held an important position as an aide de camp to a General at British headquarters. “My dear, this is quite a surprise,” he said. Eyes brightened, and a slight smile appeared.

Ignoring his remark, she replied nervously, “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

“All right, then.” His voice mirrored curiosity. “What do you want?”

“You have to promise first you’ll do it for me,” she whispered coyly.

“Now, how can I do that if I’m ignorant of your heart’s desire?”

“Clayton, please say you will,” she pleaded, child-like.

“I cannot without knowing your request beforehand. Talented as I am, I still don’t read minds.” He loved to toy with her, first elevating, then dashing her hopes.

“Indeed.” She fussed with the sleeve of her nightgown. “Betsy Cromwell’s doctor has mistakenly been taken prisoner and placed on that awful prison ship, the Jersey. She wants you to secure his release. Please, Clayton, it’s important to her, and she’s such a dear friend.”

Clayton’s face hardened. “How did it happen, my dear?”

“It was in New Haven during the British raid. That’s all I know.”

A smiled uncurled on his face. “Come sit by me on the bed,” he proposed, lightly patting the spot where he wanted her. “A little kindness from you could go a long way.” She failed to stir.

Although he had not committed himself, Renee realized her husband was seeking advance payment for her request. Over the years, she had recognized a pattern in his conduct. He had a tendency to negotiate nearly everything in his non-military life. When someone wanted anything, he required something else in return, even from her. Having successfully avoided any intimacy with him for months, she now must decide whether to satisfy him.

At this juncture in her marriage, she was surely not naive. Before entering the room, she expected him to make demands. Still she hoped he might be too tired or too busy with incessant paperwork to carry them out. While hating the thought of any with him, she has been prepared to make the sacrifice for Luke’s sake. Not that Renee would do anything of which she should be ashamed. Heaven forbid. After all this man, despite a lack of feeling for him, was still her lawful husband. In society’s judgment he had certain conjugal rights, and she, in turn, was obligated to him in specific ways. For the last year or so, she had managed to avoid these obligations, he enmeshed in affairs. Now she needed him to free Luke, whatever the risks.

“Why are you hesitating?” he asked. “I am your husband, or have you forgotten?” Perhaps he had read her mind. At odd times, he would chide her about such failures.

“Do I have your promise? Will you obtain his release? I know you can arrange it at headquarters if you wish. You’ve done things like this for others before.”

“All right,” he said in an exasperated tone. “What’s his name?”

“Dr. Antonio Torres.”

He wrote the name down with a quill pen on a set of papers. “Now, please come here.”

Hesitantly, she moved toward the bed and sat on the edge, her feet still touching the floor, unable to fully commit herself. In the soft candlelight, with long blond hair flowing over bare shoulders, Renee’s beauty excited Clayton. As he reached for her, she edged along the bed beyond his grasp.

“What’s the matter with you?” he cried in frustration.

“Are you really going to get him out?” she asked. Doubts clouded her mind. “Somehow I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, yes, I will take care of it,” he replied impatiently. “You can depend on it.”

“I sincerely hope I can trust you this time.” She crossed fingers behind her back to strengthen the wish.

Renee knew this man all too well. Having lied before to induce her to act in ways he wanted or to do favors for him, she understood the risk of relying on him or his promises, but what choice did she have? Stories about the Jersey drove her compliance for Luke’s sake, a matter of life and death, perhaps at this very instant. That fear eliminated any doubt.

Renee cautiously moved back toward Clayton. He grabbed her neck, roughly pulled her to him, then hungrily kissed her cheeks and lips. Initially she resisted, holding him at bay with her arms, but at last yielding, to a bear-like embrace. Devoid of tenderness, such physical advances represented hostile, aggressive acts. Convinced his animal charm would overcome her reluctance, Clayton sneered in arrogance.

When he abruptly ripped the nightgown from shoulders to waist, she remained ive. Bare-breasted and voluptuous, Renee posed demurely, head bowed, as if a great artist were about to paint her portrait, capturing a delicate and vulnerable sensuality in the dim light and wispy shadows that caressed the lovely body. Disturbing this serenity lurched the beast, groping hands and lustful mouth consuming beauty. And the artist, if still at work, would have depicted a different scene, one of rape and pillage.

Yet it was not rape. Even though she failed to participate actively, Renee consented just by putting herself in this situation with full knowledge of what was expected and by allowing it to happen without protest. In her mind she granted him permission to take her, should he so desire, but she would make no effort to enhance his pleasure. If a victim, she had consciously chosen that role. Innocence, should it exist at all, shone in her image, not in any reality.

Clayton tore the nightgown from his wife’s narrow waist over rounded hips and forcefully pushed her down on the bed, she lying fully naked on her back. As if

mounting a horse, he climbed on top of her, his long nightshirt hastily stripped off. Eyes closed, muscles tense, she did not stir. Gruffly, he leaned forward to ram her. The pain she endured at first seared her insides. She gritted teeth under the crushing weight. He kissed her hard on the lips, then sought to force his tongue into her closed mouth, the scoundrel’s hot breath hissed on her neck. Despite a struggle to stay still, his gyrations alone rocked her body back and forth. Mentally numb, she blocked out all physical feelings. The assault went on longer than she anticipated and only ceased when he was satisfied.

The light of the mid-day sun momentarily blinded Luke and Elijah as they were pulled on deck by chains. The ship’s prisoners gathered under the watchful guard of British marines, so a strange form of attendance could be taken. Not the kind of roll call that reflected who was present or absent. For prisoners and jailers alike, it was assumed no one ever actually escaped from the Jersey. Rather, the officer-in-charge judged who was alive or dead. By their own or someone else’s power, every prisoner was present, but not necessarily in the same physical condition. Most inmates were barely standing, several knelt, and a few were sprawled on the deck face down, either unconscious or dead. Muffled, agonized grunts were heard when names were called, then occasional silence.

Beside Luke, a prisoner slumped to his knees after answering. A redcoat strutted over and poked him with a bayonet, drawing blood from the emaciated body in an attempt to force him up. To protect the man from further punishment, Luke moved to block another bayonet thrust and entangled the musket in his chains. For this deed, he became the next object of abuse. Forcibly stripped to the waist, the broad-shouldered physician was tied to the mast upon orders of a thin, surly officer named Lieutenant Becker.

Face against Luke’s right ear, he shouted, “Pray, what possessed you to interfere with a British soldier in the execution of his duties?” Wincing, Luke kept silent. “Nothing to say for yourself?” demanded Becker. Grimacing with anger, he threatened, “I will teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. Get me the cat-o-ninetails.”

One marine hurriedly brought him a whip with numerous knotted lashes. Becker paced back and forth in front of Luke, brandishing the instrument of torture.

“Crawford,” Becker cried. “Front and center!”

“Yes, sir,” came Crawford’s reply as the burly, red-faced marine hastened over, saluted and stood at attention.

“Give this man a hundred lashes to show him the penalty for rebellion and officious interference. Lay it on rough.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Crawford, grinning broadly.

A musket put on the deck, the big marine, grabbing the whip, stepped behind Luke. To measure the distance to the target, Crawford unfolded the whip along the planks. A powerful arm swiftly yanked it back, twirled it over his head several times and snapped it downward against Luke’s bare back. The cracking sound echoed through the ship’s timbers. The slashing triggered sharp pains through a thousand nerve endings in Luke’s flesh. Under his breath the doctor stifled a curse.

Taut and tense, he braced himself against the torment. Again and again, the whip cracked and stung the skin on his back. The Indian flinched. With the lashes, dark, red stripes sprouted, and a grueling agony shook him. Half way through, Crawford paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his forehead with a crimson handkerchief. Luke clung to the mast, semi-conscious in hope the pause

spelled an end to the beating. Dazed, he had lost count. Just as quickly as it had ceased, the whipping began again. After enduring ten more strokes, Luke, already in a weakened state, ed out. During the ordeal he uttered not a sound.

At the end, the marines cut the Indian down from the mast, hauled him to his cell and dumped him on the floor. Left to die, he lay unconscious, sprawled out on his stomach. Elijah did what he could to nurse him. With strips of soiled linen and a meager amount of hoarded water, he cleansed and bathed his wounded back. Over the next few days, Luke drifted in and out of consciousness, his misery eased slightly when the cool autumn breezes wound their way through the ship.

At dawn one morning, a gnawing sensation at the tip of one foot woke Luke. He glanced down the full length of his leg. In the semi-darkness of the cubicle, a large rat sought nourishment from a shoe. He kicked the animal, and it scampered away. Even this minimal effort renewed the sharp pains in the lacerated back.

The noise roused Elijah. “How do you feel?” he asked, still tired.

“Not well at all,” Luke agonized, wrung out from yet another night filled with physical torment and interrupted sleep. He had grown stiff and sore.

“I’m getting out of here today. They told me last night when you were asleep.”

“That’s good news, said Luke sincerely. “But I’ll miss you. There will be no one to talk to? You’ve been a great friend.”

“My wife’s efforts seem to have finally paid off. I leave at noon. Keep the remaining supplies, and we will smuggle more to you. Now, are there any messages I can deliver and to whom?”

“Just tell Ben Tallmadge I am here. He will know what to do.”

Despite the promises, Renee’s husband had done nothing on Luke’s behalf. After questioning Clayton during the next few days, she realized he had played her for a fool. He even began laughing about it to her face. Though enraged, she curbed her tongue and plotted. Late that afternoon Mrs. Lancaster wrote a note to Betsy Cromwell, summoned a trusted servant and sent him on horseback to the Cromwell house. With the help of a maid, she secretly packed her valuables and clothes, then had them loaded into two wagons in the barn.

Late that night after her husband went to bed, she seized the sword, which Clayton always left in the entryway and strode into the large parlor. As a young girl playing the tomboy, she had often wielded her brother’s sword. Amused, Paul encouraged his sister, teaching her the basics. In the living room, Clayton’s saber in her hand, she practiced old moves. They all came back as if it were only yesterday. In a quick climb up the stairs with the sword, she retired to her bedroom.

Just before dawn she rose, put on a riding habit, and picked up the weapon. An ear to Clayton’s bedroom door, she heard snoring. No light shone in the room as she quietly entered, he still asleep in bed. At the headboard, holding the sword over him, she sliced downward along his face. He awoke, bleeding and dazed.

“What is happening? Who’s there?” he stammered, feeling the facial cut on his

face and the oozing blood. Just then the light from the rising sun seeped into the bedroom to expose Renee, the sword raised, at the foot of the bed.

“What have you done?” Still groggy, he yelled more in fear than anger.

“I’ve given you a memento to me by. I am leaving you forever. Do you understand? Forever!” she exclaimed in both relief and disgust.

“Why did you cut my face? You must be insane.”

“Are you just plain stupid, or do you simply presume stupidity in others?”

“This is insufferable, you bitch!” One hand over the wound, blood still dripping. He looked around for something to throw, a vase on the nightstand caught his eye. He flung it, but his aim was off; the crashing sound against the far wall recorded the miss. Frustrated and angry, he reached for the two pillows on the bed and hurled them at Renee. He intended to distract her long enough for an assault. Yet she was prepared. Twirling the saber overhead with dexterity, she sliced both pillows in half.

A gentle cascade of chicken feathers floated gracefully from the ceiling. For a moment the illusion of a peaceful snowfall masked hostilities in the emerging daylight. Renee’s forceful response discouraged her husband, who slumped down on the bed in shock. Another swing of the saber lopped off the tops of two wooden posts at the foot of the bed to reinforce her intentions.

“Don’t you dare follow me!” she cried out. “Next time, you’ll get more than a scratch. , s and liars will always be punished.”

In a quick pivot, Renee left the room, slammed the door behind her and locked him in with the key from a pants’ pocket. As she ran through the house, the blonde knocked over furniture behind to delay any pursuit. She hurried to the barn, where two servants waited in the wagons, and mounted a horse. As a final act of defiance, she took the reins of her husband’s stallion, leading it away. The small caravan set a brisk pace for the Cromwell mansion.

Clayton’s meanness had caused her to do it. On a more profound level, years of pent-up resentment, mixed with calculated reason, pushed her over the precipice. If reason alone had been the sole motivator, she would not feel this upset for it would have exerted a more calming effect. Reason and emotion together struck the defining blow. Though bewildered, she meant to put it all behind, refusing to let anything distract her, determined to seek a better future, bent on ridding herself of an awful husband.

Early that same morning, Betsy Cromwell had climbed into a covered carriage— an elaborate and comfortable conveyance—and instructed the driver to take her to British headquarters in lower Manhattan. Once there, she nervously asked for General William Erskine, a close friend and frequent escort. There was no certainty he would grant her request. Without delay she was ushered into his office.

He stood and greeted her cordially. “Madam, what a pleasant surprise to see you.”

“Good morning, Harry,” she said brightly. “I hope you’re well today.”

“Yes, yes indeed,” he enthusiastically answered. “And with you here, I feel even better, of course.” He kissed her extended hand.

“While I enjoy the pleasure of your company, General,” she declared, shifting to a formal tone, “I must tell you I am here on important business.”

“What is it, my dear?” Erskine asked, his voice full of concern. “Please be seated.”

“I am about to convert to the rebel cause,” she proclaimed proudly as she sat on the edge of a chair in front of the desk, back ramrod straight.

“What, what did you say?” he sputtered in utter disbelief, eyes bulging.

“I said I am about to convert to the rebel cause,” she repeated quietly.

“But why?” Surely you jest, Madam. Come, come, isn’t that it!”

“I am quite serious,” she asserted. “I can think of nothing else to do.”

“What has happened to change your mind and your loyalty?” he inquired, deeply upset. “Until now you have been such an ardent er of the king.”

“Your people have seized my personal physician,” she cried, her voice rising sharply. “And I’ll never be able to replace him.”

“What? There must be some mistake. England is a civilized nation, we don’t harass innocent civilians.”

“That is exactly what I thought, at first. But then they had the temerity to imprison him on that awful ship, the Jersey.”

“A dreadful state of affairs. This is unthinkable. But what did he do, pray tell?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” Betsy tapped her foot on the floor nervously. “He happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. New Haven, to be exact, when your overeager troops raided that poor town. God, do I hate this war. It is so horrible, so terribly destructive. All those fine strapping young men, and all that lovely property damaged.”

“What can I do to make amends?” he pleaded. “The king’s party desperately wants you back, and you know how I feel about you.” Standing up, Erskine walked around to the front of the desk and took both her hands in his.

“Have him released immediately,” she suggested in her most feminine tone of voice. “His name is Dr. Antonio Torres.” If the circumstances were different, she might have loved this Englishman. Sadly the war thwarted her feelings.

“Consider it done, my dear,” he happily replied. “Now when can we have dinner together?” He gave her a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Soon, General, soon. I will send my servant with a note. Thank you so much for your kindness. Oh, just one more thing, I almost forgot. A small favor—for a friend.”

“Of course. You know I am always your most humble and obedient servant.” His ardor for her went unrestrained.

For a time Luke thought he was dreaming. A mere week after Judge Strong’s release, he himself was unchained, brought up on deck, and rowed to Manhattan. At the dock a coach and driver, flanked by two British soldiers on horseback, were waiting for him. In the coach a set of clean clothes hung. With the driver’s help, he painfully put them on after shedding his dirty rags.

Within an hour the coach and horsemen pulled up in front of the Cromwell mansion, and Luke was escorted to the front door. Inside, though shocked at his gauntness, Betsy and Renee greeted him warmly. After being bathed and fed by the servants, he went to bed. Exhausted, still sore from the beating, he slept fitfully through the night to awake late the next morning.

“I was afraid I would miss you,” Renee cried as she entered the bedroom, carrying a tray filled with buttered brown bread, hot oatmeal and black coffee. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” he answered, again awed by her beauty, long blond hair framing a soft, expressive face and inviting smile. His eyes had been deprived of such

delights for so long.

She set the tray down on the nightstand next to the bed. “What was it like on that ship?” Renee asked. Stories of prison atrocities had poisoned her imagination — the horrible British had tortured him. How could her adopted people be so cruel?

“Awful, you really don’t want to know,” he related. “But how did I get out?”

“It was Betsy’s doing. She pulled strings for you at the top. I tried but failed,” she itted sadly. Her inability to relieve his agony gnawed at her.

“I’m pleased you did whatever you could for me. Thank you. Ouch, aha, I still ache,” he lamented as he tried to sit up in bed.

“Show me your back.” Renee urged nervously, wanting to confront the worst head on.

“Surely it is not a pretty sight,” he warned her.

“Let me be the judge of that.” She grew more insistent.

Removing the white nightshirt, he winced at the pain, then turned his back. The wounds made her grasp. She somehow managed to stay on her feet though it was enough to cause her to faint.

“I’ll get warm water and salve,” she said bravely. “You’re right. It is an unsightly mess. I hope it’ll heal properly.”

While she was gone, Luke, endlessly hungry, gobbled down the breakfast on the tray. Ten minutes later, Renee washed and dried his back, before gently applying a soothing oil.

“That feels so good,” he uttered wistfully. Her touch stimulated him.

“I have something to tell you.” She hesitated. “I’ve left my husband for good.” Relief and satisfaction blended in her tone.

“What?” Luke twisted his head. “I am sorry to hear that,” he struggled to prop himself up. “Why did you? Were you ill-treated?”

“It’s a very long story. He was indeed a knave, but I prefer not to discuss it now. There is so little time. Betsy feels I must leave the City immediately. Otherwise, he will make trouble.”

“Where will you go?” Luke looked worried. From deep inside old feelings for her rose to the surface.

“In the long run to my parents,” she replied, “but I’ll visit some of Betsy’s friends in Westchester beforehand. She has arranged everything: a to get me out of Manhattan, signed by General Erskine, servants as guides, helpers and

protectors, a place to stay, papers and a troop escort. She is truly amazing. What a good and dear friend!”

“Let me go with you.” He sought to rise from the bed.

“No, you cannot,” Renee cautioned as she restrained him. Weak and still in awful pain, he sank back into the mattress. “You’re not well enough. Betsy feels you should stay here until you’ve fully recovered, and I agree.”

“You always seem to be leaving me,” he groaned, unable to argue the point or even to move much. “We’re never together in the same place for very long.”

“I know. It troubles me too,” she said glumly, planting a tender kiss on the back of his neck to signify her devotion. “I must go now and quickly. But I promise we’ll meet again soon.”

Renee rose from the bed and wiped her hands on a towel. At the door she paused, momentarily unsure whether to depart. When he turned to look up at her, she slipped through the open doorway and waved. “Farewell, Luke.”

Before he had a chance to answer, she was gone.

Running down the long staircase, she nearly tripped. Tears misted eyes and trickled down cheeks. How she hated to abandon Luke this way, but she had little choice. Clayton’s wrath could descend upon her at any moment if she remained. She must protect herself, Betsy had strongly advised. Luke and she

could see each other later in the American zone without peril.

Within Renee feelings of joy intermingled with sadness. She was beginning a new life; behind her a failed marriage had dissolved in all its frustrations and resentments. At last the anguish would end. Because of her sense of adventure, she would later welcome other experiences and people. Now her emotions were a jumble. Badly mauled in that marriage, she became vulnerable and guarded. An earlier love for Luke caused her to lower any surrounding walls and to renew deep affections for him. Yet even these emotions needed sorting out. Time together in the months ahead, she was convinced, would cure everything.

CHAPTER XIX – RETRIBUTION

For the next several weeks, Luke allowed himself to be indulged. Dutifully attended by Betsy’s servants, he was fed, cared for and pampered. After sleeping long hours, he would often relax on the veranda during the day to absorb the rays of the autumn sun as boats sailed by on the East River. Better treatment for him could not be prescribed. In a matter of a few days, his wounds had almost healed, and a week’s more rest brought old strength and stamina back. Throughout the convalescence, Betsy acted the perfect hostess and a most amiable companion.

“I keep applying those strange concoctions to my face,” she told him. “They seem to work. The pastiness is gone, and my wrinkles are fading. At the outset my friends told me in no uncertain it was ridiculous to apply your remedies. Now they all want the formulae.”

“I thought there was something more youthful about you,” he said, with a sly grin “But I had trouble identifying it.”

“How could you have forgotten your own prescriptions?” Head tilted, her eyebrows rose.

“Ah, when you have treated so many patients, then have to contend with this war, it is easy to suffer memory lapses.”

“I will excuse you just this once,” she proclaimed, as if in the guise of a reigning queen pardoning him from the executioner’s axe. “Henceforth my personal

physician must my ailments and treatments. In point of fact, I dub myself your number one patient.”

“Of course, you are. I am highly honored, and I’ll always be indebted for all you have done for me. I owe you my life. How can I ever repay you? But despite your kindness, I must leave in a few days.”

“So soon?” she asked. “Are you sure you are up to it? You had such a terrible ordeal.”

“I feel healthy enough,” he claimed. “Perhaps you should write up your reports on our English friends: troop dispositions, shipping and anything else you’ve learned. I’ll be seeing Tallmadge when I get back to Westchester.”

“It’ll be ready shortly. Will you be seeing Renee too?”

“Perhaps.” Doubts and desires whirled inside him.

“She seems so very fond of you—actually it goes much deeper than that. She confided in me about your growing up together in New Paltz. How do you feel about her?”

“What a question.” The doctor shrugged in bewilderment. “Sometimes my ion for her grabs hold, and nothing else matters. At other times my wife and children fill my thoughts. It’s like being pulled in opposite directions by two powerful forces.”

“In time, you’ll straighten it out,” she reassured him. “Do not worry too much about it.”

Once back at the Sanctuary, Luke eased into the old routines. In his absence, Mrs. Ryan and Sergeant McDuffy had accomplished more than could be expected, tending to minor ailments, answering patient’s questions and promising the doctor’s return. But there were obvious limits to what they could do. In the beginning Luke’s workload was staggering. People lined up to see him, and he was busy from early morning to after sunset.

“So good to see ya, Doc!” declared an elderly woman in a black shawl whose arm had been broken. “Hear those lobsterbacks had ya locked up. We sure missed ya.” This and other expressions of concern touched Luke.

Before he had left for New Haven, the relationship between Mrs. Ryan and the Sergeant was formal and standoffish, even awkward, certainly on McDuffy’s part. Now things were plainly different. They were more than friendly with one another—he solicitous of her and her welfare and she catering to his every need, real or imaginary, with unabated energy. At first, astonished at this new state of affairs, Luke soon welcomed it like a proud father, often catching himself smiling at them in approval. Apparently they had an understanding that when the war was finally over, they would wed.

“Missy Cromwell told mi fetch ya, Docto!” the black male slave said, pacing the porch excitedly. His lathered horse was tied to a hitching post out front.

“What the devil is wrong?” a startled Luke asked. He had been back at the Sanctuary less than a week. “Is she sick?”

“No, Docto she ain’t ailin’, but she sure is anxious ta see ya quick-like.”

Within a half hour they were galloping on the road toward Manhattan. The sun was setting when they reached the Cromwell mansion, just in time for supper. Betsy insisted Luke eat first. Then they would talk.

Later in the library, she divulged, “I have some new information, and, I believe, it is very reliable.”

“What have you learned?” He was curious as to why she had summoned him on such short notice.

“The British appear to be planning to sabotage a critical installation of ours. It’s that Chain they’re after. The one across the Hudson at West Point.”

“Machin’s Chain!” he blurted out in disbelief. “No, they cannot be serious.”

“The information comes directly from the office of the Commander-in-chief, Sir Henry Clinton. My sources say the enemy aims to destroy it.”

“Did they tell you when?”

“Yes. The night of October 29th. They were very specific about that.”

“It is only ten days from now. Are they planning anything more?”

“Once the chain is removed, they’ll launch an attack on West Point, then move further up the river.”

The next day Luke rode north to the American camp at Croton. Barracks and tents lined the grounds. To the west the river flowed broadly. Upon his arrival, he discovered Ben Tallmadge was off on patrol along the Connecticut border, scouting for Cowboys, and might not be back for a week. So Luke decided to ride on to New Windsor and relay his news to Washington himself.

For the last few days Washington had been wrestling with the lack of money and supplies. On many occasions this situation drove him to the edge of despair. The wrangling between Congress and the states, plus a collective failure to provide for the fighting men, amounted to a national disgrace. However, his tact and patience extracted much more than anyone could rightfully expect from such a squabbling, parochial bunch.

“I understand you have been on leave, ” Washington said, when Luke was itted to the office. “Something about a pleasure cruise on that ship with a similar name to one of our states.”

Luke laughed. “With all due respect, sir, there was nothing pleasurable about it.”

“They treated you and our boys very badly, I hear.”

“The place was dreadful. Human beings should never have to suffer such misery. Let’s hope we treat our prisoners of war much better for the sake of our own humanity.”

“Our prisoners in Pennsylvania and Virginia are probably better fed and clothed than the troops of the Continental Army,” Washington said. “Have you news from down below? I know only something critical could bring you here so unexpectedly.”

“You’ve guessed right, sir. The British are planning to smash the Chain and assault West Point on October 29th.”

“No, they couldn’t be that foolish. It’s too strongly fortified now with more than enough men.”

“Well, we have it on good authority – from our top agent.”

Washington shook his head. “Is that fellow Clinton plain crazy or just diabolically clever? I’ll never understand him or his tactics.” He turned to Luke. “Thank you, Doctor.” He shook his hand.

Anne lingered in the kitchen preparing dinner for the family. Yesterday Matthew, having shot a large buck, dropped it on the doorstep, all skinned and drained. Naturally, she had invited him to dinner to share in the bounty from his sharpshooting. Careful not to overcook it, Anne basted a large haunch of venison that roasted on a spit in the huge fireplace. Below she was frying potatoes in an open

skillet on a grill and baking pumpkins in the ashes. The aroma was heavenly. Since her wedding she had become, at least in her own opinion, a good cook. During Luke’s tenure with the Army in Pennsylvania, she had learned other skills as well.

It all started when Matthew took the children and her on a tour of the KepplerDavidson glass factory. Seeing a good business opportunity with the prospects of war, Henri had purchased the operations of the New York Glass Company in New Windsor. With the demise of the Wistar factory in South Jersey and Stiegel’s plants in Pennsylvania, Keppler was able to hire their craftsmen. In the Northeast he soon controlled the domestic manufacture of glass, turning out windowpanes, bottles, glasses and bowls.

At the New Windsor plant, Anne witnessed the extensive fabrication process. Brick ovens heated sand, potash or soda and – in rare cases of clear glass – lead until the mixed ingredients reached a molten state. Men with blowpipes manipulated the molten material in bubble form, blowing and enlarging it. Others, shaping the hot material with special tools or in molds, fashioned and ornamented different items.

The tour of the glass factory sparked an idea. At a church tea, Anne had learned from a lady parishioner about a skilled potter in Balmville, the small village just north of Newburgh. In a recent visit Anne recognized what remarkable talent he possessed. Even though his designs and decorations were impressive, the clay had its drawbacks. He utilized earthenware – highly porous, soft, and typically glazed with scarce lead to make it waterproof.

Aware of her interests, Matthew reported to Anne a few weeks later the discovery of new clay deposits north along the river, similar to those found in South Amboy, New Jersey and Long Island, areas now closed off to trade due to the British occupation. Using this newly discovered clay, stoneware could be produced. Heated to much greater temperatures than earthenware, harder and

more dense, waterproof stoneware rarely chipped. Besides it could be glazed with readily available salt.

In her uncle’s grocery operations Anne had learned the fundamentals of running a business, instilling confidence to start the new venture. Henri had helped too by supplying her with workmen to build a pottery plant behind her cottage. Upon Anne’s request Matthew purchased the land where these new clay deposits lay while she hired the talented local potter as the foreman and had him employ other craftsmen.

A month later, pottery production began. Anne and nearly three-year-old Edmond watched closely as the first shipment of new clay arrived at their farm. A small mill, operated by hydro-power, processed the dry clay as it blended the substance with water and sand, making it moist and malleable. At the bottom of the mill, screens removed the clay’s impurities. The exertion of wheels, foot peddles and wooden tools, coupled with skilled hands, shaped the wet clay into crockery. When apt, the potters extruded ropes of clay from tubes, then cut and attached them as handles.

In wood-fired ovens, the pottery dried at low temperatures. Days later, workers removed the still brittle stoneware and washed them in a solution of water and fine black clay dredged from the river. After more drying, they were inserted in huge kilns, made of thick brick walls and covered with earth. Heated with vast amounts of wood to achieve consistently high temperatures, they baked another week. Midway through this process, the workmen opened the kilns’ tops and poured in bushels of rock salt. In the extreme heat, the salt vaporized and combined with the silicate in the pottery forming a smooth, glass-like surface.

In the beginning, mistakes cropped up because the workmen had not done anything on this scale before, and few had ever fashioned stoneware. Defective pieces had to be discarded. Through trial and error, Anne and the work crew persisted. At last the finished products seemed perfect. When the neighbors

clamored to purchase stoneware cups, bowls and jugs, the potential of the new enterprise became apparent. She exulted in this initial success. To her surprise, she relished having the workmen do her bidding and controlling things.

The absence of a husband forced Anne to become more practical and independent. She had to fend for herself and the children; no one else could carry that burden. For much of her prior life, others – father, mother, aunt and uncle, then Luke – had tended to her basic needs. The war altered that privileged existence; new circumstances, challenging in every respect, demanded selfreliance and personal initiative.

Anne wandered back to the kitchen hearth just before the venison and vegetables were done. Later around the dining room table, laden with pewter plates and goblets, silverware and bright red linen napkins, sat Matthew, Little Flower, her fiancé – Wild Horse, and the two children. Margaret, a young indentured servant, helped Anne bring the hot meal to the table on platters and dish it out onto plates. Without a word, the famished diners greedily attacked the food.

“I am disappointed,” said Anne, seated at the head of the table. “No compliments.”

“Oh, the meal is excellent,” Little Flower declared. “We were so hungry, we forgot our manners.”

“How is the venison?” Anne asked Wild Horse.

“Very good,” he said, noisily chomping on the savory meat.

“You must chew without noise,” Little Flower gently chided. “In white society loud smacking at meals is considered bad manners.”

Her fiancé looked embarrassed and grew quiet.

“The venison is delicious,” elaborated Matthew. “As the hunter, I should receive special thanks from all of you for having shot such a tasty animal.”

“Thank you, Uncle Matt,” said Edmond. The adults laughed.

“Started dinner without me, I see,” Luke’s voice sliced through the open doorway from the kitchen.

All heads turned. There was a split second of surprised silence, then shouts of joy filled the room. Edmond dropped a fork, ran to his father and hugged his legs. Anne rose from her chair, reached for Luke, then clasped him firmly around the waist, for fear he was a ghost who would rapidly disappear again. Happy and relieved, she began to cry.

When Luke was first captured by the British, his family only knew he had mysteriously vanished. Afterward they discovered from Tallmadge what had actually happened. Glad he was still alive, they were frantic about him and ceaselessly pressured Tallmadge to arrange his freedom. No one had told them about his release.

After rounds of kisses and handshakes, Luke settled down to dinner. As he ate and drank, he described the battle for New Haven, his capture, the short sea voyage to New York, the stay in the Manhattan jail and the experiences on the Jersey. Without citing any names or places, he mentioned his liberation. Throughout the , the family kept silent, the usually noisy band dared not interrupt the head of the household, afraid they might miss something vital.

It became a Herculean task for Anne to put the children to bed that night. Their enthusiasm at Luke’s homecoming bubbled over with incessant chatter, laughter, and giggles. Ordinarily well-behaved, Edmond romped through the house as the adults relaxed in the parlor to chat and drink coffee. In and out of Luke’s lap on the large white sofa, the small boy squeezed his shoulders whenever he could reach them to make sure his father was real. In her excitement Sally, the baby daughter, still strapped in a chair, waved her arms and wiggled her legs to get Luke’s attention. With all the commotion he had difficulty hearing or talking. At last the children wound themselves down, emptied their bodies of frenetic energy and, under loud protests laced with tears, went to bed. To lull them to sleep, Anne sang lullabies until they drifted off to a special dreamland.

Afterward, in the privacy of their bedroom, Luke undressed, telling her, “it’s so good to be home. I might have died on that prison ship and never returned.”

“I prayed for you,” she replied softly. “Somehow I knew you would come back, alive and healthy.”

“Ah, the power of prayer,” he sighed. The prison ordeal had weakened not only his body but his spirit.

Few words ed between them. He felt her goodness. She was a refreshing pool of crystal pure water in which to immerse himself. She had always

revitalized him. Now disoriented and mentally lost, he sought her more than ever. In his imagination she encircled him, he yielding and even insisting she take over his being, if not his soul. It all seemed inevitable. As the ultimate haven from life’s harshness, she soothed his troubled spirit. All thoughts of Renee vanished.

As he watched Anne in the faint light disrobing, Luke’s physical desires took hold and he gazed at her in iration.

“Blow out the candle,” she whispered, “and come to bed.”

He snuffed out the taper, slipped under the covers of their canopied four-poster and reached for her. Gingerly, they touched each other all over to prolong and savor the sensations. Their ions grew. As they clung to one another, fearful of letting go, anxious not to lose the moment or person, they meshed, rhythmically moving together. Always amazed at the silky texture of Anne’s smooth skin, he grasped her firm body with both hands. After the lovers had been satisfied, they whispered endearments, then dozed off, embracing.

The next morning, Luke awoke alone in the bedroom. When he dressed and explored the rest of the house, neither Anne nor the children could be found. As he entered the kitchen, Margaret, the young servant girl, looked up from the table where she sat polishing a pair of silver candlesticks.

“Good mornin,’” she welcomed him with her Scottish brogue. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” He stifled a yawn.

Quickly, she listed the morning fare. “We have coffee, tea, some hot ground wheat and honey, freshly baked bread with newly churned butter and strawberry preserves.”

“Coffee, wheat and honey sound good. Where are Anne and the children?”

“The laddie and lassie went into town with your sister to shop at the general store,” she indicated. “Your wife’s in the factory.”

“Factory, what factory is that?” He laughed in disbelief.

“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Margaret fetched coffee in a stoneware mug and hot cereal in a pewter bowl. “She’s always surprising people, she is.”

“Where is this factory? And what goes on there?” he inquired as he sipped the coffee.

“Oh, the factory, that’s out back. They make pottery there like the mug in your hand.”

“Pottery! Why, for Christ’s sakes, is she making pottery?”

“Please, do not take the Lord’s name in vain in my presence. She doesn’t make

it, the workmen do.”

“Workmen! How many are there?”

“Quite a few, I dare say.”

He raised an eyebrow, astounded.

After breakfast, Luke strode into the backyard, both curious and annoyed about his wife’s activities. The new building dwarfed their barn and was crowded with people walking in and out of it. He found Anne inside.

“Good morning, dear,” she greeted him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, fine, but what is going on here?” he asked curtly.

“We are making stoneware.” She handed him a large jug with elaborate handles for inspection. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, perturbed.

“We are selling pottery as fast as we can make it,” she reported proudly.

He pitched his voice low. “You should have asked me about this before charging ahead.”

“But you were not here to ask. Mr. Keppler and Matthew both thought it was a good idea.”

“Yes, perhaps they did,” his voice rose. “but neither is your husband, and this is not their property.”

“We are making good money, Luke, and producing exquisite pottery.”

“We don’t need the money. We’ve more than enough. You are supposed to be taking care of the children and running the house, not operating a pottery plant.”

“Why get upset over something so minor?”

“Minor, yes, minor,” he huffed, then paused, as he turned it over in his mind, and shouted. “Minor to you, but major to me!” Irrationality had grabbed hold for an instant.

His booming voice nearly bowled her over. As he stalked out, she shot back in exasperation, “stop being such an old grump!” Anne realized he was reacting like a typical white male. How she would prefer to see Luke’s Indian side; braves usually gave squaws much more latitude in practical matters. All the same, she was sure he would soon get over his anger.

By that afternoon, he had time to reconsider. Bedecked in a sheepish smile, Luke, apologizing, urged her to go ahead with the business if she wished.

Viewed from the river’s banks, Machin’s Chain seemed anything but aweinspiring. A sketchy appearance, strung over five hundred yards between Constitution Island and West Point, belied its true worth as one of the engineering marvels of the eighteenth century. Submerged, the Chain itself remained almost invisible, its surface presence reflected only in the series of 16foot logs stapled to links at short intervals. These floats kept the metal barrier from sinking to the river’s bottom. For more stability in the shifting currents and tides, strong hemp ropes bound the Chain to iron anchors nestled in the dark silt and mud below.

Thicker and more substantial, this Chain was so much stronger than the nowdefunct iron chain which once blockaded the river at Fort Montgomery. Just south a wooden boom of logs spanned the waterway to protect it. Each log was fifteen feet in length, one foot in diameter, placed every four or so feet and connected by massive iron hardware.

Fabricated at the Sterling Iron Works from ore mined in the nearby Ramapo Mountains, the Chain was originally proposed by Washington and others. Yet Captain Thomas Machin, having worked up the engineering specifications and designs, had supervised its assembly, transport and installation. While Machin was relatively unheralded, in his own way no patriot had made a greater contribution to the rebel cause. Until now, the Chain had served as the major deterrent to further British incursions north along the river and a physical splitting of the fledgling United States. Without it, the enemy might have caused a major disruption of trade, reinforcements and military supplies among the former colonies.

On the cool, clear morning of October 26th, Luke and William Hull climbed down the hill at West Point to the river’s edge. The Chain and boom floated before them, the grey-blue waters generously lapping and splashing against man’s fabrications.

“So, this is what all the fuss is about.” Luke uttered.

“It looks like two odd foot bridges which someone forgot to complete,” said Hull, whom Washington had appointed to command the Chain’s defense against the prospective British assault. “Not very impressive, is it? We’ll move four and six pounders down here, place another set on Constitution Island and use the bigger cannons up top.”

“What if the attack occurs on a dark night?” Luke inquired.

“Flares and bonfires will be lit on both sides of the river.”

“Suppose the cannons miss their mark?”

“We’ll have whaleboats on either shore with armed crews and riflemen on the banks,” Hull said. “That should do it. Nothing but a wild turkey shoot!”

“Let us hope so.”

“How do we truly know they are coming?” asked Hull. “It could all be a ruse.”

“We don’t, and you could be right. But my sources in the city are usually reliable and accurate.”

In case the British modified their plans, it was decided to mobilize American defenses for a full five days, two days before and two days after the proposed target date. Absolutely nothing happened on the 27th and 28th of October even though a full rebel regiment was poised for action in hideouts along the river’s banks. During October 29th the daytime proved chilly and overcast. That evening the moon and stars failed to shine, making detection of the enemy even more difficult.

Behind a thicket on the western shoreline, close to the new battery, huddled Luke and Hull, ready for battle.

“Major! Major!” called out one of Hull’s lieutenants, “Four British warships have been spotted at dusk moving north of Peekskill. One of our dragoons just rode in with the news. He estimates they’re now only two miles from here.”

“Congratulations, your intelligence appears to have hit the mark,” said Hull, relieved. “We’ll light the bonfires soon.”

“That would be wise even if it scares them off.”

“Better that, than the Chain’s destruction this night.”

Prepared for almost every contingency, the defenders stockpiled extra iron links and hardware on the western shore of the river to repair any damage to the Chain. Long before any sign of the approaching men of war, rebel soldiers on both sides kindled bonfires to illuminate the Chain and boom. A shadowy, impenetrable darkness enveloped the area downstream. Still no large ships sailed north in the river. Impatient, Hull ordered the first of the flares fired far south of the Chain.

The buzzing and hissing of the bright flares fractured the river’s stillness. The first two flares revealed a vacant waterway. The third shot, flying further, exposed small crafts that slowly pushed upstream, but no warships.

If the wind was just right, the Americans assumed the British would attempt to ram the Chain with a frigate to break it; the weight and force of a large ship might pose a serious risk. The fourth and fifth flares unveiled a small fleet of six longboats and one cutter rowing and sailing steadily north. No one knew what mischief these boats might cause. Nonetheless, the rebels could take no chances. Additional flares traced their course upriver in and out of the patchy darkness. On the bluff the bigger cannons boomed repeatedly, shots landing in the water close to the oncoming armada. The pungent odor of gunpowder drifted down toward the soldiers waiting along the riverbank.

Another flare displayed a cannon ball hitting the British cutter, wooden splinters and tattered canvas flying in every direction. Too far away to see or hear the men on board, the Americans remained ignorant of enemy designs. Rifle fire irregularly cracked from the shorelines.

“Lieutenant Perkins,” shouted Hull above the din. “Prepare to launch our whaleboats. Signal those on Constitution Island to do the same.”

Luke paid close attention. He had no prescribed role in any plans, but could not insulate himself from what was taking place. Adrenalin flowing and muscles taut, he ached to plunge into the fray. Cannonballs smashed into another British vessel. On the riverbanks, the smaller artillery pieces now began firing as the remaining enemy boats came within range.

“Launch whaleboats,” ordered Hull. Fearful lest any British craft reach the Chain, he was now implementing all the defenses at his disposal.

The small cannons on the shorelines managed to hit and sink one more English vessel. With the approach of American whaleboats, these guns ceased firing to avoid damaging them. The flickering light from the bonfires and flares became too dim for the Americans along the shorelines to view the clash of crews. To make visibility worse, a mist had arisen over the island and was floating toward mid-river where the boats were about to collide. Brass cannons in the bows of two British whaleboats unexpectedly fired at the American craft.

“Confound it,” shouted Hull from the shore, a telescope up against his eye. “I cannot make out what’s going on. Where did that fog come from?”

Penetrating and overpowering, the clash of arms worsened. Disabled by the British cannons, a pair of American whaleboats was sinking, but crews still fired at the enemy. Within this shielding mist, opposing boats smashed into one another. Men wielded sabers and bayonets when powder and lead were exhausted or wet. From shifting, slippery platforms, soldiers and sailors thrust pikes, threw punches and fell into each other’s boats or the river itself. No quarter was expected or given since control of the Hudson Valley could turn on this absurd man-to-man fight in mid-stream. To the Americans on the riverbanks, the shouts and curses on the water, the sharp clang of steel and iron, plus sporadic musket shots, signified a battle royale raged as the night’s fog cloaked the combatants.

Eyes straining, Luke strove to peer into the darkness. Out of the haze, he saw the reflection of metal and recognized the danger. A British longboat had broken through American defenses to threaten the boom. Leary of firing a musket into the murky unknown, Luke raced along the riverbank onto the boom. Nimbly balancing himself, he hurriedly leapt across the interspaced logs. To reach the enemy’s boat in time, he must travel one hundred fifty yards at full speed. Almost breathless, Luke concentrated on hitting each log to avoid falling into the river. One slip, and he was done for. While hundreds of rebels surrounded him, he was alone in a wild dash to protect the Chain from the intruding redcoats. Why was he risking life and limb in this insanity? Because despite the personal hazards, he knew how high the stakes and how imperative the effort. A matter of life versus death for both troops and nation.

Near the middle of the boom, two obscure figures protruded from the British boat as it forged ahead. Most likely marines, Luke reasoned, when he spotted them. British marines had given him that lashing on the Jersey. How well he recalled. For a moment old pains pierced his body before anger and hatred seized control.

Luke dove head first off the boom at an oblique angle. Just before he slid into the water, a flintlock cracked and a stream of hot air rushed overhead. Though the river was cold and dark, he soon reached the boat’s shallow keel underwater. He felt along a short beam, grabbed the rudder and broke the craft’s forward movement by rapidly kicking his legs. The boat slowly retreated into the mist.

Still submerged, Luke was running out of air. Clinging to the rudder, he tried to resurface at the boat’s stern, only to feel the heavy slap of an oar swung by a hefty marine. Forced to dart away from the boat underwater, Luke resurfaced in the darkness to draw deep breaths.

Again under the boat, seemingly immune to the river’s cold, he seized the rudder, then with greater determination drove it downstream. In frustration, the two marines haphazardly fired into the water but missed him by wide margins. Leaning out over the boat’s stern, one marine tried to poke him with an oar and hit the rudder instead. When the marine tried once more, Luke grabbed the oar and, using it as leverage, flipped him into the water.

“Help! Help!” the man thrashed about. “I can’t swim. Save me! Please, save me!”

Luke dove back under and silently resurfaced on the boat’s port side. As he twisted around, he eyed the second marine extend an oar to his struggling comrade. Springing from the water into the boat with knife in hand, Luke stabbed the redcoat in the back and shoved him overboard.

Powder kegs with string fuses and ropes filled the boat’s bow. Evidently, the kegs were to be wrapped around the Chain’s logs and links, then exploded. With a pistol from the stern, Luke set off the fuses. Lastly, he jumped into the river, pushed the small craft downstream toward the eastern bank, and swam back to West Point despite the frigid waters. Before he reached the shoreline, explosions thundered off the far shore, harmlessly churning the water. So ended the plot to destroy the Chain in a resounding American victory.

The city’s summer weather turned perceptibly warmer – the dog days of the season were about to dawn with its excessive heat, humidity and annoying mosquitoes. McDuffy strode through Manhattan’s narrow cobblestone streets. To all appearances, he was a man who knew where he was going. In fact, he was unfamiliar with the neighborhood and relied on the directions from Townsend’s landlady. He took an abrupt right turn at the next intersection, counted three buildings on the left, and entered the doorway of an obscure shop. Inside stretched a long counter designed to separate customers from the proprietor and clerks. Behind the counter shelves lined walls in an open display of textiles,

china and silverware.

The bell over the front door tingled loudly to herald McDuffy’s entry. That afternoon the shop was empty except for the hulking Sergeant. A moment later a thin man parted a full-length curtain in the back room. At first McDuffy failed to recognize him in the dim light. As he drew closer, the visage of Robert Townsend distinctly appeared.

“Good day, sir. Can I be of any service to you?” Townsend pretended not to know McDuffy in case someone should burst in from the street.

“Yes, I am looking for silk in bright reds and blues,” said McDuffy. “Might you have any in stock?”

“I believe so,” Townsend remarked. “Would you care to examine our inventory in the back storeroom? A new shipment came in yesterday.”

The two men walked to the rear of the shop and disappeared behind the door to the proprietor’s chambers.

“I’m so glad you came today.” More tense than usual, Townsend was worried about a woman friend recently seized by British. “I’ve something critical for you to deliver.”

“Let me have it,” McDuffy said. “I’m ready to ride.”

“Wait just a few minutes.” Townsend held up a hand, then traipsed to a closet next to the far wall. After opening it and rummaging inside, he returned with a sealed letter and a bolt of crimson silk. He hurriedly wrote out a bill of sale for the material and marked it ‘paid.’

“Here.” He handed McDuffy the paper, cloth and letter. “Take this immediately to Tallmadge. Time is of the essence.” His mind drifted elsewhere. Robert must save this woman with child, for he realized he was the father.

Rather than stop at the Sanctuary, which was his custom, McDuffy rode straight on to Croton to find Tallmadge At the American camp, Tallmadge sat in an open tent, writing daily reports.

“Sir,” called McDuffy, “I’ve a message from Culper Junior. It’s urgent.” He handed it over.

Tallmadge reached under a cot for a vial in a wooden box, opened the sealed letter with a knife, laid the missive on the cot and applied the stain. New handwriting appeared in the blank spaces between the written lines. Once decoded, it read:

Dear John Bolton, There is much commotion in New York City these days. iral Graves just arrived with six ships of the line each ranging from 35 to 70 guns. Earlier, three more frigates docked here. Word is all go with 8,000 men, now embarking at Whitestone on other ships, to Newport, Rhode Island to attack the small French fleet and to prevent the landing of troops and the occupation of that fair city. I greatly fear for the French. Please take whatever measures you deem best. Above all, prevent a disaster. God speed.

Yours,

Culper, Junior

“Is there any return message for me to deliver, sir?” McDuffy interrupted as Tallmadge mulled over the letter’s contents.

“No, Sergeant,” he said, “You have done more than enough for your country this day. Many thanks. You may go now.”

Dismissed, McDuffy saluted and left.

Later that same day, Tallmadge entered the Ellison house in New Windsor and asked to see Washington. His aide, Alexander Hamilton, greeted him, and the pair retired to Washington’s private office. Tallmadge showed Hamilton the letter.

“This is crucial,” Hamilton declared. “Only Washington can act on such information.”

Washington entered the room. “What is so important?”.

“Sir, I received this letter from Culper Junior earlier today,” Tallmadge explained. “The British are planning to attack the French as they land at Newport.”

“That is quite shocking.” Washington frowned. “Show me the letter.” As he read it, his mind churned. He flipped the paper on top of the desk. “Wait outside, while I prepare something. It shouldn’t take long.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tallmadge.

A half hour later, Tallmadge reentered the office just as Washington was dripping hot wax from a candle on the outside of a message and impressing his personal seal.

“Can you have one of your agents, someone who appears impeccably loyal to the Crown, drop this off at the British post near the King’s Bridge immediately?” Washington inquired. “Have him say he found it on the side of the road with other parcels and believes it fell out of a rider’s saddlebags or off a wagon.”

“Yes, sir,” Tallmadge replied, “that can be arranged.”

“Excellent, now let me tell you what it is all about.”

Late the next morning, a British dragoon delivered Washington’s letter to their Manhattan headquarters, handing it to one of Sir Henry Clinton’s aides, Major John Andre. He opened the letter, scanned it and recognized its significance. In short, rapid strides, he stepped toward the office of the British commander-inchief to knock on the door. He heard Clinton call out, “Yes, who is it?” and went in.

“General, we’ve discovered a message with American plans to attack New York City.”

“What? An attack on the city? Incredible!” sputtered Clinton. “How did we come by it?”

“One of the Loyalists, finding it on the roadside, feels the message was accidentally dropped there.”

“Let me see it at once.” Clinton pored over the correspondence and shuffled the pages. “It looks like Washington prepared it.” He could barely suppress his joy. “I recognize the handwriting. Of course, he did!”

“It seems legitimate, sir,” said Andre. “And there is his seal.”

“Yes, I agree.” Clinton rubbed hands together in disbelief of such good fortune. “Recall the ships and troops headed for Newport. Use that confounded beacon system we set up on Long Island to signal them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At last, I get a chance to have it out with Washington. No more running and hiding on his part … that elusive bastard,” Clinton said.

To make the captured plans for the attack on the city seem even more authentic, Washington ordered two regiments of infantry and a cavalry unit to stage maneuvers in lower Westchester just north of the King’s Bridge. The British ships and troops soon returned to New York to defend it against an imaginary attack, and the French landed safely at Newport without interference.

CHAPTER XX - THE ENIGMA RENEWED

In a wide-arc descent the gavel slammed the worn oak table on the raised dais with a sharp smack to resonate throughout the hearing room of the New Paltz Zoning Appeals Board. That evening a few in the overflow crowd jumped out of chairs at the sound. Yet the man who wielded the gavel captured most of the attention with an imposing figure. Erect, his head almost touched the ceiling. Even without the dais, he reached six feet nine inches in bare feet.

But it was the stomach, more than his height, that entranced the audience. The huge blubbery mass of flesh protruded at least fifteen inches from his chest. A seemingly endless black belt with a big brass buckle secured pin-striped, blue tros to the bulging waistline, a costume more apt for an elephant than a man. Tucked inside the pants, a short-sleeved red shirt hung with an open neck and a button-down collar. The white buttons on the shirt’s front strained, ready to burst like a swollen dam.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he barked, “I’m pleased to open this hearing tonight. Welcome. I know most of you and most of you know me. But for those that don’t, my name’s Harvey Hasbrouck and I’m chairman of this here board.”

Sitting in the audience, Brad could barely control an urge to laugh. Over the years Harvey had unintentionally yanked his funny bone. Rather than laugh, tonight Brad smirked. He once wondered how a man like Harvey, a college graduate, whose ancestors had originally settled New Paltz, could look and sound so much like a country rube. One day, long ago, Brad finally figured him out. Harvey was, first and foremost, a politician who strove for the common touch. He wanted people to feel comfortable around him so he pretended to be like them or inferior. He learned to cloak his sophistication. By so doing, he ingratiated himself to many voters. This deception became Harvey’s art form and perhaps his greatest accomplishment in life.

“Now, let’s see what’s on this here agenda tonight,” Harvey intoned, as he read from a sheet of paper pinned to a clipboard. “Ah, yes, we have this parcel, Block Number 452, Lot Number 561, on the tax rolls, fifty acres of raw land just off Route 55 near the eastern side of the Shawangunk Mountains. Mr. Kramer, could you please tell these good people what all the fuss is about? Mr. Kramer here,” he told the crowd, “serves as the village attorney, folks. He’s a right smart man so you oughta listen to him.”

“Mr. Chairman, thank you for that kind introduction,” Kramer said. “The Wallkill River Development Company holds an option to purchase this land and has made an application to construct an unenclosed shopping mall for forty stores with parking for about a thousand cars. As part of the application, they are seeking a rezoning of that property from agricultural to commercial use and variances on setbacks from the road. The board has preliminarily approved the company’s development and site plans. An environmental impact statement has been filed on the project revealing only minimal adverse effects.”

“Is that all?” asked Harvey. He yearned to speed things up to get home for his favorite T.V. show.

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

“Good. Now folks this here hearing gives you a chance to ask questions about this project, to speak for or against it. We run things around here democratically. Ain’t that so! Yes, Mr. Deyo, do you have a question?” Harvey nodded to an old thin man, holding up a hand.

“No, Harvey, but I’d like to speak in favor of the project,” said Deak Deyo,

another linked by ancestry to early New Paltz settlers. “First of all, it will add some three hundred fifty jobs to the local economy. We have never fully recovered from the last recession. We really need those jobs. Secondly, it means more tax revenue for the community, and God knows we could use that. Lastly, it gives consumers other shopping choices and will, in all probability, lower retail prices. Won’t that be nice for a change.”

“Well said, Deak, well said!” Harvey proclaimed. “Yes, sir, you there.” Hasbrouck recognized a tall gentleman, who raised his hand and stood up at the same time. He had long gray hair and wore a black broad-brimmed hat.

“My name’s Horace Simpson. I am a chief in the Lenape tribe, also known as the Delawares. We own and operate the Lakeside Casino on the mountain just west of this property. Has the state done an archaeological survey on the parcel?”

“What?” asked Harvey. “Mr. Kramer, can you answer that?”

“No, it has not,” replied Kramer.

“Why hasn’t it been done?” Simpson demanded.

“Apparently, they felt there was no need for it,” Kramer responded.

“Our tribe disagrees, and we oppose the project!” Simpson said. “In the middle of this parcel lie sacred Indian burial grounds. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t, chief.” Kramer sounded as though he didn’t much care. He had a reputation of not bothering about the intricacies of these parcels unless they were in dispute. He had too much else to worry about.

“But hold on now, Mr. Simpson, won’t this project mean more business for your casino?” Harvey asked. If this kept on, he missed that T.V. program.

“Yes, it probably will,” Simpson said.

“Well then, what’s the problem?” inquired Harvey.

“The problem is, we Indians respect and esteem our ancestors. To disturb their resting place would be a grievous transgression, offensive to their spirits and our traditions. We aim to uphold our tribal heritage. Making more money is not that crucial in the total scheme of things.”

“What if the board approves this project despite your objections?” asked Harvey.

“Then we’ll be forced to challenge you in a court of law.” Simpson raised a fist high above his head. A chorus of approvals rang out in the crowded room as a dozen or more of the tribe rose to their feet in .

The following Saturday morning Brad drove north to New Paltz for a meeting with Harvey Hasbrouck at the site for the proposed shopping mall. Harvey had telephoned Brad after the board meeting to seek his advice. An inspection of the property, Harvey hoped, would enable them to come up with an amicable

solution to the town’s dilemma.

For Brad, the proposed mall presented a more personal conflict. On one level, he felt sympathetic to Simpson’s demands about preserving sacred burial grounds, however ancient and unused they might be. Perhaps, having discovered Indian blood in the family had tilted him in that direction. He was surprisingly proud of this heritage, no matter how slight. Besides, on an environmental basis, he was generally opposed to building new shopping malls despite a life-long vocation. When it came to this one, his objections were even greater. The construction of a huge commercial complex in this rural setting against the backdrop of a majestic mountain ridge seemed ludicrous and shortsighted.

Yet other considerations tugged at Brad’s allegiance from the town’s side. He had socialized with Harvey and some board for many years. Friendships often dictated which options Brad chose rather than anything else. His construction firm, too, had worked for the town from time to time, repairing the steel bridge that crossed the Wallkill and resurfacing the road system. The town’s mayor, Henry Reinhardt, whose family had preceded the Revolution in these parts, had called him recently to discuss a new school project. Because of a good record, Brad’s firm remained the top candidate to handle the construction as long as its cost estimates came close to those tendered by other companies. Economics clearly pushed Brad toward the town fathers.

On that sunny morning Harvey was already waiting at the site when Brad pulled up in the pickup. From the truck’s back bin, Brad grabbed a machete in a sheath and an odd-looking tool that combined a straight pick at one end with a small shovel at the other. He strapped the long knife to his waist.

“This is very kind of you.” Harvey offered to shake Brad’s hand. “I hate dragging you out of bed at this hour on a Saturday morning. Hope we’ll learn something useful.”

“I’m generally up early anyway, so it’s no great inconvenience.” Brad was glad that Harvey was speaking normally without his country-boy accent and syntax.

Shaped in an irregular rectangle, flowed a gently rolling stretch of land that hosted a mixture of maples, oaks, pines and thick underbrush. The two middleaged men first hiked the circumference, then crisscrossed its interior on readymade paths and byways cut with Brad’s machete. Deep in the woods the pair stumbled upon a stream. Brad leaped across it with room to spare, but Harvey missed the bank, landing with one foot in the water. Brad reached over to pull Harvey up onto a dry ledge.

“Thanks,” Harvey gasped. “I’m a clumsy oaf, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not,” Brad responded, aware Harvey was actually agile for his size. “You just like to make people think you are.”

Harvey ignored Brad’s comment. “I haven’t had this much exercise since my wife made me a health club. I only lasted two weeks, and that represented a major effort for me.” While they climbed a small rise, Harvey panted with every step.

“Aha, what do we have here?” Brad asked at the top.

A large clearing spread out below them, ringed with bushes and a sprinkling of purple wild flowers. Amid the newly mowed grass in the clearing’s middle protruded numerous mounds; flat grayish-green rocks capped them. A distinct

serenity marked this spot, now then interrupted by the occasional chirping and songs of the woodland birds. The men wove their way down through the brush to the open space.

“Do you think this is it?” Harvey asked.

“Maybe.”

Brad slashed at the last of the undergrowth to finish the path. Among fifty, each rock-covered mound had one large stone, vertically implanted, exposing a faded image: a deer, wolf, bear, bird, or animal tracks. Brad examined them, then ed Harvey, who watched from his seat on a fallen oak not far away.

“Any conclusions?” Harvey asked.

“This must be the burial grounds. But to be absolutely sure, I’d have to consult an archeologist friend from St. Martin’s College. Cal Owens is an expert on this sort of thing.”

“We don’t need an expert to tell us the obvious. Now we know it’s really here, what do we do about it?”

“Just what are you trying to accomplish?”

“I want to have this land commercially developed, so the town can reap the

economic benefits. But I don’t dare annoy the local Indians. Litigation must be avoided at all costs. We can’t afford it, financially or politically.”

“I have an idea,” Brad said. “Suppose you offer the Indians a role in planning and deg the project? Tell them the burial grounds will be set aside, preserved, even honored, and keep your word. That’s crucial. Present the developers with this choice: either there’s no project at all or they design a mall with an Indian motif and their cooperation. No uninspiring red, brown or pale yellow bricks. The mall can’t be a glitzy steel, aluminum or glass structure either. Have them use the rocks from this mountain range matching the same kind of construction as those Huguenot homes in town but in the shape of Indian longhouses. Make them build something that pleases the Indians, blends into the area’s natural landscape and meshes with local history. It will probably be a great tourist attraction.”

Harvey thought about it, nodded his head and looked at Brad with iration. “That, my friend, is a brilliant plan! Of course, it may cost more money, but maybe we can get the Indians to invest in the project. It would be an added incentive to the developers. Yep, it’s the perfect compromise. You’ve solved my problem all right.”

“Let’s hope the developers and Indians can agree,” Brad said. “Before we go, I want another look at these graves.”

He set off through the clearing and spotted a tall object at the far end behind a lone chestnut tree. Towering to twelve feet, a thick grayish wooden pole stood, surrounded at the base by a pile of stones for . Indistinct carvings embellished the entire length. Brad recognized it as an old Indian totem.

Three yards from the totem pole, concealed in bushes, rested a rectangular five-

by-ten foot enclosure of dark slate neatly stacked a foot high. One piece of slate cut edgewise into the earth within this enclosure. Brad jogged toward it and stepped over the low wall into the center. On both sides, the grass looked manicured – the work of an unknown caretaker, no doubt. Down on all fours, Brad inspected the erect slate fragment up close. An engraving of a running animal lay exposed.

“Harvey, come see this, please.”

Harvey crossed the enclosure and awkwardly stooped down to scrutinize the stone. “It’s a fox, running along, ain’t it? That’s what I’d say.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

In front of the slate a bare section of ground stretched two feet in length. Brimming with curiosity, Brad probed it with the pick in several spots. Beneath the loose soil jutted a solid flat rock. He used the shovel to deftly peel away the soft loam and uncovered the harder slab. Cleansed of excess dirt, the grayish white limestone had a rounded end, straight sides and an irregular lower edge that had been shorn off. An angel embroidered its face, flanked by two urns near the rounded end. Barely discernable words appeared below: “This stone commemorates a man whose deeds meant much _______” Then further on a partial date, “17___” The rest was lost to time and weathering.

“What do you make of this?” Harvey asked.

“I think I know what happened here, at least in part, and whose remains this might be.”

Brad was jubilant. He dug up the entire burial marker, filled in the hole created, then hoisted the marker on his shoulder.

“Come on, Harvey, let me buy you lunch. I have to examine this stone in relation to something else. I’ll tell you the whole story at the restaurant. And you imagined I was doing you a favor this morning!”

“Who’d thought you’d find something like this in the middle of nowhere?”

The two men set off together through the woods toward their parked vehicles. All along the hike back, the late morning sun shone through the upper branches of the trees to reflect off the leaves – light focused, fragmented and refracted, casting pools of brightness interspersed with shadows as it dappled the forest floor.

During lunch at the new Lebanese restaurant in New Paltz, Harvey begged for the details, and Brad obliged him through several cups of Greek coffee plus servings of baklava. He told Harvey about the letter in the back of the diary and the intricacies of the family cemetery plot. Thoroughly amused, Hasbrouck urged, “Don’t forget to tell me how it turns out. My wife’ll love this one. She has a thing about family secrets.”

After the meal Brad drove back to Newburgh in his pickup. Instead of taking the Thruway, he motored along the river toward the family cemetery. As the pickup neared the Hamilton Fish Bridge, something in the water emerged just below. Initially, it resembled a series of freight cars or barges closely linked to one another across the river’s surface. Brad sensed the images from the brownishgreen liquid were not what they appeared. However, because they loomed so

distinctly, he drove down to the water’s edge underneath the span to reassure himself they represented an illusion, not reality. There, the distortions vanished in an instant. Presto they were gone, having been nothing more than a reflection of the bridge’s bottom. Brad chortled, bemused at being temporarily taken in by Nature’s sleight of hand, the river playing one of its tricks again.

At the cemetery Brad hefted the limestone marker onto the right shoulder and took the shovel-pick in his other hand. At the large family plot, he walked to a gravesite under a hickory tree where he eased the stone off his shoulder onto the ground. With pick and shovel, he exposed the piece of limestone lodged below the surface in the loamy soil. In a squatting position, he brushed away the loose dirt on the rough topside, then lifted the limestone slab from the burial grounds to place the jagged edge on the uneven stone marker still in the earth. As suspected, they matched almost perfectly with slight deviations attributable to age and crude handling. It was one and the same piece, harshly split in two long ago.

Some deceased relatives, Brad conjectured, had removed the remains of that ancestor and a large portion of the limestone marker to the native burial grounds outside of New Paltz. Why there? Perhaps it was the closest one in the general vicinity. Otherwise, Brad remained at a loss. Obviously they wanted to eradicate any trace of this perceived imperfection in their ancestry.

During the evening, Brad telephoned Cal to report his findings and suppositions. “What do you think?” Brad asked.

“You’re probably right, but why don’t you dig up the Indian grave in the family plot and, if possible, the one in the burial grounds. See if any remains are buried there.”

On Sunday afternoon Brad arranged for one of his crews to meet him early the next morning at the family plot. Four men, with picks and shovels, plus a backhoe, arrived on schedule and began to excavate the grave site. Layer upon layer of earth was stripped from the grave and sifted through a rough metal screen off to one side of the growing hole. Man and machine dug and dug. Yet nothing was found which revealed a human’s presence now or in the distant past – no bones, skeleton, skull, wooden fragments, or worldly effects. Even if a body had been removed, something, however small, would have been left. Perhaps no one had ever been buried there, and the limestone marker commemorated someone missing or lost. It might even be a trick. Unless, all the remains had been moved to the Indian burial grounds – illusion versus reality again.

Brad had promised Harvey he would try to meet with Simpson after lunch in New Paltz, and persuade him to go along with the mall compromise. Harvey would, in turn, convince the developers to accept the proposed solution. Now Brad had even more incentive to visit the chief, a personal reason.

Before he got to the river, Byron Whithers put the blinker on and turned right onto Montgomery Street, the van slowing as he did. The imposing homes on this street with such stately architecture had always inspired him. Now at their pinnacle these 19th-century residences represented the centerpiece of the city’s preservation movement. The sun, just descending, cast enough light for Byron to absorb the road’s regal trees and ornate lampposts, framing the houses and carving a path to the river beyond. The red-brick electrical station, built by Edison in 1884, lingered intact at the far end. Within a short distance from Washington’s last headquarters stretched a checkered expanse of both dilapidated and livable housing.

The cyclical history of the city of Newburgh had been well-known to Byron. Throughout the nineteenth and most of the twentieth century, this city was truly blessed. The position on the river and the imagination and drive of its people had fashioned a vibrant economy, diversified and resilient. Yet in the 1960s a combination of punches – excessive waves of migrant agricultural workers from

the south, permissive welfare policies and a shift of its industrial base – nearly floored the city. In the sacred name of urban renewal, riverside stores and buildings, historic monuments in and of themselves, were mindlessly bulldozed to leave only the ruined hulk of a railroad station and grassy hillsides. Much later sterile, low-income projects and a modern bank complex, misplaced and unlikely neighbors, cropped up to overlook the mountains and flowing waters. An ever expanding roll of unemployed and unemployables, buried in poverty, squeezed into the remaining houses to accelerate the city’s decline. Ensuing waves of drugs, crime and slums caused more devastation.

In their pettiness and stunted vision, the city’s fathers had done too little to aid the cause. Earlier discouragement of IBM, which had sought to establish major facilities in Newburgh, still festered deep within its wounds. The lack of subsequent initiatives to lure new businesses and industry deepened the despair. Despite the failures of these overlords, more venturesome citizens had spawned and nursed a recovery, one tediously slow and halting.

Like Brad, Byron had grown up in this community to witness it prosper, virtually collapse and resurrect itself. Like Brad, he ionately identified with it, but became equally frustrated with the obstacles that thwarted a full turnaround. Thoughts of the city’s past glories and hardships swirled in his brain as he climbed the front stairs of the Crawford House. In the twilight the off-yellow outer coat and pea-green shutters dissolved into a white columned porch. When Byron opened the front door to the city’s historical society before stepping across the threshold, bright lights, soft music and patter rushed out at him.

Inside the world seemed an awkward blend of contemporary and antiquated. The people, attired in the latest fashions, drifted through a mid-nineteen-century decor with antique furniture, elaborate moldings and oil paintings. In the fulllength mirror, encrusted in gold leaf, hanging on the entry wall, Byron’s reflection revealed a tall, bulky frame in a double-breasted blue blazer, trimmed with brass buttons, a white shirt and gray slacks. He pressed his hair down with one hand before straightening the solid red tie with the other.

“What is your name?” asked the middle-aged woman, sitting behind a dark wooden table.

“Byron Whithers.” He slowly exhaled to help him relax.

“Oh, yes, you’re on my list. Please come in. The bar is in the next room. Help yourself.” She gestured toward the dining room to the rear.

As he grasped a glass of diet Coke on the bar, Byron turned and nodded to Cal Owens, who was chatting in the far corner with two older men. Cal waved back.

“So you’re Byron,” said the young woman standing next to him; natural blond hair barely touched her shoulders. She wore a short red dress, which generously exposed her upper body and lower limbs.

“My name’s June Jarvis.” She smiled flirtatiously and tapped the side of his shoulder with the palm of her hand. “They didn’t tell me how big you are. They should have. I like big men.”

“Who’s they?” Byron was instantly drawn to her.

“Jack and Lily Auckland, Oops, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not?”

“No reason, it was just a slip of the tongue.” She changed her tack. “I understand you’re single.”

“Very much so.” Her perfume was enticing, her face cute and her figure lean and leggy.

“Divorced?”

“Yes and you?” he asked.

“Never married, too busy pursuing a career.”

“You can’t be that busy! What do you do?”

“Security analysis on Wall Street. I specialize in hotels, resorts and entertainment companies. There’s lots of travel.”

“My earlier career was in hotels. Sheraton, later Hilton.” As she leaned forward and reached for a glass of white wine on the bar, she caressed his arm, ostensibly to steady herself.

“I’d like to hear all about it. An insider’s view of the industry always comes in handy.”

“June, I see you’ve found our guest,” interrupted Lily Auckland, the president of the historical society, as she sauntered up to the couple. “Welcome, Byron. I’m so glad you could come.” She gave him a firm handshake.

“Thanks for asking me. I’m already enjoying myself.” He beamed at the blond companion.

“June can have that effect on people. She’s our good-will ambassador,” Lily said. “Forgive me for talking shop, but there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” She continued, “Byron, I have visitors from other historical societies in the county coming next Friday, and we’d like to give them a tour of the Armory as well as the building where the skeleton was found. Is that okay with you ?”

“Sure, just be careful. We want to avoid accidents.”

“Thanks. You can rest assured.”

Byron had a sudden thought. “I can’t promise these buildings will be open much longer.”

“What do you mean?” Lily frowned.

“The management committee at the club is about to have them covered up. They’re worried about liability and pranks. Plus the golfers have been complaining about lost balls in the pits.”

“They can’t do that!”

“Why can’t they? The buildings are on country club property and your society did lose interest in them before.”

“Yes, I know but these are historical landmarks in our town, as important as Washington’s headquarters and should be kept open for all to see.”

Usually not tactful, Brad let the matter drop. He refused to get into an argument with this woman on her turf. He turned to June and at his most suave asked, “Is the society’s good-will ambassador going to have dinner with me on Saturday? your diplomatic duties.”

“It’s no obligation. But a pleasure,” June smiled.

“One more thing, Byron,” Lily remarked, “those artifacts found in the Armory. We’d like to take charge and exhibit them here permanently.”

“But the club has a display in a room especially designed for them.” Byron was perplexed. Just what was going on here?

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Lily said. “But that means only club and guests can view them. Hardly democratic.”

A stocky, powerfully-built man with graying hair at the temples glided alongside Lily. “Hi. I’m Jack Auckland. You must be Byron.”

Byron nodded and shook the man’s open hand.

Jack asked, “Has my wife convinced you to give up those artifacts yet?”

“No, she hasn’t, I’m afraid,” Byron replied. This was beginning to get irksome. Was he being set up somehow?

“The artifacts,” Lily noted, “are part of the city’s heritage and should be seen by all. It would mean so much to its tourist campaign.”

“Why don’t you loan the artifacts to the society for a brief time?” suggested June.

“That’s a possibility,” Byron conceded, trying to be reasonable.

“No, we want them without strings and for good,” Lily exclaimed.

“You just can’t have them. They’re ours,” Byron countered.

“I don’t think you give a damn about this city.” Lily’s sense of injustice with its angry overtones surfaced unintentionally. “If you did, you wouldn’t resist turning over the artifacts to us.”

“I beg to differ.” Byron tried to control his mounting ire. “I care a hell of a lot. More than you know.”

“I don’t like your tone of voice,” Jack interjected. “Nor the way you’re treating my wife.”

“That’s too damn bad,” Byron snapped.

Jack gave Bryon a hard shove. Byron fell back a step, then lunged forward and hurled a right fist at Jack’s jaw. Having boxed in college, Byron had been famous on campus for quick hands and strength. The ing years had failed to diminish those basic skills. Jack hit the floor and stayed down. Both women gaped, stunned and speechless. Cal turned up at Byron’s side. He grabbed his friend and hurried him out of the house.

When he pulled into the parking lot of the Lakeside Casino on Saturday morning, Brad was still unsure how he would approach Simpson. He stepped down from the truck and strolled along the high ridge. Before heading up the brick pathway to the casino proper, he paused to stare over the cliff. The many visits aside, Brad could never absorb enough of the view – the gray terraced rocks, the luminescent water below, the roaring waterfall. Because of the heavy rainfall that season, greenery flourished at every level, the beauty intensified by

the bloom of white and pink mountain laurel scattered all about.

On the far side of the lake under a cloud-streaked sky, the vista of the Hudson and Wallkill Valleys spread for twenty miles in three directions. In front of Brad lay the town of New Paltz, the cities of Poughkeepsie and Newburgh and a host of villages, houses, farms, vineyards, orchards, roads and commercial strips. Perched on this natural wonder, he was hard put not to credit its creation to a Greater Intelligence. To the left the remains of an old Indian village, in the process of being rebuilt, graced an overgrown meadow. Like the skeleton and even the city of Newburgh, it had existed, faded away, and now was coming back to life.

“That’s an interesting proposal, Mr. McClain.” Simpson rested on a green leather easy chair behind a burled walnut desk in the casino office. “Does it have the blessing of the town?”

“By all means,” Brad responded, sitting opposite him.

“Let’s get this straight. We’d have a say in the design and construction, and the mall will have an Indian motif. Most importantly, a high brick wall would surround our burial ground and it would be preserved, undisturbed.”

“That’s the plan.”

“It sounds good. But I would have to run it by the council of tribal elders. We usually meet once a week. Our next get-together is scheduled for Friday. That means we’ll have an answer for you in about ten days. Is that all right?”

“Sure,” Brad replied. “We still need the developers’ consent. If they want any project, they’ll have to go along with this compromise. Let me emphasize the town seeks to avoid litigation and keep your people happy.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. McClain. It’s clearly the wisest course of action, and many thanks for your help. Now you mentioned something about our making an investment in the project.”

“Yes, sir, if you wish. It’s strictly voluntary.”

“That too has to be considered by the council. Indians have learned some hard lessons. Other tribes running casinos have often foolishly squandered their profits. This happens when people are deprived of money for long periods or have little experience handling it. You know, money doesn’t come with directions on how to spend it. These proceeds are a sacred trust for our children and grandchildren. We must learn to use them prudently. That includes making investments.”

“Yes, I understand, and I totally agree,” Brad said. “I give my children the same advice. But they usually ignore me. They have to learn the hard way, through experience.”

“In this way, our people and families are both alike.” Simpson shook his head and smiled wryly.

Brad took a deep breath before broaching another topic. “I’d like to ask your

advice on a personal matter.”

“If you have a gambling problem, I can be of no help. We are here to exploit it,” Simpson teased. “But if you have a credit problem, I’m willing to talk.”

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” Brad laughed.

“Then, what is it?”

Brad explained the existence of an Indian in the family line and described the negative reaction of some white ancestors. He also detailed what he found at the family plot and the Indian burial grounds.

“You do look like you have a little Indian blood,” Simpson said. “But it’s very watered down. Can’t be too much, perhaps a thirty second or a sixty fourth.”

Brad chuckled. “Something like that.”

“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?” Simpson reflected. “I wish I could be of assistance. I can tell you this. Several men in our tribe maintain the burial grounds. That’s why the grass is mowed, and the clearing remains relatively free of trees and underbrush.”

“I assumed as much.”

“There is, however, something you may not know. We Indians have been remiss at keeping the usual historical records. We rarely write things down. Of course, we painted pictures on rock facings and in caves, engraved images on stone and made wood carvings. But our history is kept mostly in the minds and imaginations of our people. It is conveyed from one generation to the next by word of mouth. We are oral historians, each one of us. We tell our children stories of past deeds, events and individuals. We know about this separate grave site which, you believe, holds the remains of an Indian relative. But perhaps it doesn’t. Down the generations has come a tale from an old Indian farmer who lived near the burial grounds in the 1890s. One day two finely dressed ladies and three older boys came to visit him in a wagon from the south. They asked him about the grounds. He was kind enough to show them where they were but cautioned them not to upset any graves. Without a word, they established this separate site away from the others.”

“Did he see a coffin?”

“In the elders’ report there was no reference to a coffin, body, or anything else. That day he left the whites before they set it up.”

“Chief, I’d like your permission to dig up the site to see if anyone’s buried there.”

“That’s one question I can answer without consulting the council. I’m afraid not. Uncovering that grave is like the original plan to build the mall itself. We cannot let any remains be disturbed. I should be annoyed at you for digging up that slab of limestone.”

“Yes, I understand, and I’m sorry about that. But I was hoping in this case you could make an exception because of my being related and all that.”

“Forgive me, I just can’t. As much as I’d like to, especially for someone like you with Indian blood in his veins.

“I suspected that might be your answer. I’m disappointed.”

“Please don’t be. Ah, my friend, keep in mind we may be of the same tribe and are bound by something besides blood. Both of us care deeply about our roots whether exploring or saving them.”

Brad rose, shook Simpson’s hand, then departed. Without discovering if anyone was actually buried there, Brad could not substantiate the hypothesis about an Indian ancestor. Perplexed, he accepted the chief’s decision despite a desire to uncover the truth. At least he had performed well for the town.

The Lenapes soon approved Brad’s compromise on the mall as did the developers. The Native Americans were even willing to make a sizable investment in the project. Surprisingly, the whole process drew them into the wider community for the first time. The tribe made charitable donations to the local Little League, the town’s high school sports program and the County’s Art Council. Its became active in a host of political and civic organizations.

A few weeks after Brad’s meeting with the chief, Mayor Reinhardt of New Paltz telephoned Brad to thank him for his assistance. At the end of the conversation, the mayor disclosed his firm had been unanimously awarded the school

construction contract. What a plum. So Brad had done them a favor and now, it seemed, the town was reciprocating. If he had done nothing at all, would his company still have obtained the contract? That question too would go begging.

The Buick Electra crawled along the darkened road where it stopped in front of a split-level house. After turning off the motor and lights, the driver got out, walked back to the trunk, then opened it. He withdrew a long object, encased in shiny blue plastic, before he stepped back into the car through the rear door.

Inside the house, Byron lumbered from the bar in the den to the living room to hand June Jarvis, seated on the leather sofa, a small glass filled with crème-demint. A goblet of club soda with lime in his mammoth paw, Brad lowered himself beside her. The soft tinkle of crystal touching chimed lightly through the air.

“If Lily Auckland finds out I went out with you,” June said, “I’ll be excommunicated in an instant.” Beneath her soft exterior, she had hard-edged emotions and a sharp mind.

“She won’t from me. We’re not on speaking anymore,” Byron nuzzled her neck. This was the first woman to stir his interest in years.

She moved away from him. “I don’t kiss on first dates. Just an old-fashioned girl. The best you’ll do is hand-holding.” If he really likes me, she pondered, he’ll be patient.

He sipped the drink before clearing his throat. “Do you issue these rules in printed form prior to each date? I can see the title now, ‘Jarvis on Courtship

Etiquette – Step by Frustrating Step’!”

In the Buick out front, a pair of eighteen-year-old males, one sitting in the front seat, the other in the rear, drank from beer cans.

“Are you actually going through with this?” asked George Havermeyer. “It’s crazy.”

“You bet, I am,” insisted Billy Auckland. “I can’t let that guy beat up on my dad.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” said George, “but why don’t you just fight the guy? That way there’ll be no cops, no real trouble.” Why in God’s name had he let Billy talk him into this?

“He’s too damn big and tough. I couldn’t handle it. This is the best way to get back at him.” Billy withdrew a double-barrel, 12-gauge shot gun from the blue casing, broke it open and inserted two shells.

“Get ready to drive off after I’ve fired twice. No lights,” Billy ordered, snapping the gun shut.

“I just hope you don’t kill anyone.”

Billy poked the gun out the open window, took aim at the illuminated house and

squeezed the trigger.

At the sound of the first shot, Byron grabbed June and pushed her down on the floor, his body shielding hers. Glass from the bay window scattered throughout the room. A second shot smashed against the front door, then Byron heard a car screech away. Blood stains on his arm, Byron snaked along the floor toward the nearest wall to pull the light switch down and blacken the room. Unfortunately, it was too late.

June was on the sofa, shaking. “Is this the way you usually treat dates?” she cried. “You’re much too dangerous to be around. Violence seems to pursue you.”

Merely scratched, Byron chuckled at first, then laughter, louder and louder, poured from him to empty the tension.

CHAPTER XXI - THE DEFECTION

The late afternoon sun sparkled off the bluish-green waters of Long Island Sound during that mid-September day in 1780. Two whaleboats cautiously rowed toward the promontory, jutting out from the north shore of the Island. Caleb Brewster, a Lieutenant in the Continental Army, stood upright in the bow of one boat and trained a brass telescope on the tall bluff. The focus of the long spy glass was initially askew. Twisting an inner portion a half-turn made the object of the search distinct, a clothesline in the backyard of a white clapboard house. After carefully observing the garments hung on the line, he turned to the first mate.

“It’s safe. No British troops in the neighborhood. Anna wants us to land in Barkley’s Cove.”

“Good. That means we should be back in time for a drink at Miller’s Inn.”

“Before midnight, I venture to say.”

They waited in the cove until after dark when Austin Roe, owner and operator of the local tavern in Setauket, climbed down a winding pathway to meet them. A short, bald man, he rode between there and New York City to deliver Robert Townsend’s messages.

“Where is Abraham?” Brewster asked.

“He is not feelin’ well,” replied Roe. Abraham Woodhull usually picked up the messages from Austin, who would leave them in a concealed wooden box on Woodhull’s property. Then Abraham would take them to the waiting whaleboats after checking Mrs. Strong’s clothesline for a rendezvous point, one of six possibilities.

“Make sure Tallmadge gets this as quickly as possible,” Roe urged, extending a sealed letter to the lieutenant. “No dawdling.”

“That is what Woodhull always says,” observed Brewster in a nonchalant acceptance of the document. “I’m awfully tired of rushin’ back and forth.” The many trips across the Sound had eroded his stamina.

“Mark my word,” Roe said unsympathetically, “this one is important and needs to be delivered damn quick. There’ll be the devil to pay if you don’t. How do you think I feel ridin’ all that way?”

“Okay,” Brewster shrugged his shoulders. “I hear ya. Do not get your innards stirred up.” He laughed heartily, shaking hands with Roe. “See ya in a couple of days,” he disclosed, then waved to Austin as the boats pulled away from shore.

“Good luck,” shouted Roe, turning to ascend the path.

“When are you goin’ to bring us some hard liquor from your place?” The first mate called to him, his voice grew louder to make sure he was heard.

“Next time” came Roe’s promise, echoing in the darkness.

“You’ve told us that before, Austin,” the mate shot back and chortled. “What we need is a real keg of ale and bottle of rum, not just talk about them.”

The balmy air that late summer night with shifting breezes invigorated the seafaring soldiers as they rowed the whaleboats. Already filled with a blustering sense of freedom and omnipotence, they felt no obstacle could block their path; no objective could elude their grasp – dangerous tendencies in wartime when caution and prudence, always crucial, could easily become sacrificial lambs. Over-confidence infected all patriots who fought on the Sound. Though handling only small boats, they pictured themselves buccaneers. Tonight they were delivering secret messages, but they often captured vessels, destroyed forts and kidnapped local Tories.

From the Continental Army these makeshift sailors, rough-hewed and hearty souls, relished fighting, drinking and carousing. Formerly fisherman, farmers, lumberjacks or workmen in a mill or storehouse, they rarely were cerebral in outlook. Inspired by love of country, hatred for the British and desire for loot, such a formidable lot could not to be taken lightly.

Throughout the night the quarter moon and stars shone, periodically obscured by puffy clouds that moved erratically across the dark sky. As the whaleboats headed for Connecticut, visibility on the water shifted unevenly. The men took turns rowing, so that no one grew too exhausted. Puny sails were hoisted to enhance power.

In a sweep of the horizon with a spyglass, Caleb Brewster spotted a dim object about a mile east. A modest-sized sloop scudded toward them, most likely a transport of supplies for British troops in Manhattan. Fair game for marauders

like the men under Brewster’s command. Alerting the crew of the other boat, he urged them to keep rowing while his own men lowered sails and steered a parallel course. Without a word from the lieutenant, a man loaded the brass cannon mounted on a swivel in the bow.

“Muffle those oars with sheepskin, lads, load your muskets and pistols,” Brewster ordered. “Get your knives and swords ready too.”

Craftiness and timing played vital parts in this game of cat and mouse. Brewster’s tactics were simple. Quietly and furtively position the whaleboats on either side of the prey, next board and capture her. Kill if they must, but the boat itself is the real quarry. After towing it into a Connecticut port, the ship and cargo would be auctioned off. He and the crews would split a significant portion of the proceeds, with the remainder going to the Continental Army and the auctioneer. On occasion ransom money might be earned if an important personage had been taken on board. More often than not, the captain and sailors of the captured boat would be imprisoned, paroled and exchanged for patriot prisoners.

The sloop drew nearer as the whaleboats loitered in the gently swaying sea. Their low, narrow profiles and lack of sails concealed the marauders in the sketchy darkness. When the sloop was almost abreast, only one man at the helm could be seen on deck. It was strange that there no other crew in sight. Small wonder he and the men went undetected. To them the sloop resembled a proverbial sitting duck ready to be plucked and roasted. As she glided forward, the boats on each side moved with her to keep pace.

“Board her boys, up and at ‘em,” shouted Brewster. Excitement filled the night air.

From both boats the crews threw grappling hooks over the sloop’s wooden railings that landed with resounding thuds – armed men climbed ropes to the deck, shouting, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” to terrify her crew. Once on board, they seized the helmsman. Without having fired a shot, the ship appeared to be theirs. Sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, the towering wiry Brewster swaggered onto the quarterdeck.

“Joshua,” he yelled, “take two men to see what’s below. Be careful. These Tories are a sneaky lot.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Joshua Kent answered.

Just as Kent and his cohorts reached the door to the companionway, it burst open, and a horde of men dressed in green uniforms with red facings, cacophonously screaming, shot through the narrow opening. They knocked down Kent, nearly trampling him, stabbed another rebel with a sword, and slammed a third man to the deck. A British officer in a scarlet coat with white lapels led this human surge, brandishing a silvery sword. Momentarily stunned, the boarders rapidly recovered, musket and pistol shots downing several chargers on deck.

The rebels were outmanned by more than twice their number, but they were unfazed. Fierce and muscular, no longer raw recruits new to the ways of warfare, these men had honed skills and a special brand of fighting for four long years. Despite the enemy pressure these hardened warriors displayed a steadiness of purpose and an unyielding stubbornness as the two bands fiercely tangled at close-quarter.

Fighting in teams, the Americans knew each other’s capabilities and protected one another. The words ‘lose’ or ‘surrender’ were not part of their vocabulary.

Collective confidence welded them together into cohesive units that moved gracefully in tandem. When they fought in pairs or threesomes back to back or side to side, they coordinated efforts. As the fighting persisted, this tactic gradually sapped the foe.

All alone, Brewster took on the charging British officer. Although never a great swordsman, Brewster slashed his weapon fiercely at the skilled redcoat and fended off the counter thrusts. Over the years he had learned to move in close to crowd such an opponent, then use his size and strength to overpower him. He backed the officer against the sloop’s railing and with a free hand half-shoved, half-lifted him overboard, dropping him into the Sound’s quiet, shifting waters.

In a rapid pivot, Brewster lunged into a small knot of greencoats and wielded a powerful saber like an avenging archangel. None of these men possessed the swordsmanship of the British officer, so they became easier prey. Brewster’s long, heavy blade repeatedly flayed at the trio arrayed against him as though he were slicing a rump of beef. At last wounded and exhausted, they dropped their swords and collapsed. Brewster moved on to pound more enemy into the main deck. Disadvantage had turned into an inspiring upset. Shortly those Tories still standing yielded weapons and begged for quarter.

In a quick survey of the damages, Brewster was relieved to find his men, though bloody and battered, all alive. The enemy could not boast of such good fortune. More than half of them were seriously wounded, and a third had been killed.

Still stirred up by the action, his first mate said, “Well, we sure gave them a hell of a fight, did we not? One they’ll never forget.”

“Judas priest, that we did,” Brewster replied. “Tie the live turkeys up and throw the dead ones overboard. Let the fish feast.”

That night the hard cider served at Miller’s Inn in Bridgeport had an even grander taste than usual as it flowed down Brewster’s gullet. It served as the victory drink for their work on the Sound. Brewster often wondered how the proprietor of the inn – Mr. Miller, he presumed – ever brewed such a tangy mixture. Was it the variety of apples heaped into the press, the spices added later or the fermentation process? Whatever the secret, the man was truly an artist. Sloppily wiping his mouth with a sleeve, Brewster grunted as the bottom of the pewter tankard emerged.

Tallmadge sat next to him, working. He had applied the stain to the invisible message Brewster had delivered, and was now decoding it in the dim light cast by a thick, red candle stub glued in an old saucer on the table. Tallmadge seemed disinterested in drink or conversation and was unusually quiet. Studying the message, he frowned.

Townsend’s letter related an incident his sister Sarah had observed at the family mansion in Oyster Bay, Long Island, now British headquarters for Simcoe’s Rangers. Though the family were tacit patriots, the enemy had forced them to be their host. The pretty Sarah, a particular favorite of British officers stationed there, flirted with some but kept all at arm’s length. Townsend’s message revealed a neighbor whose political loyalties were dubious had entered the house in secret to leave a letter in a kitchen cupboard. Unseen in a closet, Sarah had watched him. After he departed, she read the correspondence. It was addressed to a Mr. John Anderson and seemed to concern ordinary commercial matters. Hardly anything unusual or noteworthy, she thought. Yet because of the strange manner of delivery, she decided to hide in the closet again to discover who would retrieve it.

Fifteen minutes later, Major John Andre, an aide to Sir Henry Clinton and a frequent guest at the Townsend house, sauntered into the kitchen and opened several cupboards, to search them. Andre slipped the letter into an inside coat pocket without reading it. Then he casually walked over to the fireplace, reached

into an open pan, extracted a few freshly made donuts and left.

Other incidents had aroused Sarah’s suspicions over the last month or so, for she had frequently overheard Colonel Simcoe and Andre referring to the Hudson River and West Point behind closed doors.

Tallmadge folded Townsend’s message, put it in a coat pocket, then frowned. Turning to Brewster, he said, “How many times have I told you, Caleb, when you’re carrying secret messages, stay away from enemy ships.”

Before the war Tallmadge and Sarah Townsend had met at Yale through another brother. He deeply ired her. Frustrated, because four long years had elapsed since their last meeting, he felt a wave of nostalgia.

“But look at what we did tonight.” Brewster had expected to be congratulated not criticized. “We seized a trim sloop with a full cargo, depriving the British of vital supplies. And to top things off, we killed or captured 30 Tories and a British officer.”

“That’s all well and good, but what if you had lost out there. I’d not have gotten my message. The information is the main thing. Your assignment is to deliver these letters, not get rich fighting the war.”

“Whose getting rich? We just earn a little spending money. God knows, the Army doesn’t provide much of anything. Hardly any food or boots and decidedly no money. My men have to live.”

“ your orders, Lieutenant. Messages have priority and after they’re in our hands, you can attack all the ships you want.”

“But, Ben, I mean Major,” said Brewster. “You don’t really mean that.”

“Indeed I do, Lieutenant. Those are standing orders.”

It was difficult for Tallmadge to berate or discipline Brewster. They had been old friends who grew up together in Setauket, fishing and swimming off Strong’s Neck. Along with others in the village, Tallmadge had recruited him specifically to gather intelligence about the enemy. While Brewster’s military superior, Tallmadge still greatly respected his courage, fighting prowess and the results only he could produce. With his band of diehards no one man in the Continental Army or Navy, in Tallmadge’s opinion, caused the British more woe than Brewster. If only to himself, Tallmadge had to it Brewster’s deeds that evening, stood out as heroic despite the risks.

The next morning at the American camp in Peekskill, a letter from General Benedict Arnold, the commander at West Point, awaited Tallmadge. Having been delivered before with a batch of supplies, a fellow officer had already opened and read it. Filled with ordinary military matters, one paragraph jumped off the page as Tallmadge read it:

‘If Mr. John Anderson, a person I expect from New York, should come to your quarters, I request you give him an escort of two horses, bring him on his way to West Point, and send an express to me so I may meet him. If your business will permit, I wish you to come with him.’

Tallmadge ed that Sarah Townsend had told her brother about a John Anderson, but recalling that fact still left him puzzled. What would Arnold want with Anderson? Was Anderson a Tory, a rebel spy or just a commercial ?” After all, Arnold was under severe financial pressure and was known to mix both military and personal business.

At precisely seven o’clock in the evening, on September 19, 1780, Andre boarded a British warship, the HMS Vulture, anchored in Haverstraw Bay, a part of the Hudson. Slight in stature and delicate of face, with long dark hair fashionably bound at the nape of his neck, the major grew more anxious as he waited. This was his second trip aboard the Vulture. Earlier that month, he had sailed on it to meet someone who failed to appear as scheduled. He hoped the same person would at last show up tonight.

Despite his very limited military experience, Andre had risen far and fast in the British Army. He had smoothly switched from one commander-in-chief, Howe, to another, Clinton, to whom he soon become a confidante. ittedly, his talents more than compensated for a lack of aristocratic lineage. Proficient in foreign languages, especially German, he was one of the few British officers who could directly communicate with their Hessian allies. His writing abilities enabled him to draft orders and communiqués with logic and precision.

A remarkable set of social graces – wit, charm, artistic accomplishments – cast him a favorite with the ladies as well as superior officers. A poet, illustrator, actor and mimic, he played the Renaissance man, writing articles and poems for Tory newspapers, acting in theatrical productions, drawing flattering portraits and sketches, and offering amusing toasts at banquets. Yet he also planned strategies for battles and ran most of the British spies in New York. Invaluable to Clinton as a social companion, Andre counteracted the general’s bouts of depression, and as a reliable officer effectively carried out all assigned tasks.

He now paced the quarterdeck of the British man-of-war, worried about the

would-be guest. The man had failed to turn up and Andre was beyond exasperation, but he still held a sliver of hope. He had convinced the Vulture’s captain to extend the ship’s stay on the river in case the mystery man arrived the next evening. Andre had also prepared letters – a series of protests about firing on a British boat under a flag of truce for delivery to the Americans under another flag. Written in his own hand and signed with the alias, ‘John Anderson,’ these letters should capture the attention of a certain party.

The next evening, Joshua Smith, an over-sized local lawyer, sought to persuade the Colquhoun brothers to row him downriver in a small boat to the Vulture. He lived in an imposing white house on the western side of the Hudson called Belmont, just north of where that ship was anchored. Exhausted from day-long labor in Smith’s fields, the tenant farmers balked at being on the river at night, fearful patriot and British boats might collide. But their landlord’s subtle threats and the promise of whisky and flour coaxed them to ferry him to Haverstraw Bay below the fort at Stony Point. Ordered to muffle oars, the pair suspected the late-night trip might be improper. Again Squire Smith reassured them, and their rowing continued.

Impatiently waiting on the Vulture, Andre grew even more agitated than the night before. For months he had been planning this mission. His tenure in the British Army would undoubtedly turn on its outcome. If successful, he anticipated a promotion and entry into the aristocracy with a title and lands as a reward. If he failed – but for Andre failure was out of the question. Ambition drove him relentlessly forward. At all costs, he strove for an illustrious military career, intent on avoiding the drudgery of the London counting house where relatives toiled.

The shrill voice of the British sentry, standing guard on the quarterdeck, disrupted the tranquility of the midnight hour.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“My name is Smith,” arose the answer from a small boat lightly bobbing in the water below. “I am here under a flag of truce from West Point.”

“Bloody bastards,” a voice bellowed from amidships. “They are Neptune’s sea dogs.” The officer of the watch spit out the words. “God forsaken rebels, not fit to shine my boots.”

“Go easy there,” Andre said, careful not to scare off the visitor.

“Aye, sir. Pull up along the starboard side so we can get a proper look at ya. And be quick about it before we blow ya out of the water. Nothing but snakes and eels, slimy creatures, these rebels be.”

“Hoist them up, man!” Andre anxiously demanded.

Before the Vulture’s crew could react, Smith climbed on deck under his own power, using a rope fastened to the main anchor chain. Truly a feat of agility for a man of such wide girth. Two marines accosted him with sharp bayonets atop muskets. Under orders from the ship’s captain a cabin boy, interrupting, directed the American to go below deck.

Half an hour later, Andre and Smith climbed aboard the small boat, and the two farmers rowed them upstream. Garbed in boots, a tri-cornered hat, and a red uniform covered by a great blue coat, Andre oddly posed as ‘John Anderson,’ a merchant, for Smith’s benefit. As the boat carried them north, the topics of weather and tides filled the discourse. Once on the western bank, Smith led

Andre up the gentle hillside path to a grove of fir trees where a shadowy figure on horseback waited. After introductions were made, the rider ordered Smith back to the landing to re the Colquhoun brothers.

“At the outset, I want to establish the amounts I’ll receive,” said Maj. Gen. Benedict Arnold as he descended from his mount. “If we are successful, I’ll demand twenty thousand pounds sterling. If we fail, and I am forced to flee, I must have a minimum of ten thousand pounds sterling as indemnification.”

“Sir, I understand your concern about payment and the risks taken,” Andre said. He yielded to a shudder due to the night’s chilly air. “However, I’m only authorized to offer you six thousand pounds in any event.”

“That just won’t do. Six thousand pounds, for the key to America and winning the war? Are you joking, man? This, I am sure of. Should we fail, I’ll lose all my assets here, assets clearly worth far more than ten thousand pounds.”

“I know how you must feel, and indeed you state a very compelling case. Unfortunately, sir, I have my orders.”

“Well, perhaps this affair was not such a good idea,” declared Arnold.

Andre tensed. He could not let Arnold back out.

“While I cannot promise you more than six thousand pounds,” he said, “I will intercede with Sir Henry on your behalf and strongly urge him to grant you ten

thousand pounds.”

Arnold paused to reflect while Andre held his breath. Several interminable minutes went by. Finally, Arnold gave his decision.

“I accept your offer and expect you to fulfill your promise.” His voice showed disappointment. “Now what about my rank?”

Andre’s shoulder sank with relief. “Brigadier general to start.”

“But I’m a major general now! I deserve at least equivalence.”

“Yes, sir, I realize that. But the British Army has more than its allowable quota of major generals right now.” Andre rubbed his hands together to warm them. “When the position opens up or Parliament enlarges the quota, you will, I am sure, receive your due on this score.”

“I sincerely hope you’ve considered the many personal risks I’m taking,” Arnold said.

“Of course, sir. Of course, we do.”

They talked for hours and covered the fortifications at West Point, the planned British assault and the timetable. Just before dawn, Squire Smith returned.

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt. The sun will be rising shortly. Perhaps we can go to Belmont for rest and sustenance.”

“Thank you, Squire, for your kind offer,” Arnold obliged. “But we must get Mr. Anderson back on board the Vulture.”

“That’s not possible, sir.”

“Why not?”

“The distance is too great, the tide is unfavorable and the rowers are exhausted. They worked in the fields all day and have been awake the entire night.”

“Good grief, sir, I must return to the Vulture immediately,” said Andre.

“I am afraid Smith is right. We’ll go to his house, and you can return to your ship this evening. It is entirely too risky in daylight. Trust me, you will be safe.”

While Smith left by boat for Belmont, Arnold and Andre headed there on horseback. Andre straddled a spare horse, ridden earlier by the general’s servant. Along the way an American patrol stopped them, but Arnold, revealing his identity, ordered the rebel soldiers aside and so protected Andre from close scrutiny. The two horsemen neared Smith’s home as the sun rose. In the distance American artillery fired from Ft. Lafayette at the Vulture. Many a cannon ball smashed the ship before a direct hit was scored on the rebel battery and exploded

the gunpowder in its magazine. Afterward, the damaged man of war floated downstream beyond the range of other patriot guns, and further from Andre.

When Arnold and Andre discovered the ship’s hasty departure, it became evident the major might not board it that evening.

“I wish I were back on the ship right now,” Andre moaned.

“You’ll return to Manhattan, safe and sound. Don’t worry so much.”

After breakfast, Arnold handed Andre a packet of documents that embodied the plans for West Point. “Destroy them if captured,” Arnold advised, then prepared es for him and Smith should an escape by land be required. Arnold conferred with Smith to find out how he would lead “Anderson” back to British territory.

“Your return on the Vulture tonight seems unlikely,” Arnold told Andre.

“Sir, I have no desire to cross the river and return by land.”

“You’ll be perfectly all right. You have a from me, and the Squire knows the best route. Absolutely nothing to fret about.”

“No, sir, I beg to differ. It was always understood I would return the way I came. I’m very concerned and with good cause.”

Arnold explained the changed circumstances and urged him to trust Smith. At last, Andre gave in. Arnold bid them farewell and rode off to the Robinson mansion, which now served as his official residence. Smith persuaded Andre to change into civilian clothing, but the officer kept his blue cloak and riding boots. Andre thereby violated every one of Sir Henry Clinton’s orders: Do not go behind enemy lines; avoid carrying incriminating documents; and stay in uniform.

On the King’s ferry between Stony Point and Verplanck, Andre relaxed in the afternoon’s coolness while the Squire ed the time chatting with the ferrymen. Instead of dwelling on his own predicament, Andre thought of Benedict Arnold, and Arnold’s wife. Andre had befriended the beautiful Peggy Shippen long before her marriage. Their friendship went back to the British occupation of Philadelphia, where her family was a fixture in local high society. Her letters had told Andre much about the general.

Was he serious or was this a counterplot to inveigle the British into a trap? Upon reviewing the evidence, he was convinced Arnold would defect. Since mid1779, Arnold had furnished valuable information on American intentions and troop movements—information confirmed by other sources and subsequent events. Certainly the documents Andre carried in his boots verified the sincerity of Arnold’s intentions.

Yet how could Arnold switch sides? Here was one of America’s most celebrated war heroes going over to the enemy. With Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain boys, Arnold had seized Ft. Ticondaroga from the British early in the war. The artillery pieces from that fort, transported by sled over rough winter terrain, drove the English troops out of Boston. Later, Arnold, valiantly leading an expedition through the Maine wilderness, attacked the redcoats at Quebec. While defeated, the Americans came so close to winning. Arnold captured other fortifications on Lake Champlain and built a small fleet of gunboats which blocked the advance of a much bigger British armada. This bought precious time

for the rebels.

His greatest feat came at Saratoga, where, without an official command, he rallied and led troops at crucial points to victory, fully exposing himself to enemy fire. No one questioned Arnold’s bravery, audacity, or resourcefulness. On the battlefield he embodied America’s best. Why then was he committing treason? Overconfident, Andre assumed he knew. Surely, Benedict Arnold could be self-absorbed and head-strong at times. The normal rules governing others often failed to with him. Without the restraints of conscience, unhampered by morality, he charged ahead, his personal best interest suffering from a distorted perception. Amazingly, he did not even try to rationalize his actions.

Indeed, Arnold was greedy though, considering what he was giving up, the British financial offer hardly seemed worth it. Of course, he had many opponents in American ranks because of his abrasiveness or the jealousy provoked by successes. At times he had been deeply troubled when less deserving officers were promoted ahead of him. Recently the subject of a court-martial for alleged misuse of Army funds, missing records and conflicting commercial interests, Arnold had not been entirely exonerated. Doubts about him still persisted.

None of these reasons, however, seemed to justify what the general was about to do. Perhaps, it was Peggy who motivated the general. Remarried to a much younger woman from a wealthy family, he constantly felt the need to please her. She acted as the secret Loyalist in his entourage, actively playing up American mistreatment of him, urging him to change sides and furnishing the connection with Andre. Her demands for more material things and a better lifestyle, all beyond Arnold’s wartime financial resources, had plunged him into serious debt.

No matter, Andre reasoned, as the ferry glided into the landing at Verplanck, Arnold’s defection would undermine the American cause. If one of its most famous soldiers ed the British, others would soon follow. Militarily, the

English would employ him as a tool to pulverize the rebels, for he had as much or more talent than any British general. At this thought, the major laughed, mounted his horse, and set off along the river bank.

That evening, when the riders approached Crompond, an American sentry, blocking their path, commanded them to halt. Andre’s face tightened as he sank into the saddle. Smith dismounted, left Andre alone, and walked over to the guard who then led him to Captain Boyd. Examining the Squire’s under a torch held by an aide, the captain seemed satisfied.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Down to Major Strang’s place,” came Smith’s reply.

“I don’t believe he’s home, and his wife is likely to be in bed by now. So I wouldn’t disturb her if I were you.”

“I understand.” Easygoing, Smith rarely resisted those in superior or equal stations.

“What’s your business?” asked the captain in a low voice. “It’s not wise to travel at night in these parts with the Cowboys on the loose.”

“We are gathering intelligence for General Arnold,” Smith said softly. Then pointing to Andre, “That gentleman, Mr. John Anderson, and I are to meet someone at White Plains.”

“It’d be smart of you to put up for the night with Andreas Miller, just a half a mile down the road on the right. It is too dangerous to go any further.”

They took Captain Boyd’s advice and accepted lodging at the Miller home. With only a single room available, the travelers slept in the same bed. Neither man undressed. Tossing and turning all night, the major frequently interrupted the Squire’s sleep. At dawn they woke to eat breakfast but to no avail. A Cowboy raid the previous day had stripped the house of food.

Early morning fog blurred the countryside as the pair mounted horses and rode south. Andre’s mood brightened the closer they drew to British lines. No longer serious and grim-faced, the major grew talkative, even gregarious. After the mist dissipated, he waxed about the beauty of the rural surroundings. Now the Squire caught himself actually liking this young man when earlier doubts had tainted his opinion. Accosted by another American patrol, the pair had es briefly checked. Their papers in perfect order, they were allowed to move on.

Just before reaching Pine’s Bridge, they stopped at the home of an elderly Dutch woman for breakfast. A recent victim of the Cowboys, she too was left with almost a bare cupboard and just a single cow. Yet the old lady served them corn meal, the only remaining food, mixed with hot water and milk from the cow. The Dutch called it suppon. Famished, the two men readily swallowed it. After breakfast Smith told Andre he was leaving to head upriver but directed him south toward British lines. Stunned, Andre sought reassurance and a loan. The Squire hastily furnished both.

Further south near Tarrytown at 9:30 am, three rebel militiamen were playing cards under a sugar maple while a cohort kept watch on the adjacent road, ready to nab any Tories and rob them. As fate would have it, Major John Andre traveled the same road that morning. When he rode past, John Paulding, the

group’s leader, shoved a loaded musket towards Andre. What bad luck for him because only a few miles away a safe haven beckoned.

“Halt,” demanded Paulding, who as a former enemy prisoner, was still dressed in an unkempt Hessian uniform. “Where you goin’?”

“Gentlemen,” said Andre, “I hope you belong to our party.”

“Which party is that?” inquired Paulding.

“The lower party,” the major stated.

“Yes, indeed. Ain’t no other worth a damn, is there,” lied Paulding.

Genuinely believing these were English partisans, Andre itted, “I am a British officer, and I need to be taken to our headquarters near the King’s Bridge immediately.”

“Step down from your horse,” commanded Paulding.

Nervously, Andre fumbled in his pocket for a slip of paper. “No, I must be getting along,” he said, realizing he might have blundered.

“So you are a British officer.” Paulding laughed. “You’ve made a serious error, because we are American patriots.”

“I’ll do anything to proceed. Here is my from General Arnold.” Andre thrust it towards Paulding as he dismounted.

Paulding looked over the , but was not particularly impressed. “You said you were a British officer,” he repeated, clearly puzzled by this quick shift of allegiance.

“Gentlemen, you better let me go,” Andre persisted. “You are bound to get in trouble. By stopping me, you interfere with the general’s business.”

“Let’s see if he has any money on him, John,” suggested another rebel.

“I have no money,” answered Andre.

“A British officer with no money,” jeered John Paulding. “Don’t expect us to believe that! Do ya have some letters?”

“No,” Andre replied. “I am traveling light.”

The major dismounted upon Paulding’s instructions. All at once John grabbed the lapels of Andre’s coat and shook him. “Come on, men, we will search the knave.”

In short order they found Andre’s gold watch and the few Continental dollars Smith had just lent him. Frustrated with a lack of anything else, they made him strip, then ripped and tore portions of his clothing to see if he concealed other valuables. His saddle too was closely examined. Yet nothing further was recovered. Naked before them, save for stockings and riding boots, Andre resembled a dismal fool.

“Take your boots off,” ordered Paulding. The major’s reaction was slow. “Didn’t ya hear me? Remove those damn boots and stockings.” After scrutinizing the left boot, one rebel threw it aside in disgust. In the other, Paulding found documents lodged in Andre’s stocking. Though not that bright and only semi-literate, Paulding grasped the implications of what was in hand.

“The man’s a spy!” he shouted to confederates.

Having forced Andre to dress, they hoisted him on a mount with hands tied behind his back. Grief creased Andre’s face. All on horseback, the militiamen led the major to the American camp at Northcastle, where they turned him over to Lieutenant Colonel Jameson along with the incriminating papers.

For most of the day, trailed by a large detachment of dragoons, Major Benjamin Tallmadge had gone to reconnoiter lower Westchester County close to Eastchester. Back at Northcastle, during late evening, Ben heard Jameson’s of John Anderson’s capture and the discovery of the hidden papers. Tallmadge instantly grew alarmed. Yet Jameson’s actions had shocked him the most for he had dispatched Anderson, along with an explanatory letter, under guard to General Arnold while the plans, found on his person, were sent to General Washington, who was returning to West Point after a meeting with French military leaders at Hartford.

“We must retrieve the prisoner and your letter right away!” Tallmadge urged. He recalled both Sarah’s experience as well as Arnold’s note to him. In a moment these stray bits merged into a clear picture.

“But why?” asked Jameson, baffled at Ben’s reaction.

“Because Arnold appears to be a traitor,” Tallmadge replied grimly. “And he will be forewarned, free Anderson and escape himself.”

The colonel objected. “Arnold is my commanding officer and a hero in our cause. My duty is to inform him about what has happened. He had written me earlier to expect John Anderson.”

“Colonel, I will take all blame if there is any error,” Ben claimed. “Please recall the prisoner and your letter. And what, in God’s name, was Anderson, claiming to be a British officer, doing with the plans for West Point in Arnold’s hand, hidden in a boot and heading towards enemy territory? That tells the tale, doesn’t it, sir?”

Jameson became agitated. He had not the faintest idea how Anderson had obtained those plans, but he knew Tallmadge possessed a sterling reputation. Though secretive, Ben was better informed than most officers. What he said made perfect sense. So the colonel approved the recall of the prisoner, but, strangely enough, allowed his letter to continue on its way to Arnold despite the major’s protests.

Ben hurriedly issued the order to return John Anderson. Fortunately, the rebel messenger caught up with Anderson and the guards en route, and the prisoner was soon back in Northcastle. The next morning, Tallmadge, taking charge of Andre, escorted him to Colonel Sheldon’s headquarters in Salem for safekeeping.

Now, the British Major grew more fearful than ever. At Andre’s request, Ben furnished pen, ink and paper, then the English officer wrote a letter to Washington. In it he naively itted his real identity and hinted at participating in an affair of treason without naming anyone. Still he claimed the predicament to be accidental and unintentional. When finished, he let Tallmadge read the letter. Andre’s walk and bearing had already confirmed Ben’s suspicions the man had been a soldier all along. Shocked by these revelations, Tallmadge recognized how right he had been.

At Colonel Robinson’s home, across from West Point, Arnold was eating a leisurely breakfast in the dining room when the messenger arrived. Upon reading Jameson’s letter, the general rushed upstairs to tell his wife. Five minutes later Arnold returned to the ground floor to order a horse saddled.

“Tell General Washington, when he arrives, I’ve gone to West Point and will be back shortly,” he said to an aide.

The horse ready, Arnold rode to the Hudson and jumped in the barge reserved for his exclusive use. Instead of crossing to West Point, he commanded the men to row him downriver to Haverstraw Bay. To their consternation and upon near capture, he boarded the HMS Vulture. Early morning reports had informed him of her new anchorage; ironically, she was again waiting to pick up Major Andre. Now in British hands Arnold sailed to Manhattan in his stead.

After learning of Arnold’s treason and escape, General Washington stalked off alone. Here was a man he had ed through many vicissitudes in the military, whose bravery and audacity on the battlefield he so ired and whose strategic sense he had come to rely on. How could he have betrayed his country this way? What a dardardly act! Indignant and angry, he stomped his boots in the dry dust outside headquarters. Despite Arnold’s battlefield heroism, in Washington’s judgment the man lacked character. And in the end, character was everything. What a fool he had been to have trusted him. For the first time he realized why Arnold had been so insistent on obtaining the West Point post instead of the more prestigious field command Washington had earlier offered him.

The general’s immediate concern related to protecting the Hudson Highlands. After discovering Arnold had purposely allowed the garrison’s strength at West Point to dwindle with the fortifications and the Chain in poor condition, Washington moved fast to rectify weaknesses. He appointed a new commander, Nathaniel Greene, a reliable general officer, concentrated hundreds more troops there and initiated repairs. The British might still, he reasoned, utilize Arnold to launch an attack on West Point. Washington also severely reprimanded Lieutenant Colonel Jameson for poor judgment in alerting the traitor.

Still the commander-in-chief puzzled over what to do with Major John Andre. Unquestionably, the wrong man had escaped. Keeping Tallmadge in charge of the British prisoner, the general appointed a court and established a trial to try Andre. Alone one evening, Washington brooded over the whole affair. That night he ed the brave rebel officer who had volunteered to gather intelligence after the British victory in the battle of Long Island. The enemy had caught and hung him. A tragedy, indeed! What was his name again? Just before falling asleep, the general recalled the officer – ‘Nathan Hale’. Yes, that was it.

Under Washington’s orders, Tallmadge and his men escorted Andre on horseback and barge from Salem to West Point for an overnight stay, then on to Tappan, further downriver.

As he paced the room of the village tavern a few days later, Andre asked, “What do you think the decision will be?”

“Just wait for the court to render a verdict” Ben advised, reluctant to give an opinion on so crucial a matter. He had been Andre’s jailer, guard and caretaker for more than a week. Coincidently, both these young officers had served as rival spy- masters in the New York arena. Since Andre’s captivity a bond had already grown between them. Andre candidly confided in Ben, and Ben, in turn, sympathized with him, grasping if roles had been reversed, his actions would have been much the same. That Andre acted as a gallant officer and an accomplished gentleman, Tallmadge instinctively knew.

“Will they pronounce me a spy?” asked the apprehensive Andre.

“Yes, I believe they will,” Ben reluctantly itted, looking away to avoid the anguish on Andre’s face.

“But I should be treated simply as a prisoner of war. I was an intermediary for General Clinton.”

“Yes, I know,” Tallmadge said. “But you were caught out of uniform within our territory in possession of secret documents. Those are indisputable facts. I’m sorry to say.” Because he had been so in tune with this man, Tallmadge could feel the rope tightening around his own neck.

At British headquarters on lower Broadway in Manhattan, the council held an

emergency session.

“You have to agree, Andre is no spy,” agonized Sir Henry Clinton.

“In all candor, I cannot under the circumstances,” replied Governor William Franklin, the Tory son of the famous American statesman, inventor and patriot.

They continued to debate the issue, but Clinton, because of superior authority and office, prevailed.

“If they harm him, I’ll have their spies put to death,” Sir Henry threatened. “We know who they are.”

“But, sir,” asked John Kempe, the attorney general for the province of New York, another Tory, “should we not seriously consider their informal offer to exchange Arnold for Andre?”

“Quite so,” replied Lieutenant Governor Elliot.

“Impossible!” exclaimed Clinton, frustrated and furious, as he slammed a fist on the conference table. “Washington is such a villain.”

“Sir Henry is right,” confirmed General Robertson. “An exchange is out of the question. It would be a breach of military code and involve a total disregard of all protocol.”

In front of these astonished advisors, Clinton began to sob, at first sporadically, then profusely. The thought of his beloved Andre being executed had been just too much for him to bear.

At Andre’s trial, the American court sitting in Tappan took testimony from the British Major himself and considered his correspondence as well as letters submitted by Sir Henry Clinton and Benedict Arnold on the defendant’s behalf. After due deliberation, it declared Andre guilty of being a spy and sentenced him to death.

On October 2, in the stone tavern which served as a prison, Andre shaved and dressed himself in a full regimental scarlet uniform, brought especially from Manhattan by a male servant. Earlier the same morning, he had calmly consumed a breakfast of tea, eggs and bacon, fresh from the table of General Washington.

“Gentlemen, I am ready,” the British major said. He rose hesitantly, holding a tricornered hat on the table beside him. Despite his stomach’s uneasiness, he stood steady. Heavy of heart, he left the tavern. Accompanied by two American officers, one on each side, Andre marched, head held high, towards a nearby hill, the martial music of the American fifers and drummers quickened his steps. Outwardly he appeared relaxed, even cheerful, as he trod in the best military bearing between files of troops and a crowd of civilians who had gathered to witness his fate. Still the prisoner’s insides churned into pure jelly, wobbly, vacillating, weak and sickly. As he ed them, Andre acknowledged Tallmadge and other officers with whom he was acquainted by bowing politely. They reciprocated. Saddened by the spectacle, Ben fought back tears and a lump in his throat.

When the British Major saw the rope dangling from the tree on the hill and the

baggage wagon below, he paused momentarily. His stomach nearly deserted him. Deluded, Andre expected a firing squad, a more honorable means of execution and the one he had requested, rather than being hung like an ordinary spy.

“Why such emotion?” stiffly asked the American officer who marched next to him.

Rapidly recovering his composure, he exclaimed, “I am resigned to my death, but I hate the manner.”

With little ceremony, the fifers switched to a military dirge, drums rolled in . Andre paused again when he reached the stepping stone behind the wagon under a huge gnarled tulip tree. At last he climbed up without escorts. On the wooden platform he cringed before the rope that swung in the breeze off the river. Posing more erect with greater effort, he took control of himself. This was a day of reckoning, he realized at last. Dreams of glory and riches would vanish forever. He would never meet friends and family again.

“It’ll be but a moment’s pain,” he said matter-of-factly, as he removed two white handkerchiefs from a pocket. Tossing a hat aside, Andre firmly secured one piece across the face for a blindfold and slipped the noose over his head and neck. Colonel Scammell, the provost marshall, holding the other kerchief, tied the major’s hands loosely behind the back.

“Is there anything you would like to say?” asked the colonel.

“Report I have met my fate like a brave man,” Andre declared softly but with conviction.

“Your wish will be granted.” The colonel stepped down and away from the wagon. The lowering of an arm signaled the driver to move forward. The wagon abruptly pulled away to leave Andre dangling in mid-air after a quick jerk. He died instantly, a hero to fellow countrymen, and was buried on the side of a tulip tree where he had been hung.

Andre had believed that Arnold’s defection would result in America’s undoing. Instead it resulted in his own. In a sense, he had been hoisted on his own petard.

CHAPTER XXII - SABOTAGE AND KIDNAP

At the Sanctuary, the odor of beef and mutton fat, boiling in large iron pots that dangled from the huge fireplace, pervaded Emma Ryan’s kitchen. In a white bonnet that fit snugly over her reddish brown hair, the widow was busily ladling hot renderings into vertical tin cylinders, each with a braided cotton strand in the center. Afterward, she placed them on the large, round pine table to let them cool and gel. That late fall day the task was to make enough candles for the long winter. She filled more cylinders, then spooned the yellowish liquid tallow into horizontal molds. These she rested on a work bench against the wall. A practical creature, she had decided to make bars of soap out of the tallow at the same time.

McDuffy entered the kitchen through the backdoor – a sturdy portal made of vertical oak boards, strengthened by a z-shaped brace inside. The door, pushed with more force than he intended, slammed shut.

“Oh you big, clumsy brute, you scared me half to death,” Emma scolded in a mild voice, laced with maternal overtones.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” His nose wrinkled at the smell of cooking fat and face reddened. She always caught him doing something oafish or stupid. “What ya doing?” he asked, in the hope of distracting her.

“Can’t you see?” she gently retorted. “It is as plain as the nose on your face.”

She had caught him again. When around her, he seemed to be in a non-thinking funk. It was as though he was a child, and his mother was taking him to task for

one too many blunders. As an adult this sort of thing had rarely happened to him until this lengthy encounter with the widow Ryan. Why do certain women have such a profound effect on men? wondered McDuffy dismally.

As she bent over the fireplace to inspect the tallow in the pots, McDuffy gave her ample bottom an affectionate goose with his huge mitt. She flinched, straightened and screamed in protest at the same instant. “Such liberties, Sergeant, and we’re not even married yet.”

Emma Ryan smiled to herself, aware she enjoyed these intimate touches yet intent on preserving a lady-like image. “Why, you are a dirty old man. I have half a mind to use this new soap on you.”

“Soap, soap!” howled McDuffy, as the awful vision of being thrust into a hot bath clouded his mind. “I don’t like soap at all, especially on my person.”

“If I could only get it inside that brain of yours, I would scrub the gray matter clean. Perhaps then you would behave yourself.”

“Ah, Emma, ya knows how I feels about ya! Ain’t no good hiding it.”

“Alas, that is a poor excuse,” she retorted, as if she were reprimanding a little boy.

Late that afternoon, Luke rode up to the Sanctuary on horseback from Croton where he had met Ben Tallmadge. The long ride under the strong autumn sun

had made him hot and thirsty. Dismounting, he led the horse to the wellhead and lowered the bucket to the water below.

When it reemerged, Luke swung it over the well’s side, then poured most of the water into a trough. The horse drooped its head to drink, the animal’s slurping prompted Luke to laugh. At last he grabbed a ladle on the side of the wellhead to greedily imbibe from the bucket. The crystal pure fluid, cool and refreshing, brought instant relief to a parched throat.

Unsaddling the horse, Luke let it loose to feed in the north pasture. Just as the sun began to dip below the mountains on the river’s far side, the low-lying haze, like a prism, refracted the star’s light into luminescent hues of orange, yellow, gold, and crimson throughout the western sky. At first the mountains acted as the sun’s stage, then a curtain to bring the astounding spectacle to a gradual end. Although he had studied astronomy, Luke possessed little knowledge of the scientific principles behind such phenomena. Still, he tried to theorize about them, an intellectual exercise that merged into an odd smattering of philosophical ruminations.

Amidst the reddish afterglow, Luke walked back to the house. In the last few months, life had settled down into a predictable routine. The medical practice at the Sanctuary absorbed most of the time. Patients came to him from Westchester County, Connecticut and even New York City. A reputation as the best physician in the region produced a lengthy stream of people at his door. There was no discrimination because of political affinity. He did not bleed them with leeches or cutting instruments, nor were amputations for gunshot wounds or broken bones a part of the techniques employed. Common sense prevailed in treatments as did native medicinal remedies, cleanliness, bed rest and prescribed diet. Who cared if these ran against the grain of medical convention? They worked.

Gathering intelligence for Tallmadge still demanded much of Luke. Whether gleaned from patients, the neighbors or Betsy Cromwell, the information was

systematically digested, analyzed, and coded, then delivered to the major almost as soon as it was received. Now once a month Luke was allowed to visit Anne and the children to revel in their company for a day or two.

This routine satisfied a need to both practice medicine and serve his country without violating any professional oath to save and not take lives. It also offered him a sense of security and comfort, knowing what to expect each day, planning ahead, rarely being surprised or taken off guard. As he grew older, he came to appreciate the value of order and neatness around him even though he did little to foster them. For such benefits Emma Ryan and McDuffy deserved the credit.

Because of this lulling routine, Luke at times grew restless and bored. No longer active in militia exercises, he missed the youthful excitement of the hunts with his uncle, the horse races between his brother Matthew and cousins, swimming in the lake at the mountain village. Plainly the sedentary life, while it fulfilled more cultivated tastes, failed to satisfy something basic within him. Perhaps that explains why he waxed so enthusiastic about the new mission proposed by Tallmadge.

Tallmadge’s words drifted back to Luke as if even now the major sat beside him in the Sanctuary’s parlor.

“You are aware,” Tallmadge had said, “of the dreadful state of our currency.” This problem had gnawed at Tallmadge for some time.

“You mean the fact Congress cannot collect revenue from the states and so fails to properly supply or pay the Army?”

“No, not that problem, although they are interrelated. We print Continental dollars, and the states issue their own notes. Because there is too much paper money in circulation, its value has plummeted. Inflation is rampant.”

“So I’ve heard tell,” Luke remarked. “Truth is it takes more and more dollars to buy fewer commodities.”

“The British have further undermined our currency by counterfeiting. They print and distribute bogus American bills! Then publicize these deeds, which increases people’s doubts about our money.”

“Can’t we nab them when they it out?”

“It is mere folly, even when we hang or shoot the few culprits we do catch.” Tallmadge frowned. “Tories pay tax bills, purchase goods and cattle with fake money. We’re helpless because people who accept phony bills are unfamiliar with them, and just much too much is coming through too many different channels.”

“A solution has to exist.”

“We must stop it at the source!”

After dinner Luke brought out two long-stemmed clay pipes and a leather pouch, something he rarely did. In the parlor he offered a pipe to McDuffy as Emma Ryan was serving coffee. Before long, both men were filling the room with

smoke rings.

“What an awful habit,” the widow complained from a seat next to McDuffy on the sofa. She fanned the air with a hand to drive away the fumes and coughed for effect. “Please stop or at least do it outside.”

“You have my solemn promise,” Luke told her, “we’ll only do it out of doors henceforth.”

Luke ticked off the problems posed by British counterfeiting. “Through our own agents, we have pinpointed the center of their operations, three printing plants in Manhattan,” he explained. “Our job is to destroy them. We’ll leave the day after tomorrow. So Emma, please don’t schedule any more appointments for me.”

“On one condition,” Emma Ryna said. “Each of you must quit smoking!”

The two men grinned at one another.

On the morning of their departure, McDuffy began to load an open wagon in the Sanctuary’s barn. Uncovering a false bottom, he stuffed the low-slung box with muskets, pistols, gunpowder and empty canteens, then filled the large bin above with loose, home-grown potatoes. Once he had saddled Luke’s horse, he reentered the house.

“Everything is finished,” he said.

“Good, I’m all set,” Luke replied. “Let’s go then.”

“Not so fast, you two.” Emma Ryan grabbed McDuffy, raised up on her tiptoes and kissed him flush on the lips. “Take care of yourself, you big galoot, to come back with all your hands and feet intact, and for God’s sakes don’t get caught.” She cried and sniffled, then wiped the tears away with a white handkerchief before her tight grasp gripped McDuffy’s hand in strides together to the front door.

The men left under overcast skies, the weather cool and crisp. Luke rode ahead of the wagon, which McDuffy drove. Their first destination was the Cromwell mansion. At the King’s Bridge, the guards waved them both on – the sight of scarce food shipments made them more lax. The spies reached the mansion before noon and put the horses and wagon in the Cromwell barn. Once outside, dark clouds released stored water on the earth to baptize them when they sprinted toward the house. By the time they burst through the front door, conveniently opened by a male servant, the two were soaked.

“A fine way to make an entrance,” Betsy Cromwell stood in the foyer clad in a long satin dress. “Where have good manners and breeding gone, I ask you?”

“Clearly to the dogs or to hell in British-held territory,” shot back Luke, water dripping on the marble floor from his coat.

“Let’s not speak ill of our gracious occupiers,” she chided. “The King’s men are so charming and obliging.”

Only Luke could see her wink. Anyone overhearing her remarks would have

sworn she had been a loyal subject of the Crown; anyone watching her countenance would have concluded her politics seemed dubious at best.

“And who is this giant of a man?” she asked, with a swift turn toward McDuffy.

“Pardon me,” Luke said and made introductions.

“How do, Ma’am.” McDuffy doffed his hat in a feeble gesture to put a best foot forward.

Betsy nodded and laughed. “You two will surely need dry clothes. At least you’ve arrived in time for lunch. And I know my kitchen will have to please hearty appetites.”

Why did he get all the uninteresting chores? muttered McDuffy to himself the next day while trudging through the cobblestone streets of lower Manhattan. The doctor gets to play with the bombs, eat that good food and talk to the grand lady at her mansion, McDuffy sadly reflected. Here I am, walking around, inspecting ugly old buildings. Now, what did the good doctor tell me to watch out for? He paused. Yes, indeed, I recall. He said note the size of the buildings, the type of construction and the positions of the presses within, ground-level windows and doors.

McDuffy had little difficulty gathering the required information. A greater concern was ing what he saw. He could not write anything down for fear of being caught with something incriminating on his person. A good memory was hardly a strong point. In most situations easily distracted, McDuffy struggled to concentrate on what was necessary, so now he repeated things again

and again until preserved in his mind.

After breakfast, Luke removed enough of the potatoes from the wagon in the Cromwell barn to open the false bottom and extract the equipment. Having placed the muskets and pistols in a concealed portion under the hayloft, Luke took the powder kegs and canteens to a long workbench propped up against an outer wall. He unbuckled the saddlebags lying in the corner, took out a brown box, then put it on the bench. For the rest of the morning, he filled the canteens with gunpowder and inserted a special mechanism from the box into each. This was a timer, compliments of Hans Reinhardt’s genius, that would ignite the powder charge at a set hour. Hans had refined the original invention to vastly improve it. Adjustments on each device and the careful assembly of the explosives done, Luke hid them behind bales of hay, stacked in the corner. During the afternoon he cleaned the muskets and pistols, then took target practice in the meadow south of the barn.

Upon McDuffy’s return from the city, the three spies had dinner together. Later the men retreated to the library while Betsy prepared a coded report for Tallmadge. There McDuffy briefed Luke on the printing firms he had surveyed, and they devised a strategy.

The next afternoon the pair left for the city. On the approach to the first target, a four-story brick building, they dismounted, just as the sun was setting, while casually glancing up and down the street. Apart from a few patrons entering a tavern a block away, the neighborhood remained deserted. The brick building itself stood dark except for a dim light barely visible in one room on the third floor. With the day fading rapidly, this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Luke unstrapped the saddlebags, threw them over a shoulder and beckoned McDuffy to follow. They crossed the street to reach the building’s rear through a narrow alley next to a blacksmith’s shop.

This was an entirely new experience for McDuffy. Before the war he had been a

farmer in western Massachusetts who had hunted and occasionally fought Indians. As a big rough-and-tumble sort, he had naturally taken to soldiering and loved a good fight with muskets blazing or hand-to-hand combat. Even in the brief career as a spy, he had always acted as a messenger who traipsed through enemy territory before returning safely with the desired intelligence. A gift of gab and an ability to deceive became talents especially suited to this line of work. Still, unaccustomed to planting explosives, the idea of destroying objects made him uneasy.

After surveying the building’s rear, Luke whispered and pointed. “Put one of these canteen specials in the side room through that window. I’m going into the cellar.”

“Yes, sir,” McDuffy said, nervously holding the device, his hand shook slightly. He recognized the operation took finesse as doubts clouded his face. He hesitated.

“The timer is set.” Luke murmured, sensitive to his partner’s uncertainty. “All you have to do is open the window and put it in the room.” He disappeared down the outer stairs.

Alone, McDuffy obeyed orders and lumbered to the window. It opened easily enough, the room smothered in darkness. When he swung the canteen from his shoulder, placing it on the floor inside, he accidentally hit a small table. He tried to grab a leg before it fell but missed. The table and pewter candlestick on top crashed loudly on the floor. Hastily shutting the window, McDuffy rushed back to where Luke waited, hands on hips.

“What was that noise?” Luke asked.

“I knocked over a table,” McDuffy itted, embarrassed.

“Still playing the fool even when the widow Ryan is not around,” teased Luke. “Let’s take our leave and quickly, Sergeant.”

They ran down the alley, walked across the still-deserted street and mounted the horses. Apparently, McDuffy’s mishap had not aroused anyone’s suspicion. With no reason to linger, the pair headed for the next target, setting off at a canter. There, McDuffy performed irably and felt much better about himself.

As they rode toward the last target, the street remained deserted. Anxious to finish, McDuffy sprinted ahead. Luke, whose horse only trotted, lost sight of McDuffy in the half light cast by the moon. At an intersection, two British soldiers with muskets jumped out in front of him. His horse halted.

“Where the devil do ya think you are goin,’ matey?” asked the taller one. They had left a neighborhood tavern minutes before.

“Just down the road to visit friends.” Luke tried to appear casual and relaxed. What bad luck, he thought.

“I’ll wager this one’s a thief or a highwayman,” said the shorter redcoat to his cohort.

Neither soldier appeared too sober. Luke, weary from the day’s efforts, perceived

that the soldiers’ drunkenness could make them even more dangerous.

“What’s in that canteen?” The taller of the two poked a gun at it. “I’m thirsty.”

“Nothing much,” Luke said. “You sure do not want to try it.”

“Give it here, let me see for myself,” slurred the soldier. Less than steady on his feet, he swayed a bit.

Luke hesitated.

“What’s keeping you?” The redcoat jerked the musket upward. “Are you a damn fool, or what?”

“He’s trying to spare you some grief.” McDuffy rode up behind the soldiers.

“What da ya mean?” asked the shorter one.

“You don’t wanna drink the stuff in the canteen,” McDuffy stated flatly. “Your guts’ll turn somersaults.”

“You can’t scare us with such talk,” the tall one declared. “What’s in it, if you’re so blasted smart?”

“It’s hard cider, turned real sour. Drink it, and you won’t keep anything down for days.” McDuffy rubbed his stomach with a glum expression. “I speak from experience. Now if there’s something tasty you want, try some of this rum.” He brandished a blue flask he tossed in the air a few times and caught with a free hand.

“Give it here,” the shorter soldier cried.

“I can’t throw it that far,” McDuffy said. “You might miss it, and where would that leave us? Come on over here.” He waved the blue bottle.

Both redcoats hurried to McDuffy’s side lest the other get the hard liquor and leave his own thirst unquenched. McDuffy tossed the bottle to the shorter chap, and the other soldier grabbed it. While they struggled, McDuffy whipped out a hidden pair of pistols and forcefully rapped the brass-plated handles on their skulls. The comrades-in-arms fell to the ground unconscious. Dismounting, McDuffy dragged them into an alley, stripped their clothing, gagged them, then tied hands and feet with belts and jackets.

After setting the final charges, Luke and McDuffy rode calmly north toward the Cromwell mansion. As they reached the city’s outskirts, the first set of explosions boomed, a burst of firelight beaming along the skyline. The second and third explosions soon followed.

“Sergeant,” Luke said in a jovial mood, “you indeed earned my respect tonight. Well done.” He must to tell Hans Reinhardt how splendidly the timers performed.

“Thank you, sir,” McDuffy answered, proud he had redeemed himself.

A few days later, when Luke and McDuffy returned to the Sanctuary, an unexpected guest awaited them. In a red silk dress brushed by golden curls, Renee Keppler appeared even more alluring and irresistible than usual. She sat on the parlor sofa, tapping one delicate foot.

“I’ve been waiting here for two days, Luke,” she complained with a strained smile. “Where have you been? Doctors should always stay close to home for their patients’ sake.”

“I’m sorry we took so long. I had to deliver some foodstuffs to Betsy Cromwell.”

“Sure,” she uttered in disbelief. “Doctors have nothing better to do. May I at least get a kiss for all my troubles?”

“Of course.” Luke bent and gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek.

“So ionate,” she said.

“And how are your parents?” he asked.

“They’re well,” she said brusquely. “But you’ve been a stranger. I expected a visit from you at the very least.”

“Oh, I’m quite busy tending to patients here.” He intentionally omitted any mention of visits to Anne and the children.

“Forgotten me so soon?”

“Never, you remain a permanent fixture in my life and always will be.” He spoke the words lightly, but for that, they were no less true. Now, seeing her, taking in her beauty, he began to feel that old longing.

After dinner, they walked along a path on top of the river’s high eastern shore. The night was cool, but beautiful. A full constellation of stars lit their way.

“Are you cold?” he asked

“Yes, a bit.” She gave a shiver.

“Here. Take my coat. We cannot have you catching cold. Your mother would never forgive me.”

“She would never hold you responsible. Not her precious godson, Luke. But what about you? You cannot afford to get ill. That would be a pity.”

“I’ll be all right. Please don’t fret.”

Thankful, she snuggled up in his coat, drawing instant comfort from the new layer of warmth placed over the shawl. On the edge of the bluff, they stopped to watch the starlight shine on the river’s darkened surface. She placed her arm around his waist and he automatically reached over to cradle her shoulder. Head resting on his chest, eyes closed, she wished life had somehow treated her differently.

In her embrace stood the only man who had ever made her happy. He had been a part of her life since the beginning of time. Then, for whatever inexplicable reason, he had disappeared. Many years later, as if by magic, he reappeared. For Renee it seemed all too baffling. Her sweetheart – here, gone, later reemerging. During his absence she, left to her own devices and poor judgment, had sunk into a quagmire. Would he now save her from personal fallibility?

“I wish this moment would last forever,” she said. “But I know it cannot. I was hoping we could be together again like in our youth. It was so idyllic back then.”

“You know my situation,” he replied.

“Yes. My father made it very clear when I arrived home. It was the first time he ever shouted at me, forbidding me to see you again and sternly reminding me you are a married man with two young children. He tried to make me feel guilty, but I don’t.” She shook her head. “You were mine first. Circumstances outside our control drove you from me.”

“Geography and time have not worked in our favor. Just when we realized how we actually felt about each other, I was posted to Yale against my will. And later you traveled in Europe for all those years.”

“I recall all too well, but we were so much younger then.”

“Each of us led different lives during our separation. And took on new obligations. Now you’ve gained your freedom and I have not.”

“Do you still feel as much for me as before?”

“When I see and talk to you, the old feelings come rushing back despite the time that has ed.”

“I sensed that when we were together at Betsy’s house.”

“You looked so radiant, and I so plain and drab in your presence.”

She turned toward him and they ionately clung to one another, hands and lips feverishly indulging desires.

Luke’s mind churned while he lay alone in bed later that night. Could he be in love with his wife and Renee in varied ways? And because of the lengthy involvement with each, had he become more drawn to the one he was with at the moment? Perhaps he even ired different qualities in these endearing ladies.

Drifting back in time to reclaim the ions of youth, he slipped into a sound sleep.

At the edge of a meadow, clothed only in a nightshirt, Luke walked along a dark path through the forest. A mist arose as he wandered deeper into the woods. Lonesome howls from wolves singed his ears, but they failed to frighten him. Shafts of light pierced the haze, then the unrecognizable face of a fair maiden floated toward him, vanishing just when he reached out to touch her. In the darkness he fell through a hole in the ground and plunged in a long free-fall until a warm pool of clear water absorbed him. Unharmed, he breathed magically below the surface, the glowing image of the same lady skimming toward him. Once he swam near her, the image dissolved before him. Again and again, he turned in the water to search for her, but to no avail. Never tiring, he stroked throughout the entire pool, trapped in an endless flow.

The next morning, when he woke, the memory of the dream had evaporated with Renee’s departure for her parent’s home. Yet emotions roiled in an unfathomable stew. Still naïve about women and their wiles, especially white women, Luke stumbled on unknowingly, as confused as ever, unable to understand his true feelings. About men, white or Indian, his perceptions had grown sharper over the years. Not easily fooled, he sensed when they told the truth, lied or exaggerated.

As the handsome young major walked back to his tent along the river during a fall afternoon, he recognized the enormity of the assignment entrusted to him by the Army’s commander-in-chief. At twenty-four, Major Harry Lee, nicknamed Light Horse, led a crack regiment of dragoons. They were often victorious in many encounters with the enemy. The cavalry normally functioned as an Army’s eyes and ears, fanning out in front of it. So gathering intelligence had become second nature to Lee and his unit. However, this newly assigned task, though a stealthy act, seemed plainly different and troubling.

Pressed by Washington, Lee had selected the one man in the outfit who could

most likely carry it off: Sergeant Major John Champe, a fellow Virginian about his own age. Tall and powerfully-built, Champe had displayed courage and resourcefulness in combat. But would he agree to do it? The mission’s danger was not likely to scare him off. Of that, Lee was sure. Still the potential ignominy in the preliminaries would indeed upset him.

When Lee dismounted at the Tappan, New York headquarters, he summoned Champe to the command tent.

“Sergeant, what I’m about to tell you must be kept in strict confidence and comes directly from General Washington,” Lee said. “The general wants to send an agent into Manhattan to kidnap someone important. However, to appear absolutely authentic, the agent has to first desert our forces and afterward enlist in the British Army.”

“Sir,” said Champe, “if you are asking me to volunteer, I just couldn’t do that.” He clenched the fist at his side.

“General Washington has honored our unit by asking for a volunteer. I’ve chosen you because, in my opinion, you are the best man for the job.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but deserting? Then ing their Army?”

“I understand your misgivings. But when you discover the goal, you’ll see how crucial it is. There exists only one way this can be done.”

Lee divulged the plan, convincing the reluctant Champe at the same time. Initially, Champe must fake an escape.

Champe secured a horse, saddlebags and a cloak. For the tale to have more credence in British eyes, he stole the unit’s orderly book, the recorded orders issued from headquarters. After quietly leading a horse on foot to the edge of the camp, he galloped off into the darkening woods toward New Jersey.

Not far from camp, Champe slowed the horse to elude a ing American cavalry patrol. Unluckily for him, he had been seen in the twilight. Ordered to halt, he ignored them, spurring the horse on and fleeing with three of the patrol in pursuit.

Back at headquarters, Light Horse Harry tried to sleep, but concern for Champe’s fate kept him shifting ceaselessly from one side of the cot to the other. The officer of the day, an ambitious captain named Ebert, burst into the tent and shook him.

“Sir,” he cried, “we’ve spotted a suspicious-looking dragoon. He seems to be deserting.”

“What are you doing, Captain?” In a pretense at sleep, Lee appeared disturbed. “Can’t you see I’ve retired? What is so damn critical?”

Ebert repeated the accusations.

“That seems too incredible to contemplate.” Lee sat up in the cot. “I dare say you’ve made a mistake.”

“We believe he’s one of your men, sir.”

“Impossible. My unit’s record remains impeccable.” Ebert was just too damn efficient and eager, thought Light Horse.

In his skepticism Ebert had difficulty grasping the major’s slow reaction. After all Lee possessed a reputation for being astute and aggressive, but in this instance he bumbled, stubbornly resisting the truth. Perhaps still tired, he was not quite awake. Ebert had already given orders to form another patrol to pursue the suspected deserter. Without receiving any instruction from Lee, he left to see if it was ready, then later returned.

“It’s Sergeant-Major Champe,” Ebert said. “And he has taken the unit’s orderly book.”

“It couldn’t be Champe. Not a man of such character and ability. Never.”

Having lost patience with this commanding officer, Ebert grew irritated although he did his best to restrain himself.

Surprisingly Lee rambled on about the recent lack of discipline in the regiment. “Are you sure he didn’t go visit a local lass, like our officers do sometimes?”

“Sir, I’m convinced he has deserted!”

“All right, you have made your point.”

Lee dragged things out a little longer by appointing an officer other than Ebert to lead the chase. When that officer appeared, Lee instructed him verbally and in writing on how to proceed. More precious time elapsed for Champe to escape. At last Lee sent the officer on his way, bidding him, “Good bye and good luck,” with tongue in cheek.

Meanwhile, Champe had been riding hard south along a narrow dirt road toward New Jersey. His progress was stymied because he could not travel in a direct line; he had to zigzag from time to time to avoid American patrols and encampments. The weather too changed. It had started to rain. Now and then the horse lost its footing in the soft, moist earth, and the ground highlighted the hoof prints. To make matters worse, all the horses in Champe’s unit had been shod with the same identifying mark. Much to his disappointment, no other horsemen had ridden this road tonight. So his tracks would stick out, not be confused or erased.

At dawn the rain stopped, but a mist sporadically twisted through the surrounding woods. Though weary from the night’s ride, Champe still charged forward. Over a shoulder in the early morning light, he detected pursuers about half a mile back at the top of a hill. Having briefly dismounted to search for tracks, they pointed in his direction and hurriedly remounted. He suspected they would try to cut him off further down the road by way of a well-known shortcut. Instead of continuing south, he decided to veer east, slice through Bergen and cross the Hudson River higher up. In that village, the horse’s tracks, to his relief, completely disappeared on the stone-covered streets.

Champe’s pursuers headed back through Bergen to pick up his tracks on the other side. The chase proceeded with renewed vigor. When he reached the road’s end along the Hudson, Champe dismounted and grabbed the saddlebags. Two British men of war sailed midstream. In haste he waded through the marsh before diving into the water. As he swam toward the ships, the pursuers raced to the river bank, firing muskets at him. Once desertion became apparent, the British captain of one ship launched a small boat to rescue the swimmer. Both ships fired cannons at the Americans on the shore to cover Champe’s escape.

Weighed down with clothes, boots and saddlebags, Champe labored through the waters. The swift downstream current pulled and pushed at arms and legs. The wind had whipped up an annoying chop that slapped his face and stung eyes, sometimes swamping him. Exhausted from a lack of sleep and the night’s long ride, Champe swam with shorter, less rhythmic strokes. He was faltering badly when all at once powerful hands lifted him out of the river and jerked him into the bottom of the jolly boat like a floundering seal, gasping for breath. Precious air, where are you? he wondered wildly, near panic. Ah, there – there you are.

Life returned as he spit up swallowed fluids. Devoid of water, his lungs recovered, full quotas of air pumping through them. Though the pursuers had put him through hell, they had aided him greatly. For no better validation of desertion could have been submitted than this wild chase with guns blazing on both sides.

The captain of the British warship readily accepted Champe’s tale of defection. The next day on shore in Manhattan, Champe presented a British colonel with the captain’s written description of the escape. He repeated the story to the officer, then to an aide of Sir Henry Clinton at headquarters on lower Broadway, where he handed over the unit’s orderly book. Impressed and jubilant with such a catch, the aide soon ushered Champe into the presence of the British commander-in-chief.

During this last year, events had not favored Sir Henry Clinton militarily. General Wayne’s surprise capture of Stony Point triggered ill fortune. The American raid on the British fort at Paulus Hook, led by Light Horse Harry Lee, soon followed. The missed opportunity to squelch the French landing at Newport and the failure to take West Point with Arnold’s defection also loomed large in his psyche. Personal criticisms for these setbacks flowed steadily from London in official communiqués, reports of Parliamentary debates and general gossip. Defensive, Clinton blamed subordinates for being ill-prepared and the Navy’s ineptitude, especially for the Newport disaster. Besides he chronically complained about not having sufficient troops and ships to conduct the war properly.

Clinton’s personal life had also been particularly unsettling of late. John Andre’s execution still plagued him. The combination of guilt for having sent him on such a perilous mission and the loss of a favorite companion unnerved him. He could not sleep or work. The hanging drove Clinton into sporadic tirades against Washington. he viewed the American general as nothing but an unmitigated murderer. The death of his mistress’ husband, a British sergeant, too disturbed him, for gossip circulated that Clinton had intentionally sent him into battle to eliminate the fellow from the awkward triangle.

Shy and aloof, Clinton had lost a father at an early age and suffered through his mother’s insanity in her later years. Both his wife and son had died prematurely from illnesses. Because his mental underpinnings had never been that secure, his current troubles weighed more heavily on him than they might have on another commander with a strong makeup. He shifted unpredictably back and forth between lethargy and frenetic activity. Physically, he had his troubles, too. He was still weaken from an arsenic poisoning aboard a British warship, a murder attempt he imagined to be the handiwork of Governor Livingston of New Jersey in an arcane plot on his life. All the more reason why the arrival of this defector should put Clinton in an unusually jovial mood.

“I say, are there others like you in the Continental Army, ready to defect?”

Clinton asked Champe.

“I believe there are, sir.”

“How might we encourage more desertions?”

“Time’ll work to your advantage, and taking proper measures like spreading rumors of a rebel collapse or smearing their leaders.” Champe encouraged his illusions. “Things are not going well for them. They lack food, equipment, pay – and this lengthy war has sapped morale and destroyed the will to fight.”

Champe spoke at some length, sketching a dismal picture of American resolve and military capacity.

“Well, Sergeant, I’m delighted to hear you say that.” Clinton grew enthusiastic. “It is sweet music to my ears. I urge you to General Arnold’s newly formed American Legion. One of my aides is preparing a letter of introduction for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I would like to give you a small token of my appreciation for what you have done.” Clinton reached into his pants’ pocket, pulled out two English singlepound notes and handed them to Champe.

Champe accepted the gift and forced the smile that Clinton expected.

“Sir, your kindness is greatly appreciated.”

Annoyance would be an understatement for how Luke felt that evening in the Red Bull Tavern on Wall Street. Major David Humphreys, Luke’s college friend, recently appointed as a key aide to Washington, had ordered McDuffy and Luke back to Manhattan. While Ben Tallmadge was off raiding Fort Salonga on Long Island, Humphreys temporarily took charge of spying – and technically became Luke’s superior. Though tactful, Humphreys had refused to tell McDuffy or Luke anything about the mission. That became especially galling. They were instructed to go to this tavern, meet a tall man with a white handkerchief in the upper left breast pocket of a coat, and assist him in executing his plans. Meanwhile, a third straight night ed as they waited for the mysterious Mr. X to show up.

The tavern was not well lit. Alone at a corner table in the large public room sat Luke while McDuffy leaned over the bar closer to the front door. Restless and uncomfortable, Luke drank lukewarm ale from a pewter mug, then shifted a chair away from the table, scratching its legs along the sand-strewn, pine planks.

The front door opened, and three noisy redcoats entered to demand rum from the proprietor behind the bar. What a wild goose chase, Luke told himself. He glanced away to hide his disgruntlement. How he hated to wait, especially for no good reason.

Just as Luke signaled McDuffy with a nod for them to leave, the front door opened again. This time a tall man in a green uniform quietly slipped through the entrance to approach the bar. A white handkerchief festooned an outer coat in the correct position. After a moment McDuffy ambled over to him and smiled.

“Do ya have some tobacco I might try?” asked McDuffy innocently enough. “The war’s made it damn hard to get anything of good quality.”

“To be sure, but what kind of pipe are you smoking?” inquired Champe.

“Briar,” came the reply.

“I like corncob myself. Gives a richer taste”

The coded identification had been completed. Each knew the other was the party sought. They had drinks together and chatted about the weather and boats sailing in and out of the harbor. Soon afterward Luke left by the rear door while McDuffy and Champe went out the front of the tavern. At a deserted wharf on the East River, the three met ten minutes later. A stiff breeze off the water rustled the ships’ riggings on the dock to cloak their words.

“Have they told you anything about this chore of ours?” asked Champe.

“Not a word.” Luke was frustrated to the bone.

“We’re here to kidnap an important man,” Champe said.

“Who is that?” inquired McDuffy.

“None other than the infamous Benedict Arnold.”

“Na, you are joking.” McDuffy scoffed. “It must be some old wives’ tale ya picked up on the docks.” Because he lied so often, he presumed a similar trait in others.

“Now, there is a prize worth taking!” Luke exclaimed. “You’re sure he’s our target?”

“Indeed. Which one of you two knows what he looks like?” Champe prodded.

“I do,” responded Luke.

“That’s one reason they sent you. But now I’ve met him personally. In point of fact, I’ve enlisted in Arnold’s American Legion at his invitation.”

“All right, sir.” Luke rubbed his hands together, anxious to get on with the task. “Tell us your plan.”

“I’ve thoroughly surveyed the outside of Arnold’s residence,” Champe told them, “and I am familiar with his daily habits. The general usually comes home late each night. After dinner, he goes into the garden before retiring.”

“For a constitutional?” asked a bewildered McDuffy.

“No, to use the privy!” Champe corrected him.

“Continue, please,” Luke advised. “What are we to do?”

“When he’s in the garden, so to speak, we’ll grab him,” Champe said. “Then, bound and gagged, we’ll carry him to a small boat moored this side of the Hudson. One of you will help me seize him, the other will man the boat. We’ll row him to New Jersey at night where our troops will take him off our hands.”

“How do we enter the garden undetected?” Luke asked.

“I’ll loosen a few boards in the fence beforehand,” Champe explained. “We will meet at eleven o’clock p.m. Thursday night, three days from now, at the corner of Church and Chambers Streets. There is a stately three-story brick residence one cannot miss. We’ll need a longboat to cross the river.”

“Don’t worry,” McDuffy said. “I’ll take care of that.”

On the appointed night, Luke arrived early and found where Arnold resided with ease. He lingered in the shadows of an elm tree. The house appeared dark and unoccupied. The neighborhood went unpatrolled, and no guards were posted outside Arnold’s abode. Though the lack of activity struck him as strange, Luke continued to wait. At last growing weary, he withdrew a watch from a waistcoat’s pocket. The time was 11:30. Champe was already a half hour late, and where was Arnold?

At midnight the situation had not changed – no Champe and no Arnold. Something must have gone awry, reasoned Luke. Perhaps the British had gotten wind of the plot from a spy and seized Champe.

From the darkness a man strode toward him. With a quick step behind the tree to conceal himself, Luke strained to see who was coming. The man was large all right. It could be Champe or someone else. When the man ed the tree, Luke jumped out and grabbed him from the rear.

“What is this?” shouted the man. “I’ll teach you a lesson.”

Luke recognized the voice and released his grip. “McDuffy,” he said, “it’s me, Dr. Davidson. Keep your voice down.”

“Oh, sir, I didn’t know,” McDuffy whispered. “I waited and waited, and no one showed up. I got worried, then came to help.”

“Neither Champe nor Arnold seems to be here. It had been a fool’s errand after all.”

Dejected and disappointed, both men walked off toward the Cromwell mansion.

The next day, after making a few discrete inquiries, Betsy discovered that in preparation for Arnold’s Virginia invasion, his quarters had been moved closer to the ships for the transport of the American Legion. By this late date much of the

fighting in the war had shifted to the South. As part of Arnold’s unit, Champe had been forced to spend the night on board a British man-of-war, which had sailed off that morning. Accidental circumstances and poor timing, Luke later reported to David Humphreys, had ruined the plot.

Humphreys sympathized, for he too had been thwarted in an earlier attempt to kidnap Sir Henry Clinton. On that occasion bad weather had blown the boats off course that carried Humphreys and comrades down the Hudson. Instead of landing on Manhattan, as planned, they were marooned on Staten Island and had to retreat on foot upriver through New Jersey.

CHAPTER XXIII - COHORTS IN CRIME

At dawn noise shattered the air. Escape from the penetrating tattoo seemed impossible. Oblivious to all, a yellow-shafted flicker dutifully performed a genetically designed function on a tall, dead cedar. The woodpecker either sought ants, which would be devoured with a flick of a long, sticky tongue, or it carved a nesting hole for a mate. The bird diligently pecked away at the tree with a strong bill, flying wood chips, dust and a deepening cavity marked its progress.

In the headquarters not far from the British fort at Lloyd’s Neck on Long Island, Captain Paul Keppler was sound asleep in a second floor bedroom. Drugged by a night’s overindulgence on rum and ale, he had staggered to bed in the early morning hours. Despite a deep slumber something began to disturb him. A sound – strange, steady, unceasing – tortured the subconscious mind. Gradually the noise spilled over into consciousness. He could not shut it out; whatever it was demanded attention and finally woke him. Wincing at the loud rapping, he struggled out of bed to weave his way unsteadily to the window. In Paul’s bleary-eyed field of vision lurked the same yellow-shafted flicker.

“Sergeant,” Paul shouted, “Sergeant Norton, where the hell are you?”

Norton scampered up the stairs from the ground floor, knocked over a small table in the hallway but reached the captain’s room in record time.

“Yes, sir,” Norton reported, as he crashed through the open doorway out of breath.

“Go outside and stop that confounded noise,” commanded Paul. “And do it now.”

“What noise might that be, sir?” asked Norton whose own ears were less than fit, their nerve-endings shattered from years of musket fire at close quarters.

“Are you deaf, man? That bloody bird over there!” Paul gestured toward the grove of trees outside the window.

Within minutes Norton had found the enterprising woodpecker. Yelling and waving arms, he hoped to drive it off. However, the bird did not budge. Norton threw rocks, but, with an aim so askew, failed to pose a real threat. Undeterred, the feathered creature kept at the rapid pecking.

From the open window, Paul’s angry voice struck again. “What are you waiting for, Sergeant, shoot the bloody thing!”

This time a determined Norton, after priming and loading a pistol, fired. Though he missed, the noise from the weapon frightened the woodpecker. At long last it yielded and flew off to find another tree to drill.

When Paul went back to bed, he slept as soundly as before. Once a source of pride, his military career had become a major disappointment. No matter how hard he tried, promotion eluded him. He had been stuck at the current rank since returning to American soil in late 1776. This greatly bothered him. His performance had been rated high in all fitness reports issued by superiors. Yet something impeded advancement. Was it an American birth or the lack of aristocratic lineage or political influence in England? He remained baffled.

In the eyes of the British military establishment, Paul’s lack of tact in dealing with fellow officers appeared the worst offense. At times he seemed too direct, almost rude, clearly impolitic. Despite an English higher education and years in London society, he came off as provincial. Besides, he neglected to cater to the whims of superiors, never to massage fattened egos. Many an inferior officer had gained promotion honing this tactic into a fine art.

Without doubt the rebellion had spoiled Paul’s cherished vision of America and separated him from his family and their . Before the Revolution, as the son of one of the wealthiest men in the colonies, all needs had been satisfied. Now with a father squarely on the patriots’ side in rebel territory, Paul had been cast adrift and forced to become self-reliant.

Yet Paul possessed soldierly skills that could not be denied. As a superb horseman, he could outride any man in the regiment. His handling of saber, pistol and musket was unrivaled among those stationed on Long Island. In battle, he had few peers in demonstrated courage and tenacity. He demonstrated an astute sense of military tactics and strategy. Above all else, he had earned the fear, if not the respect, of the men under him, a real leader whom they willingly followed.

Surrounded by water on three sides, scenic Lloyd’s Neck where Paul was stationed teemed with marshes, rolling meadows, sandy beaches and wooded hills. On its northern edge lay the imposing Long Island Sound. To the west was a large, open inlet and on the east an expansive bay with many coves and harbors. In these protected waters the British fleet and merchant vessels found refuge. With the fort as its guardian and a splendid natural anchorage, Lloyd’s Neck had become a favorite English depot for both military supplies and commercial goods.

On the Connecticut side of the Sound just beyond Shippan Point, Ben Tallmadge had retired at the rebel barracks early the evening of that same summer day. In the next room Caleb Brewster dozed off. After midnight, someone shook Brewster’s shoulder, waking him from a fitful sleep, and whispered for him to rise. It was Tallmadge, always the early bird, already dressed and eager to get started. Outside three hundred men gathered in the darkness, fractured by occasional flickers of light from oil lanterns and torches. At the large meeting house on the campgrounds, they queued up for a breakfast of coffee, cornbread, eggs and ham. Tallmadge believed men always fought better on a full stomach. Anyway, he could not predict when they might eat their next meal.

Fully equipped and armed, the troops reassembled at the wharf on the harbor’s edge and embarked in whaleboats. Darkness still shrouded the departure, but the glow from a half-moon and stars bared the way as they rowed out to sea. Large, sharp rocks dotted many Connecticut harbors to fuel Tallmadge’s uneasiness. More than once before, he had witnessed boats smashing against semisubmerged boulders and spilling crews into the sea for an unwelcome dousing. To Tallmadge’s relief, they departed without mishap. From the harbor the boats spread out over a hundred yards, raised small sails, then headed south.

“How long will it take?” asked Brewster, unaccustomed to this sector of the Sound.

“With this breeze, if it holds, we’ll make landfall just before sunrise.”

Tallmadge took great comfort in having Brewster and his men along. This sort of operation differed greatly from Tallmadge’s usual raid. Rowing boats on sometimes treacherous waters in unpredictable weather was a far cry from leading a cavalry charge on firm terrain. No stranger to boats or the sea, Tallmadge and Brewster had often rowed and sailed the waters off Setauket as lads. Besides, Tallmadge had raided British forts before on the other side of the Sound.

A steady breeze under partially clear skies guided Tallmadge’s band for most of the journey in the darkness. Just off the Long Island coast, the stars and moon faded from sight, the sun indirectly illuminating the eastern horizon to cast a purplish hue. One of Tallmadge’s men, a native of this locale, directed them toward the tip of a large inlet on a long, curvy beach. Tallmadge recalled Hull’s report of Nathan Hale’s landing in the vicinity before that fateful trip to Manhattan, and this shook him.

“I would send out scouts right away,” Brewster said, chewing on a small stick. The men kept pulling on the oars as the boats forged toward shore.

Distracted by his recollections, Tallmadge remained silent. Hale had been a best friend at college, an extremely accomplished person. When he first learned of Hale’s awful fate, Tallmadge did not grieve. Hardening himself, he rationalized Hale’s execution as part of the war’s inequities. From then on, every so often at the most inconvenient times, thoughts about his young classmate gripped him. Everyone ired and respected Nathan Hale. To lose someone so high-minded with so much to offer amounted to a tragedy. Hale’s goodness and talent, innocence and curiosity, had vanished forever. A horrible waste. As a spymaster who sent people out regularly on similar missions, Tallmadge, of all people, should have accepted this friend’s fate without regret or sadness. But because of the close personal attachment, he could not put it to rest.

The boats slid along the sandy bottom, and soldiers jumped into the shallows. “Don’t ya think we should send out scouts, Ben?” asked Brewster again, tossing the stick into the water.

Brewster’s question jarred Tallmadge back to the present.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Pick three men, get them to reconnoiter south and east. But tell them to avoid with the enemy and keep out of sight.” Tallmadge had devised this mission in retaliation for Tory raids on the Connecticut coast and to destroy British supplies. Now he prepared for battle.

Within a half hour, the scouts had returned with reports that shaped the plan of attack. Tallmadge divided up men into two columns, placing Brewster at the head of one and himself the other. They would hit the fort simultaneously from opposite directions in a quick pincer movement.

The scouts left first, then each of the main columns. Quietly trudging through the light undergrowth of the surrounding meadows and woods, they soon reached the objective. In the dawn’s light, a man from Brewster’s column stumbled into the clearing fifty yards from the fort where a lone sentry marched.

“Halt!” the redcoat shouted. “Identify yourself.”

Having heard no response, he raised his musket to shoot, but an American rifle fired first. The sentry crumpled where he stood. Even with the element of surprise lost, the rebels still managed to crash through the main gate to catch most of the British garrison asleep or just awaking in a state of undress.

Hearing the clamor of battle, Paul Keppler grabbed the saber in its scabbard and a fully packed, double holster, then rushed downstairs. Before he could utter a word, Sergeant Norton ran through the open doorway.

“Sir, the rebels are attacking the fort.” he said excitedly. “What should we do?”

“How many men do they have?”

“Don’t know exactly, sir. But it looks like they’ll take the fort with ease.”

“Start barricading this house,” Paul ordered. “Stack those bales of hay all along the porch, two high. Position our men there and at each window on both floors.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

“Send a message to Colonel Simcoe in Oyster Bay,” Paul ordered a lieutenant next to him. “Ask for immediate reinforcements to repel this attack.” Simcoe had become one of Paul’s few friends in the British officer corps; they were both Tories and shared a deep hatred for the rebels. After checking to see his men were properly set, Paul climbed back upstairs to assume a defensive position at a bedroom window.

Offering only token resistance, the fort fell easily. On both sides casualties had been held to a minimum. The Americans herded redcoats who failed to escape as prisoners down to the whaleboats along the beach. Tallmadge’s orders prompted the rebels to burn the fort and stacks of dry hay, amassed to feed the horses of British dragoons on Long Island and in the city. Other supplies – blankets, boots, muskets, powder – were toted to the boats or burned on the spot.

“Sir,” reported one of Tallmadge’s scouts, “A parcel of British soldiers are holed up in yonder house.” To the southwest rested a large white residence with a blackened cedar-shake roof.

“Fetch Lieutenant Brewster fast,” commanded Tallmadge.

When Brewster arrived, Tallmadge instructed him, “Take your men and root out the redcoats in the house. Do it as quickly as possible,” he said. “Don’t linger long. We can’t be caught here by any enemy coming to the rescue.”

“I hear ya, Ben.” Brewster casually saluted him.

The lieutenant, hastily rounding up his marauders, set off to attack the British headquarters. From tree to tree and bush to bush, Brewster’s crew moved in Indian style, cautiously approaching the house. Incessant musket shots from defenders, mostly inaccurate, caused few rebel injuries. As they got closer, the attackers let loose a barrage of gunfire. This exchange, Brewster recognized, could last for hours. What he sought was a ploy to bring about a quick resolution; an idea came to him.

Those bales of hay stacked along the porch to protect the redcoats would soon be turned against them. He ordered one man to gather and burn dried tree branches. The sticks set afire, the rebels threw them at the hay no more than twenty feet away. The first couple flickered out. But other kindling hit the target to ignite the bales. When two redcoats tried to dislodge the burning wood, they were shot. Flames soon consumed the porch, and the five remaining defenders scampered inside in disarray.

In a bellowing voice Brewster urged sailor-soldiers under him to charge the house. From both the front and rear doors, bayonets fixed and swords drawn, the rebels swarmed into the interior. The bulk of the troops fought on the ground floor while Brewster and six marauders ran up the stairs. In pairs they assaulted

the enemy in three bedrooms, Brewster striding alone toward the fourth chamber at the end of a long hallway. As he crashed through the door, a pistol in one hand, a saber in the other, Brewster aimed two shots at a British dragoon perched on the side of a window killing him instantly.

At the next window Paul fired a few last shots at the rebels as they poured through the back door below. Red-faced and determined, he turned to confront the tall officer and drew his saber, all set to rush him.

“Rebel dog,” Paul yelled. “Prepare to meet your maker.”

Though not a physical match for the hulking Brewster, the husky, bull-necked Paul could ordinarily hold off much larger men. Endowed with agility plus quick reflexes, Paul slashed the blade aggressively at Brewster to seize the initiative. Caught off guard, Brewster, backing into a corner, defended himself. As the duel wore on, Brewster grasped he was overmatched, never before having fought someone as powerful and skilled. He could not get in close to muscle Paul with his size, nor drive him back across the room. Pinned in the corner, Brewster’s big frame had little space to maneuver, arms hitting walls. Clashing swords resonated throughout the room.

Paul’s perfect blade thrust scored a direct hit on Brewster’s left shoulder. Brewster endured pain, blood drenched a sleeve. Sweat rolled down his forehead into eyes, temporarily blurring vision. Exhausted, he still defended himself. For the first time in this war, real fear gripped him; his own demise seemed close at hand. Just as Paul was about to finish him off, two rebels stormed into the room with swords drawn. The fighting odds were reversed. The assault cut short, Paul ran to an open window and jumped out. Landing feet first in a pile of loose hay, he streaked toward the woods.

Bright, colorful flowers and lush plants filled the room at the commander’s Manhattan dwelling on lower Broadway. In eddies and whirlpools streamed vibrant music to engulf everything. That September afternoon in 1781 the sounds from a violin had a lilting rhapsodic quality. Rapidly moving arms and fingers conveyed a sense of untamed abandon. The tempo reached out to exhilarate and seduce, high notes soared, endowed with grace and rapture. Amid the player’s dexterity the bow’s repeated movements pulsed tones to the virtuoso’s realm. Music allowed an escape from stress. With ease it alleviated frustrations. In an artificial universe of the man’s own making and under his total control, he, in the form of a lone eagle, took flight without restraint to glide regally over a personal domain. How glorious, this haven from the real world where no one bothered him, and he reigned supreme.

Sir Henry Clinton had to have music in his life. Like the uplifting offerings of nature, its beauty gave him sustenance. Without them both, he often wondered how long sanity could be preserved in the midst of life’s absurdities. When he played the violin, critics from London grew silent, the machinations of Washington had no effect and conflicts with subordinates and peers vanished. Such feelings of security were worth thousands of reinforcements.

“Sir,” called an aide anxiously from the open door of the solarium, hesitant to interrupt him. “We have reports on the enemy’s movements.”

The short, stout general with a rounded face and pointed nose failed to respond.

“Sir,” the aide tried again. “This is of utmost importance.”

Clinton stopped playing and shouted, “Don’t bother me! Can’t you see I am otherwise engaged. Whatever it is, will wait.”

Head turned away, he tucked the violin neatly beneath his chin, raised a right arm with bow in hand and began to play. Music flowed from the lustrous wooden box once again. Closing the door quietly behind him, the frustrated aide left.

The next day Clinton summoned another aide, Lieutenant Colonel Charles Stuart, a tall man with narrow shoulders and an expanding waist-line. The pair reviewed the written reports from agents in the field.

“I still think they plan to attack us in New York City,” Clinton said.

“But, sir, why would all those French and American troops leave Westchester and cross the Hudson at the King’s Ferry?” The French had been stationed in Newport, Rhode Island and had only recently marched across Connecticut to rendezvous with the rebel soldiers.

Clinton searched for an answer. “It is Washington’s cleverness. Never direct, always round about, elusive. The man really drives me to extremes.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Stuart said.

“I’ll wager he is going to attack us from the rear over Staten Island.”

“With all due respect, sir, why would he risk transporting troops over open water when he could assault upper Manhattan across a creek on a bridge?”

“Then, how else do you explain the recent construction of large ovens in New Jersey, if not to supply fresh bread for troops invading Staten Island?”

“You have a point,” Stuart conceded. “Unless there’s another explanation.”

“Perhaps I should quit,” Clinton sighed. “The government never supplies enough troops and ships to do things properly here.”

“Sir, you don’t mean that. We still have a good chance of winning. General Cornwallis has had numerous successes in the South. He’s bound to corner General Greene as well as Lafayette and destroy their forces just like he did General Gates.”

“Indeed, but he’s also suffered some setbacks too. To think, I used to actually ire that man. Now I only feel contempt for him. He’s such a plodder, no imagination and less talent. And his ers continue to undermine me with the King and Parliament.”

“Sir, I wouldn’t worry about him. It’s the rebels we must concentrate on. We’ve got to discover what they are up to.”

The wagon rolled slowly but steadily south along the main road from Peekskill. Jessie Blackmore had hitched a ride just below the American camp there. The old man holding the reins ordinarily did not offer rides to strangers. Yet Jessie appeared harmless enough. And a low slung, buttonless blouse revealing ample cleavage had indeed caught his eye. Hardly an ingénue, she often left those large

breasts partially exposed to manipulate men and lure them to do her bidding.

Jessie was not what she seemed. While she sold goods to soldiers in American camps on both sides of the Hudson, this comely woman, barely thirty, was merely posing as an itinerant peddler. Before he was killed at Saratoga, her husband had been a sergeant in His Majesty’s artillery, a cannoneer by trade. Since then, she had served the British as a spy to earn much needed cash and to avenge her husband’s death.

“Where did ya say yer goin’?” asked the driver.

“Just south of Yonkers,” she said, bouncing in the seat as the wagon hit a rut in the rough dirt road.

“Well, lass, that’s in British territory, ain’t it?” He stared at her as if he caught the woman doing something wrong.

“No, it’s not,” she replied. “It is still no-man’s land between the British devils and the other robbers and brigands. My poor old mother lives there.” She shifted in the seat and placed both hands on her knees.

She had lied, of course. Her real destination was Manhattan. No mother existed to visit at all, but that could not be itted. The goal was to hitch a ride as far south as possible, then traipse the rest of the way on foot, if necessary. It would feel invigorating to get back to the city, she mused. The stress of being a spy in enemy territory had a way of building, at last overwhelming her to the point of chronic irritability. After a month’s tour of rebel encampments at Fishkill, Peekskill and Croton, she had reached that state. Besides, she was exhausted,

having walked most of the distance between camps, carrying a burlap bag loaded with combs, brushes, scissors, hand mirrors and razors. What’s more, this wouldbe peddler slept on open, bare ground in all kinds of weather, which only added to any discomfort. Once home, she would relish a clean soft bed and a hearty meal!

The headquarters’ staff failed to recognize the lady’s need to rest after these sojourns and tended to send her out again too soon in the constant quest for ever more information. This time it would be different. Intent on resisting them, she would refuse to go until ready.

The driver dropped her off close to the King’s Bridge before going on to Mamaroneck. Old man that he was, he still could not help giving her rump an affectionate pat. The spy did not protest or object; it seemed fair enough payment for the ride. With a parting smile, she thanked him for his kindness. A bag slung over her shoulders, she limped toward Manhattan after he drove off. Despite the wagon ride, feet still ached, and cramps knotted legs. In an imagined moment of sheer pleasure, she pictured herself soaking in a tub of hot water for hours.

“How was your excursion in enemy territory?” asked Colonel Stuart. Jessie sat across from him in his office at British headquarters on the tip of Manhattan. Dubbed in dispatches as ‘Scarlet Tanager,’ a name chosen to hide her real identity, she was considered highly proficient at her business.

“Very tiring, indeed,” Jessie replied. “I’m just starting to feel better.”

“I must confess your reports on rebel troop strength in each location, their composition, and cannons are quite impressive. I’ve always ire your amazing memory and powers of observation.”

“So kind of you to say so.” She was confident of her abilities, having learned her husband’s trade well. No one in the British spy network knew more about artillery than she.

“The movements of French and American forces stationed at Croton and further south are truly an enigma,” he said.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” She noticed him ogling her breasts. It was annoying. “No one has any idea where they’re going.”

“It’s vital we know,” he declared. “It has perplexed Sir Henry to no end.”

“Where were they last reported?” She wished he would stop peering down the front of her dress. Low cut, it revealed a generous cleavage. Having dressed in a hurry, she now regretted wearing it. British officers, she realized, often took liberties with American women – Tories, rebels and neutrals.

“Somewhere in New Jersey,” he answered. “But no one knows what they’re doing there. We must find out.”

“I cannot help you. It’s out of my territory.”

“Would you be willing to make a special trip for us? Sir Henry is prepared to be quite generous for the right information.”

His gaze traveled the length of her voluptuous figure, then moved back to her breasts. It was obvious he wished to bed her.

“In a few weeks perhaps, but I pray not now.” She was polite, not wanting to give offense. She had absolutely no interest in this man or traipsing off on a premature spying venture. “Restoring my health is presently most crucial.”

“My dear lady, we must have this information right away.”

“The last trip took too much out of me,” she demurred. “I require a longer rest.”

“Very disappointing, and I’m sure Sir Henry will feel the same.”

“Sir, if you please, why not just send someone else?” Weariness colored her voice. “There must be others who know that terrain.”

“But you are by far our best agent.”

Aware that this was true, she didn’t doubt that his superiors desperately wanted her to accept the assignment. Her instincts told her that Stuart would be relieved if she refused. He thought he’d have more time to seduce her.

“I’m afraid I just cannot do it,” she insisted.

“Is that your final word?”

“Yes, it is. I am truly sorry. I do not feel strong enough yet.”

“I see.” He gave an audible sigh to signify his official regret, then said, quite casually, “By the bye, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me soon?”

The offer confirmed her suspicions. Now that Stuart had fulfilled all official obligations and she had declined to go on the mission, he felt free to pursue her.

She was ready with a most plausible excuse. “That is very kind of you, but I am still in mourning for my late husband.”

“Yes, your late husband,” he repeated. “I understand.”

She could sense his frustration and was relieved when he did not persist.

What the British high command had failed to fathom soon enough was the great migration of French and American troops from New York to northern Virginia. Washington had deceived Clinton again by feinting toward Staten Island once troops were in New Jersey and building those ovens to mislead him before stealthily moving south. Later thousands of rebels and allies confronted Cornwallis and the redcoats at Yorktown. With the French fleet at their back and without reinforcements from Clinton, the British fought at a decided

disadvantage.

Austin Roe rode the chestnut mare as hard as he could. For the first half of the journey he had made rapid progress from the East River ferry. At present he ed through Huntington on Long Island. He was carrying an important message from Robert Townsend for Tallmadge’s eyes only. Unexpectedly, three mounted redcoats stretched across the road up ahead to block his path. He slowed the horse to a trot. Behind him a quartet of British dragoons cut off any rear avenue of escape. He was now trapped.

“Halt,” said the sergeant twenty feet in front of him.

Austin obeyed, not wanting any trouble. “Your name and business or it will be your head,” demanded a captain on horseback, wandering out of the bushes along the roadside.

Austin recognized the officer as one Paul Keppler.

“I’m Austin Roe of Setauket. I purchased goods in the city for my shop.”

“And what might that shop be?” Paul asked.

“I run a general store,” Austin lied.

“Show us what you bought then!”

Austin unbuckled both saddlebags, then pulled out a box of fancy stationery and jars of women’s creams and powders.

Paul examined the merchandise. “They are quite nice, but is that all you’re carrying?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“We will see about that. Climb down.”

As Austin dismounted, Paul ordered his men to search him. They found a letter from one acquaintance in the city discussing personal matters, invoices for the stationery and jars, and three blank sheets of paper.

Thank God for that stain, Austin thought.

“How often do you make this trip?” Paul asked.

“Rarely,” Austin lied again.

“Seems to me I have seen you on this road many times before.”

“Sir, you must be mistaken. I’ve a mighty common face. Undoubtedly you’ve confused me with someone else.”

“We’ve reports rebel spies operate in this locale.”

“I do hope you catch them, sir.” Austin said. “I’m a loyal er of the Crown.” He could see the frustration in Paul’s eyes and repressed the urge to smile.

“Keep your eye out for anyone who appears suspicious and be sure to report them to us,” Paul demanded. “Now, get on your horse and be off.”

Austin heaved an inner sigh of relief. He had heard from others that Paul would often jail a man for a few days, then have him flogged.

“Yes, sir, you can depend on it,” Austin said. “Good day to you.”

Since the news of Cornwallis’ defeat at Yorktown and the surrender of thousands, a collective depression had hung over British headquarters in Manhattan. The Union Jack flapping on the flagpole outside drooped ever so still. Although a formal peace loomed a long way off, both sides had suspended almost all armed hostilities until treaties could be negotiated and signed.

“The end is near,” General Clinton itted wearily. “I can feel it.” He was sitting at a desk with arms propped up under his chin. Colonel Stuart stood alongside.

“You mean the war, sir?” Stuart asked. “But we still hold New York City, Long Island, Charleston and Savannah, and don’t forget the western forts.”

“Yes, I know but my command here has come to an end. I’ll return to England in disgrace, a defeated general.” Having opposed the rebels for more than six years, he was exhausted.

“Sir, it won’t be that bad, I assure you. The government never put you in a position to win this war. Everyone knows that.”

“But the Cornwallis people are blaming me for his defeat. I’ll wind up the scapegoat for not sending reinforcements. Just wait and see.” Anguish caused the general to wheeze.

“That’s outrageous and, to be sure, untrue.”

“Yes, I know,” Clinton said. “But his friends have poisoned the King’s mind against me.”

“Washington plainly fooled us. Just when we were certain he would attack New York City, he sneaks south to Virginia. I still find it hard to believe.” He shook his head.

“That cunning old fox,” Clinton cried. “I hate him with a ion. He’s always done something underhanded like that, never fighting out in the open. The devil

incarnate. How fortunate he was to have the French fleet miraculously appear to bottle up Cornwallis on the coast. Why did that idiot fail to move further inland? What a fool.”

“Yes, you are right, sir. The ministry should have heeded your assessment of him.”

Clinton pounded the desk with a fist. “But there is one more item of unfinished business to attend to. And you, Colonel, will be my instrument of retaliation.” Still rankled by an abortive rebel plan to have him kidnapped, Clinton hastily briefed his aide.

“Naturally, we’ll need a special person for this task,” Clinton said, “one who is familiar with the Hudson Valley. He has to be fearless, dedicated and a highly skilled marksman.”

“I have a man in mind,” Stuart replied. “A close friend of Colonel Simcoe and an able officer.”

“And we’ll also recruit someone who knows the place and the comings and goings of their troops. What about that Scarlet Tanager woman?”

“A brilliant suggestion, sir. She would make a perfect guide.”

“Good, I’ll have the last laugh in this war yet. Believe me. Above all else, our agents must achieve the mission’s objective. Colonel, you have served me well

and faithfully. One way or another, I’ll make sure you are properly rewarded.”

At long last Jessie had retired from the spy business, or so she thought. At present, her future remained undetermined. Should she go to Nova Scotia or the West Indies with other Tories or back to England? Since no American actually knew her allegiance or war-time activities, she could just as easily stay in the city with peace coming, get another job and find a new husband. For her, securing a man, even a good one, would not be a hardship. Yet did she want one? No, not now, she itted to herself. Perhaps later when life was more settled.

Living alone in rented lodgings, she had just begun to enjoy being domestic again. At the moment she was fashioning a wide-rimmed basket with thin pieces of ash. It relaxed her, and she took great pride in the creation. Some day soon, she intended to make dresses. She had already purchased a spinning wheel for the threads of cotton, wool, and flax. The next purchase, a hand loom to weave them into yards of beautiful material. Then with scissors, needle and thread, she would fashion stylish clothes. God knows she needed them. Perhaps one day she would start a dressmaking business and open a shop. Now she worked in someone else’s store selling foodstuffs. How boring. Her initiative and drive made it intolerable to remain a hired hand much longer. Dreams of owning an enterprise inspired her. A knock on the door interrupted such musings. Jessie put her half-finished basket aside and went to answer. It was her landlady.

“A soldier’s downstairs for you,” the woman said. “Says he has a message.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wood. Please tell him I’ll be right down.”

Jessie feared this was another dinner invitation from Stuart. His persistence, at first amusing, had become an irritant.

Just to sit in the waiting room to Stuart’s office seemed an honor for Paul. Even though the war was virtually over, the powers-that-be had apparently not forgotten him. For too many years he had languished in the hinterland far away from the center of action. At last, his service to the king would be recognized for what it was – exemplary, at least he judged it to be.

Despite the excitement, Paul could not help noticing the woman sitting across the room. So shapely and attractive she was. Perhaps he should chat with her. No, he must restrain himself, he thought. Just not enough time. Duty first, pleasure later. He smiled at her in a friendly manner but elicited no response.

Stuart’s aide opened the office door to poke his head out. “Captain Keppler,” he said. “Come in, please. The colonel will speak to you now.” The aide then turned to the woman. “Mrs. Blackmore, the colonel will see you shortly. He begs your indulgence a while longer.”

She nodded toward him without making a sound.

The wagon ride was not a smooth one; the road, if one dared call it that, was scarred, like an old man’s face, with ruts and gullies. Too narrow, it twisted and turned, sometimes , uphill and down. The engers suffered severe jouncing despite the strong oxen that steadily pulled the contrivance.

Neither enger had much to say. Paul was so immersed in the revelations aired in Stuart’s office he appeared downright disinterested in the companion beside him. Jessie, to whom had fallen the task of driving the wagon, seemed more intent on negotiating the difficult road and controlling the oxen, than on socializing. So often the target of aggressive men soliciting favors, she was

relieved to find one whose interests lay elsewhere.

In New Jersey, they traveled along the Hudson toward the New Windsor Cantonment. While it had rained heavily at the trip’s start, the sun was dissipating the band of grayish clouds and drying the air. The temperature rose to a moderate level with light breezes blowing. Through mountains and valleys, they journeyed north. At times, they would catch glimpses of the river flowing to the east.

After all these years, Paul could scarcely believe his ears when he heard the news. He had been promoted to major. Major Paul Keppler. He kept repeating it over and over to himself. The new rank had a strange yet pleasant ring, but in time he would grow accustomed to it. Almost forgotten was Stuart’s promise of another promotion if he successfully completed the mission. Lieutenant Colonel Keppler. Yes, indeed, he liked the sound of that even better. Still the mission forced him to be more serious and withdrawn. Doubtful it could be achieved, its enormity overwhelmed him.

Jessie failed to grasp why she was going off on one last trip to an American camp, especially since the war seemed virtually over. She had promised herself no more spying or excursions through enemy territory. What if she were captured now? Would they hang her or just throw her in prison? Yet when Stuart offered one thousand English pounds – such an exorbitant amount – to be this officer’s guide at the rebel encampment, she could not possibly reject it. This sum would guarantee her livelihood for years to come.

Though he kept to himself, Jessie could not keep this traveling companion out of her thoughts. She liked the look of him. He was not the dandy Stuart was, effete and prissy, decked out in a white powdered wig. No, this man exhibited an air of strength and confidence plus a rough masculinity and wore no wig. Best of all, he did not leer, so she could lower her guard and relax.

“How much further do you figure it is?” asked Paul.

She hazarded a guess. “Another thirty five miles or more.”

“We’ll never make that distance today.”

“I dare say some time by tomorrow evening.”

“Will we camp out tonight or are there inns to stay?”

“One lies about five miles from here,” she said. “The food is edible, but the beds have bugs.”

Paul grinned. “As a soldier, I’m accustomed to all sorts of accommodations. Hence, I am not that fussy.”

“Good,” she noted, smiling back at him. “You would be disappointed if you were.”

Filled with trade goods – straps, belts, gloves, cooking utensils, knives, axes – the wagon pushed northward. Stuart’s plan envisaged this pair posing as husband and wife, and entering the rebel camp as merchants to sell their wares. For Jessie this role was time-tested and customary. To Paul it would initially feel awkward

until he recalled chores as a boy in his father’s store and warehouse after school and on vacations. Then he became more comfortable.

Tied to the rear of the wagon, Paul’s brown mare moped along, rhythmically swishing its tail to shoo the buzzing flies away. Still in deep meditation over the promotion, Paul watched absentmindedly while white and yellow butterflies amid a roadside meadow bounced from flower to flower. Had he taken on too much? Could he handle the mission by himself? Would it cost him his life?

He soon set aside these doubts to proudly contemplate his future. His day in the sun had come at last. The thought of being rewarded by the British military establishment and a hatred for the rebels appeared enough to calm all fears.

CHAPTER XXIV - THE VEIL RISES

During the morning, ominous clouds and fog gripping the river valley surrendered to an autumn sun and blue skies. Upon reaching Darien in southern Connecticut early the same afternoon, Brad McClain and companions had ideal weather for the polo match between the alumni of Yale and the University of Virginia. At the Hunt and Riding Club Brad pulled the large, rented recreational vehicle up to the field’s edge. The party consisted of younger son Brian, daughter Beth, her boyfriend Jack plus Cal Owens.

A caterer hired for the occasion served lunch – cold curried chicken, warm pumpkin ravioli, Caesar salad and fresh vegetables with a spiced yogurt dip. Afterward, Brad and Cal relaxed in front of the RV in folding chairs to watch the match while the kids wandered about the grounds. The riders raced back and forth on horseback in pursuit of an elusive white ball, mallets swinging in the air. Sometimes the play occurred close to the RV. Then it rapidly shifted far off, barely visible to the spectators because of the field’s enormous size.

“Have you given up trying to solve that old homicide?” Cal asked.

“For the time being.” Brad said, aggravated lately whenever the topic cropped up. “I’ve run into a solid stone wall. None of the materials I’ve checked yield enough clues to proceed.” He tried to relax, loosening the laces on the white and brown shoes, eventually removing them.

“What about the property records for the country club?”

“The British destroyed the pre-1777 records. Those during the early to mid1800s reveal ownership by the Keppler and Rogers families, later a company, Smith and Rand.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Cal said.

“The local newspapers in the public library report it had functioned before 1845 for many years as an armory and gunpowder mill. Then it became a farm and a large estate.”

“So what else have you discovered?”

“At its zenith in 1830, there were more than thirty buildings in the powder mill complex. The machinery was operated by hydropower from the stream. But every so often accidental explosions struck. One killing three people finally closed the place down.”

“That means other buildings may still be buried there. You’ve uncovered a lot of information.”

“Yeah, but none of it relates to the homicide. It’s all after the fact.”

“Have you found out anything about the Kepplers or Rogers?”

“Yes and no,” Brad said. “The Newburgh Historical Society and local library

have plenty on the Rogers clan but absolutely nothing about the Kepplers.”

“Perhaps they didn’t live in Newburgh.”

The crowd in the stands erupted with approving shouts and applause. The Yale alumni had just scored a goal, the result of a difficult shot. A waiter came over to Brad and Cal to refill their glasses with a white burgundy. Twirling the liquid in the glass, Brad sniffed, then savored a mouthful. With it held high, he twisted the stem as he scrutinized the fluid in the sunlight.

“So it appears you’re back to square one on the search,” Cal observed.

“Not quite but close.” Brad lazily gazed upward at the cotton-candy clouds. Somehow the old homicide would not go away quietly.

“I have another idea for you.”

“What is it?” Slouched in a chair, Brad straightened up.

“I mentioned it just after your discovery, but you weren’t receptive.”

“I don’t . Tell me again.”

“Have the skeleton examined by an expert. There are specialists in this field, physical anthropologists. They can analyze your specimen and uncover crucial details about it. I can recommend someone very skilled. At this stage, what have you got to lose?”

“But he can’t tell me the victim’s name, so what good is it?”

“Because afterward you’ll know more than you do now. And that information may lead to the answer.”

“What’s it going to cost me? Big bucks, I’m sure.”

“It depends on how long it takes and the number and type of tests.”

“It sounds expensive.”

“So it’ll be over five thousand,” Cal estimated. “What do you care? You’ve already spent heavily on this project. And it’s not like you can’t afford it. Brad, if you can throw money away on a caterer and an RV, you can do it for this.”

“Yeah, you’re right, as always.” Brad grew receptive to the idea. “Much as I hate to it it.”

At the end of the chukker, well-dressed, pleasant looking people strolled by the RV onto the field. Some bent down, picked up dislodged pieces of turf and, after

putting them back in former spots, tamped them down with their feet.

During the last six months Brad had donned the parental mantle and taken charge of his two younger children. He accompanied Brian to baseball and football games where he watched him play. Like his father did for him and he with Jed, Brad taught the young boy the basics on the lawn behind his mother’s house. Beth, a different and more perplexing case, had no interest in sports, only boys. However, trips to Broadway plays, the ballet and the opera with her father sparked new cultural bents. On an enchanting vacation to the Mayan Peninsula in Mexico, the children and he swam, sailed, and toured ancient Indian ruins. Yet when they misbehaved, he personally guided and disciplined them.

After the match ended, Brad had no idea of the score or the victor. He had come not for polo but rather to enjoy the children and friends in this special ambiance. The setting resembled an outdoor wedding or a fraternity party though much more genteel. Afterward, under a large blue and white striped tent sheltering a wooden dance floor, a society band, typically found at coming-out parties, entertained the gathering.

The melodies it played spanned decades and generations. The combo moved effortlessly from the Big Band hits of the 1930s and 1940s to the innocent and nostalgic rock and roll tunes of the 1950s and beyond. Slow ballads and quickpaced foot-stompers filled the early evening air. Like a kindly epidemic, the faster music swept through the crowd to infect it with an excitement and fervor. Standing erect, a tall tenor saxophonist quickly fingered white-pearly keys of a shiny, reed instrument. The trills, wails, and acoustical excursions into multioctave realms generated a compelling, throbbing sound that electrified the audience and spurred the dancers on the floor to more energetic movement. From the edge of the crowd Brad and Brian watched Beth and Jack dancing together. Jumping, bouncing, flopping, the couple were completely in sync. When at last the music stopped, they hugged each other tightly and slumped in an exhausted yet jubilant embrace. ‘Bravo, bravo,” shouted father and brother, while clapping hands.

As the band ended the session to take a well-deserved break, twelve young men, clad in elegant tuxedos with tails, strolled onto the dance floor. The leader blew on a small mouth organ, and the group keyed voices to its monotone. Hand in hand with son and daughter, Brad strained to hear them sing. In the harmonizing and rhapsodizing, they embarked in a low whisper, gradually sailed to a crescendo, then cruised through a medley in barbershop quartet style.

Intermixed with clever repartee and patter, the songs charmed, humored and soothed the audience. Here was Yale’s elite, all-male singing group composed of chosen seniors, called the Whiffenpoofs, suave, sophisticated ‘gentlemen songsters’. They ended with ‘The Whiffenpoof Song,’ their trademark and traditional finale. Enthralled, the cheering audience demanded and obtained several encores.

Seated in an office in northern New Jersey, Brad fidgeted. He had already waited thirty minutes for Dr. Sidney Kline, the forensic anthropologist recommended by Cal. Now ten thousand dollars poorer, Brad wanted to secure the formal report on the skeleton he had underwritten. After the discovery he alone conducted a search for facts. At first Brad neglected the skeleton – perhaps due to a frustration of ever learning its identity. It languished in a large trunk off in the cellar. Yet with Brad’s move to his mother’s house, the trunk and contents took up residence in her attic. Every so often, he would open it, examine the skeleton, even chat with it. If anyone had observed that behavior, Brad would have been slated for an insane asylum. By now fond of this inert, cold creature, dubbed ‘Dormant Norman,’ Brad treated it like a pet. He hoped Kline had not dismembered poor old Norm.

“Dr. Kline is ready to see you now,” said the bespectacled secretary.

“It’s about time,” Brad uttered and followed her into the anthropologist’s inner

sanctum.

Kline rose from behind his desk to greet Brad. White-haired and sporting a stubby mustache, Kline was slight, almost frail, only five feet four inches tall. Brad estimated he couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred thirty pounds.

“I’m sorry you had to wait. A telephone call from India about a new set of ruins with many skeletal remains. More grist for my mill, you see.”

“Yes, of course.” Brad sat in an old brown leather chair in front of Kline’s desk.

“I don’t suppose you’ve met anyone in my profession before.”

“Frankly, I haven’t.” Brad’s voice oozed with skepticism.

“We’re oddities, alright. You know people call me Dr. Bones, Mr. Bones or the Bone Man behind my back. I don’t mind even if these names imply disrespect or mockery. Because that’s what I do. I specialize in bones. I read them like other people read reports, books or newspapers.”

“How interesting.” Brad noted, attempting to be polite. Actually, this guy seemed weird. Perhaps Cal was playing a practical joke on him at his considerable expense.

“Bones don’t lie,” Kline explained. “They tell us a lot if we know how to

interpret them. A man’s personal history is locked within his skeleton.”

“I find that hard to grasp.”

“Now I don’t want you to think we run a strictly ivory tower operation here. Yes, we do devote a lot of energy to examining the old historical stuff – skeletal remains from buried villages, bones of famous individuals and so on. But the police and FBI often call upon us to solve current homicides, the military and civilian authorities to identify the bones of MIA’s or victims of airplane crashes, natural catastrophes or explosions.”

“I didn’t know that,” Brad said, with a glimmer of genuine interest.

“We get a host of exciting cases: arson, dismemberment, serial killers. I’ve traveled to Hanoi, Ho Chi Minh City and Hawaii to examine the remains of former U.S. servicemen. Even Saudi Arabia.”

“Really.” Brad began to accept him as someone worth listening to. After all he was evidently involved in the nitty-gritty of life.

“What are bones made out of?” Kline asked rhetorically. “They’re composed of calcium carbonate and complicated organic chemicals such as collagen. That gives them elasticity and flexibility, allowing us to bend and flex.” He removed a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from his face and playfully toyed with one of the arms. “Sometimes people ask me how many bones we each have.”

“I’ve often wondered about that. How many do we?”

“The answer to that question depends upon one’s age,” Kline replied. “It can be as many as two hundred or, as we get much older, as few as two dozen. Bones in our bodies tend to fuse together with age.”

“I see. I hope I’m a long way from that point.”

“But enough about this arcane science for now, I’d like to give you a tour of the facility,” offered Kline, “if, of course, you have the time. This will give you a better idea about the tools and procedures we use. Then we’ll come back in here to discuss your case.”

“Good. I’d like that.”

Kline stood and energetically opened a black steel door containing a small rectangular window set at normal eye level. With a gentle touch of a hand on Brad’s back, he urged him into the laboratory ahead. Ammonia-like smells greeted them as they entered the huge two-story room.

“You’re lucky,” observed Kline. “There are no decomposing corpses here today. Sometimes the stench can be overpowering, especially to newcomers.”

Much like a college chemistry lab, the room housed long work tables with builtin cabinets below and occasional stainless-steel sinks on top. Skeletons, whole or partial, crowded surfaces in a seemingly disorganized fashion. Microscopes,

both large and small, rested on the tables. Shelves, holding specimens in jars and vials immersed in chemical solutions along with plastic boxes, all tagged for identification, lined the walls.

Overhead, the lab’s fluorescents and tall shadeless windows emitted so much light that Brad’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the brightness. The bones’ varying colors beckoned from the examining tables – pale chalky white, tarnished faded yellow, shades of gray and dusty ebony. The humidifier’s constant whirring and the air conditioning system’s turning on and off offered distractions. Against one wall large, clear plastic, hooded enclosures emerged with steel tray bottoms. In the far corner nestled a few metal desks, stations for personal computers. A white-coated young man sat at one engrossed in what appeared on screen.

“Well, here you have it,” Kline said. “This is our workshop. It’s a relatively slow day. Usually, we have a number of technicians and graduate students milling around.”

“I’m duly impressed.”

“Though it may not look that way, everything is quite organized. We know where all the bodies are.” He laughed at his own joke while Brad smiled out of politeness.

“So just how do you analyze a skeleton?”

“We physically examine it, take still photos of different parts, videotape and xray it. We obtain samples of the remains, view them under a microscope and do

chemical and DNA analyses.”

“That’s quite a bit of work.”

Walking down to the end of the room, Kline pointed to a small enclosed area.

“Here’s our photo lab, Mr. McClain. When necessary, we develop our own stills and slides, storing our regular and digital cameras, video equipment and film inside, properly organized. But let me show you our newer, more advanced devices.”

He opened a door to an adjacent room and flipped on wall switches for more fluorescent lights. Before them stood an array of technical equipment.

“In this area we keep our Cat-Scan, regular X-ray and nuclear magnetic resonance machines,” Kline explained. “But I’m proudest of this piece of equipment.” He patted a streamlined device with a television camera and monitor. “It’s a new computerized, video enhancement system to examine imaging film. A form of artificial intelligence is implanted in the software that permits us to make better examinations and analyses. No other lab in the world has this device. With its magnifying capability, we can pick up faint fractures, pinpricks, and slight arrow and knife wounds that usually don’t show up with ordinary viewing methods.”

“Was the film of my skeleton examined on this device?”

“I believe it was. We’ll get to those results soon.”

Back in the large lab, Kline stopped at a computer station.

“Our computers allow us to communicate and exchange data with other labs, universities, libraries and government agencies through E-mail and the Internet. They also function as a storage center for our own data and photographs of skeletal remains and assist us in making comparisons.”

“I’m not sure I understand the last part.”

“The computer operates like a video catalogue, visually listing and displaying each skeleton in our files, individual bones and all known information about it. Of course, everything is highly organized and indexed. This makes it a lot easier for us to compare skeletons and constituent parts.”

Brad nodded. “That is remarkable.”

“But that isn’t all. I’ve saved the best for last. We have specially designed software programs using computer graphics that enable us under certain circumstances to accurately reconstruct the soft tissue on a skeleton, including in some instances, the face.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Here, let me show you,” said Kline.

As he pressed the computer keyboard, Kline brought up a bare skull on the monitor. With further data inputs, he added flesh to the bones appearing on the screen, rapidly and easily recreating in color a face with a nose, eyes, ears, cheeks and a mouth. He then filled in hair on the face and scalp.

“Can this be done with my skeleton?” Brad asked.

“I’m afraid not. We don’t have any ancillary information, like old photos of the victim or family or written descriptions to help us.”

They walked back to Kline’s office. Now seated behind his desk, Kline handed Brad a report on the skeleton covered in a dark blue binder.

“Here it is. Of course, we cannot identify the subject by name, but we have uncovered useful information.”

“I call him ‘Dormant Norman’ or ‘Norm’ for short,” said Brad.

“I see.” Kline scanned a copy of the report. “Let me give you the highlights about Norm then. You’ve guessed right on the sex. It’s a man. The examination of pelvis and hip bones indicates that. Plus the size, shape and length of other bones and muscle markings.”

“Well, we knew that already.”

“You assumed it was a male,” Kline corrected him. “Often assumptions are just plain wrong. We have given you scientifically verifiable fact.”

“All right then.”

“Let’s move on,” Kline urged. “Age is the next category. Our estimate is that this man, Norm, if you will, was in his early thirties when he died. The best indicator of age is usually teeth. Since the specimen had a fully preserved set, our task was easier. Tooth enamel grows at regular rates forming fine ridges, and we can measure them through a microscope. X-rays examine tooth eruption, decay and roots to ascertain age. Different bone fusions provide another means.”

“But when did Norm die? What year?”

“With the analysis we’ve done, I would say approximately 1780, near the end of the American Revolution. We may be a few years off either way.”

“That confirms what we knew from testing artifacts found alongside. What’s next?”

“Height and weight. Again having the full skeleton made this task relatively simple. We measured and weighed the skeleton as a whole as well as certain bones and applied specifically tested formulas to our results. Voila, we have an approximate height and weight – in Norm’s case in excess of six feet tall and

from 190 to 210 pounds.”

“We’re making progress.”

“Almost forgot,” Kline said, “looks like Norm was a southpaw. His upper left arm bone was longer than the right counterpart and more muscles were on the left side.”

“And we thought because of the position of the scabbard, he was right-handed. Maybe he even pitched for the Yankees.”

Ignoring Brad’s feeble attempt at humor, Kline went on. “Now you see the need for scientific testing.” The anthropologist, shifting in the chair, leaned forward across the desk as if to whisper. “This is very interesting,” rereading portions of the report held in hand. “From the chemical analysis, it seems he had high amounts of strontium and calcium, hardly any zinc. These are diet-related factors and suggest Norm may have been a vegetarian, who ate more corn and very little meat.”

“An 18th century health nut?”

“Also as a result of our chemical analysis,” Kline indicated, still browsing through the report, “it seems he had a high lead content in his system, not enough to poison him.”

“So much for my theory on health consciousness. What does that mean?”

“During colonial times, people were exposed to lead from the glaze on pottery and from pewterware. Wealthier individuals especially ate and drank from pewter plates and mugs at that time. They often absorbed lead in their bodies.”

“So that means Norm was from a higher socio-economic class.”

“Perhaps.”

“But we still don’t know who Norm really was and what happened to him.”

“Here’s the real problem,” Kline observed. “To establish identity, we need some matching record to compare with our findings on him. If we had dental records and matched them against our X-rays of his teeth … if we had DNA results of a relative, then we could compare that to the DNA found in his bones. Historical records, such as photographs, portraits, written s might also be beneficial. By the way, we have established that his blood Type is ‘O.’ I know that doesn’t help much in solving your homicide.

“We believe Norm did die of a knife wound in the ribcage as you suspected,” continued Kline. “Our examination reveals marks that were in all probability caused by the knife you showed us. But there’s something else you should be aware of. The high-level imaging equipment and viewing enhancement device have detected a slight skull fracture. It’s not apparent from mere physical inspection or lower-level X-rays examined in the ordinary way. This may mean Norm sustained additional physical trauma before or after the knifing.”

“You mean someone hit him on the head?” Brad perked up.

“Quite possibly or he fell and hit his head.”

“Now there’s something new that could be important.”

Weary from the day at the lab and the drive back, Brad sipped the cool vodka martini on the rocks with a lemon twist as he perched on a red leather bar stool at the country club. In mulling over what he had learned from Kline, the contractor realized he would probably never know Norm’s real identity or who caused his death, but he still felt gratified. The application of scientific techniques allowed Kline to dig up new facts. In this obsession about Norm, Brad had investigated nearly everything conceivable. No avenue had been missed. Extremely satisfied with his efforts, he became convinced few professionals could have done any better. That meant a lot to him.

Still it was expensive for Brad in of time, energy and money. Besides, he had lost a wife in the process – a loss that shook his confidence and well-being. This turned out to be the most costly, immeasurable in dollars but traumatic. Yet he had survived and perhaps, oddly enough, became stronger because of it.

In all that digging – first the dirt, then the facts about the skeleton – hadn’t he discovered much more about himself? At the start he needed to explore and learn for personal fulfillment, to achieve not just in business but in life. During the journey into the past, he had educated himself more than a college degree would ever reflect. Of course, he had grown in so many ways – interests, skills, knowledge and maturity. On its own, the search had personified for Brad a selfimprovement program of basic import.

Tangibly aiding the quest, Brad’s persistence – some might call it ego-driven stubbornness – had uncovered whatever evidence was available. No matter what the obstacle or delay, he had succeeded in overcoming it, never giving up. Without question, this quality defined him. Perseverance, it appears, would always prod him forward along life’s paths.

“I should really be pissed at you,” said Byron Whithers, coming up behind him.

“Why?” Brad asked. “What did I do?”

“You told Cal as many as thirty buildings might be buried under the golf course by that old Armory,” commented Byron. “The idiot casually mentioned this to that warmonger, Lily Auckland, the president of the historical society. Now she wants to dig them up and restore them.”

“What? I just don’t believe it!” Brad scratched his head.

“Furthermore, she’s proposing to hire staff to demonstrate how the old powder mill operated, run guided tours through the complex and charge ission. Where the hell does she think my will play golf?”

“Is she crazy?”

“No, it’s partly revenge for my hitting her husband. By the way I’m convinced her son shot at my house. Then the next night, it seems, he poured gasoline all over the green closest to the Armory and torched it. What a mess! His mother is

equally obsessed and dedicated. She claims the society has the right under the state’s new historical preservation law to have property condemned for special projects. I almost strangled her when I heard that.”

“It seems incredible. Have you consulted any lawyers?”

“No, we haven’t had a chance. This just happened. But she’s already retained counsel, those aggressive gunslingers down on South Plank Road, Toland and Cohen. Believe me, this woman is pure trouble.”

“What’s the club’s reaction?”

“The management committee is going to fight it. What choice do we have? Do you recall those environmentalists years ago who legally blocked the hotel chain from building condos on that Indian mountain lake? This is similar, and the personalities involved are just as driven by the righteousness of their cause.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Perhaps I could mediate for you. They can’t get away with this.”

“Do you have a cousin Vito who could take care of her?” said Byron smiling. Brad frowned at such a gruesome suggestion. “Just kidding,” the club manager explained. “Please stay calm.”

“Come on, let’s have those choice chef’s specials for dinner, and talk about something pleasant for a change,” McClain replied with a shrug. “Don’t forget,

judges play golf in this town.”

In the dining room, the two men sat at a round table. “Last month, I relived a bygone incident,” Brad declared, “the recreation of the British raid on Kingston during the Revolution. After watching the enemy disembark from boats on the river and skirmish with the rebels, I drove up to the center of town to tour the old stone buildings — the Senate House and others. On my way home, a redcoat camping in the park ran across the street, and my vehicle almost hit him.” So caught up in that war, Brad had momentarily steered for him.

“You mean a redcoat could have become a hood ornament on your pickup,” Byron quipped.

“Yeah,” the contractor grinned. “But something stranger occurred. I drove another hundred yards and encountered U.S Army trucks from the local armory transporting redcoats from the riverside. Then further along, a municipal bus, packed with redcoats, ed me.”

“Sounds very surreal, doesn’t it.”

“You bet. Today’s Americans helping yesterday’s foe burn their town, the then capital of New York State, even if symbolic.” Hostility erupted in McClain’s voice. “ Perhaps it was all an illusion.”

Half way through the meal, Brad’s wife Debbie strolled through the dining room attired in an elegant, v-neck cocktail dress of black satin and stopped at their table.

“Brad, I got your message on my recorder,” she mentioned. “That was nice of you to invite me to dinner. How have you been?”

“Fine,” he responded. “But I didn’t leave any message.”

“It wasn’t my imagination playing tricks on me,” she insisted. “I thought you had nerve asking me out that way on such short notice.”

“Then why did you come?” asked Brad in disbelief.

“Please us for dinner,” suggested Byron. “What can I get you to drink?”

“A madras. At least someone here has manners. Thank you, Byron.” He stood and pulled out an extra chair from under the table for her to sit down.

“Dawn,” Byron called, snapping fingers at the waitress. “Please get Mrs. McClain a madras and a menu.”

“This all seems very fishy.” Brad stared at the Club manager. “Byron, are you sure you haven’t been leaving messages on my behalf. You always were a great mimic.”

“Me?” Byron objected sheepishly. “Why would I do such a thing? I have enough

trouble handling Ms. Jarvis. Do you think I need more?”

“Practical joke or just playing Cupid,” Brad retorted. “You knew I was having dinner here tonight.”

“You’re always so suspicious, Brad,” professed Byron, smiling broadly.

“Perhaps I should leave,” Debbie piped in.

“No, stay,” said Brad. “We certainly can be civil to one another and remain friends for the sake of the kids. By the way, you look great.”

“Thank you,” she remarked. “I see, your manners are improving.”

The waitress returned with Debbie’s drink, placed it on the table and handed her a menu. “I can recommend the shrimp scampi wholeheartedly,” Dawn announced.

“Good, I’ll take it,” declared Debbie.

“Wild rice or roasted potatoes?”

“Wild rice.”

“Salad dressing?”

“Creamy blue cheese.”

“How about an appetizer?” interjected Byron.

“No thanks, still trying to keep my girlish figure.” She sipped the drink.

The waitress left to fill Debbie’s order while the men continued eating. An awkward silence arose, only broken when Byron said, “Perhaps I should leave and give you two a chance to chat.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Brad answered, fearful of being left alone with his wife for the first time in months.

“If Byron has things to do, he should attend to them,” Debbie observed. “He is the general manager here. But don’t leave on my .”

On that cue, Byron, having finished his meal, stood and bid the couple good night.

“So I hear your investigation’s over and done with,” Debbie commented.

“It may be,” Brad reluctantly itted.

“Did you find out who the victim was or the murderer?”

“No.” His face reddened.

“Then I guess it was all a big waste of time.” She arched her eyebrows in an ‘I told you so’ manner.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He refused to let her win any points.

“I would.” She smirked, confident of having been right all along.

“Waving the red flag in front of the bull again, aren’t you?” Brad asserted. “Well, he refuses to do battle today.”

“You visited another time and place, deserting us for that ridiculous skeleton.”

“No, I didn’t.” Perhaps the investigation had aggravated a basic flaw in their relationship, which neither of them could identify it.

“You did mentally, and that’s what counts. Reminds me of your ardor for that robot.”

“Can’t we talk about something else?” he pleaded in a desire for peace of mind.

“All right,” she declared matter-of-factly, “When are you coming home?”

“Home? Isn’t that a somewhat abrupt request? Why should I want to come home after such rotten treatment.” He banged his fist on the table.

“Rotten treatment! Hardly. I didn’t throw a brick and break your bedroom window.”

“I apologize for that. A moment of uncontrollable anger.”

“That’s a good first step. You know, I sincerely appreciate how well you’ve handled Brian and Beth. They’ve responded beautifully to you. I couldn’t get them to behave at all.” She reached across the table and touched his hand.

“I enjoy being with them.” He softened.

“I miss you, Brad. Come home.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to.”

“Don’t expect me to get down on my hands and knees and beg you.”

“I won’t, and you wouldn’t anyway.”

“Smarty pants. Haven’t you missed me?” She winked at him, something she used to do when they were much younger, then they knew how to flirt with each other.

“Nope,” he lied.

“Really? I’m hurt. Anyway I don’t believe you.”

“Overconfidence, it’s always been your Achilles’ heel.”

“Come for dinner tomorrow night. The kids wanted me to ask you.”

“Just the kids?” He crumpled a cloth napkin and nonchalantly tossed it on the table.

“No, me too.”

The calico cat was always underfoot at the most inconvenient times, and that morning was no exception. Brad had decided to shift Norm in the trunk from the ground floor of his mother’s old mansion to the attic. Unwisely, he toted it himself instead of having a younger man from the firm handle it or at least assist him. The cat brushed against his ankles as Brad struggled up the stairs. Between carrying the load and avoiding the cat, each step grew harder. When he got to the second-floor landing, he rested briefly, then trudged upward. The cat meowed at him, in a plea for food or to urge him forward. At last on the third floor, he was totally out-of-breath. Just one more flight to go, he reminded himself and paused.

Bemused, Brad thought what an odd couple he and Norman were, representative of so vastly different ages, one an incessant dabbler in the past, the other an inert intruder reluctantly in the present. Yet since the initial encounter each had gravely affected his opposite number. In the odyssey on behalf of the skeleton, Brad had broken out of many numbing routines and forged a new life – richer and more diverse – with rare bursts of curiosity as the driving force. In turn, Brad had liberated Norm from an irretrievable tomb and absolute oblivion, creating a new existence for him in the McClain household, albeit lodged in a trunk. In a biblical sense, they had perhaps redeemed one another; each acting as the others Christ and Lazarus.

With one hand Brad opened the door to the attic stairs and stumbled while precariously balancing the encased Norm on the opposite shoulder as if carrying a cross. The casket-like box crashed on the steps as the cat scampered upward. Driven by primordial instincts, she sensed a fertile hunting ground and ran off in search of ever-elusive mice. After remounting Norm, Brad noticed his bloodied hands, pricked by nails in the trunk when it fell; he then negotiated the rest of the staircase. At the top, he felt on the verge of collapse from the exertions. The attic, unventilated and hot, constricted breathing. Carefully putting the box on the floor, he reached for the wall switch.

The synchronized whirling of three attic fans sucking hot air from the stifling room made it at least psychologically comforting. Forced to sit on the top step, Brad composed himself, dabbing a handkerchief on his wounds. There in the dark, eyes shut, he meditated. How dumb could he be? At his age and condition lugging that trunk might have pushed him over the edge. Never again would he do anything so foolish. For the next five minutes, he came to grips with his own mortality. If not cautious, he and Norm would soon share the same fate.

Once Brad regained his equilibrium, he stood erect. The return of normal breathing encouraged him. A flick of the light switch had brought the huge cavernous space to life though in a jungle-like state. Throughout the years, boxes, crates and trunks had proliferated. Old clothes of all sorts hung from plastic and metal racks. Pieces of furniture sprouted randomly. In settling his mother’s estate, family and the auction people had ransacked the lower floors but tended to neglect the attic. Daunting as a destination, for most it loomed too far to climb.

Like Brad, his mother had been a collector. She constantly bought things in garage sales, shops and auctions. Antiques had been a particular ion, once filling every room. Resistant to all family suggestions, she could never bring herself to sell anything. For her, resale of a precious object was like parting with a favorite pet.

Instead of carrying Norm’s trunk, Brad dragged it across the wooden floor to an open spot in a far corner. In wandering through the attic, he got reacquainted with her paraphernalia – trunks, chairs, a dresser and a stand-up mirror that reflected the disorder all about. Occasionally, the many-lived calico would duck in and out of the mess, appearing, disappearing, then mysteriously reappearing. She prowled to entertain herself. If by chance she sniffed a mouse, the stalking would start in earnest and only increase the delight.

For no apparent reason, his mother had dubbed the cat “Knuckles.” Throughout

her tenure in the McClain household, she had been a loyal, demanding and mischievous creature. With his mother’s death, the cat, readily adopting Brad as the new lord and master, had clawed her way into his life. Both he and the housekeeper regularly fed the animal and let her in or out of the house.

The cat reemerged from a foray among the boxes. For sport she stalked one of his feet, swiped a paw at his tro cuff, then ran for cover. Ignoring these antics, Brad continued to inspect piles of collectibles. Undeterred, the cat came out of hiding again to playfully swipe at the other cuff. This time Brad chased her along a row of boxes. “So you want to play,” he said. “Okay, here I come.”

Once more the cat disappeared from view. Brad tiptoed behind a set of clothing racks in the search of her. “Here Knuckles,” he called, “Psss, Psss, Psss.” She remained hidden and unresponsive. Despite the cluttered appearance, his mother’s valuables were arranged in a semi-organized fashion with aisles between the rows of boxes, crates and clothing racks. Brad tried to pursue the cat along these pathways, but she was nowhere in sight. Feline growls arose from the attic’s east corner at an eave. There Knuckles was kicking a dead mouse from paw to paw, then pouncing on it. Annoyed when Brad’s shadow tresed on her space, she scampered off and darted into a narrow opening between two crates. For the moment he gave up the chase. Bending down to examine the smelly mouse, his foot accidentally shifted a board underneath.

It appeared to be cut in half and loose. Fingertips squeezed between the two sections to rock each piece back and forth. To his surprise, they were easily uplifted. In the dim lights below the floorboards, a small compartment existed between the crossbeams. Wedged into the shallow cavity, a rectangular object – a metal box protruded.

He reached in, grabbed the handle on top and lifted it out; his heart beat faster. Could this contain the family jewels, concealed all these years? Or was there a big wad of money inside? The box felt light in weight. Brad hurriedly carried it

to the center of the attic. Beneath a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, he opened the lid.

Excitement had led him astray. Nothing valuable lay there, just a musty old book. But what was it doing in a box under an attic floorboard? Brad wondered. He placed the empty box on a crate, perused the book’s black cloth cover but failed to see any printing or engraving on it. The volume reminded him of an antiquated Bible. He opened it and turned three blank pages before coming to the title page. Emblazoned across the fragile, yellowed paper with brown frayed edges, the title leaped out – The Life and Times of Dr. Luke Davidson Based on a Manuscript written by his daughter, Mrs. Sally Johnson

Brad, taking a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Designated a limited edition, the book displayed a smudged date of publication in Roman numerals. While not clear enough to read, if he had to guess, it looked like something in the 1820s. The publisher was Howard Ryder & Company of New York City. He momentarily skipped over the preface and turned to the table of contents: Chapter 1 - Early Life in his Indian Village and New Paltz Chapter 2 - Years at Yale Chapter 3 - Medical Training Abroad Chapter 4 - Homecoming Chapter 5 - Marriage To Mother

Chapter 6 - Medical Practice in the Hudson Valley Chapter 7 - The Militia Chapter 8 - Spying for his Country Chapter 9 - Capture and Imprisonment

Though more listings appeared on the next page, Brad closed the book, walked downstairs and headed for the library on the ground floor. In a comfortable leather armchair under a bright table lamp, he removed his shoes and, turning back to the book’s preface, began to read:

The chapters that follow depict the remarkable life and times of my Father, Dr. Luke Davidson. He was born an Indian of the Munsee branch of the Lenape tribe, the son of a great chief in the Shawangunk Mountains outside New Paltz. Yet as an individual from two separate cultures, he accomplished great deeds in the white man’s world. He was a modest man who tended to keep matters in which he was personally involved to himself. In these pages I have endeavored to tell the accurate and complete story of his experiences so our family, friends and neighbors will know how accomplished he had been and how great were his contributions to the community and country…

Dr. Davidson, it dawned on Brad, must be the Indian in the Scudder family, the one other ancestors had conspired to cover up. Obviously, this was the family secret that evoked old prejudices, the skeleton in its closet if you will. Brad pondered whether his mother knew about the book or Dr. Davidson, or was the hiding place solely the clandestine preserve of earlier relatives, ashamed of their Indian heritage. He turned to the first chapter and read carefully, absorbing every word. Having come this far, he was not about to miss anything. Two hours later he was still engrossed in the brittle brown pages of the doctor’s biography. After a quick break for lunch, Brad read on in search of personal revelations. For a moment, he reflected on what Dr. Kline had told him, his DNA and that of his family could be analyzed to match against the skeleton.

CHAPTER XXV - DENOUEMENT

During the truce his new assignment could not have been more convenient. It was only a few miles from the family cottage, and closer still to the New Windsor Cantonment. Even Washington’s new headquarters on the river in Newburgh happened to be a short distance away. In November Luke had been appointed the head of the military hospital in New Windsor where he had already supervised its renovation and reorganization. This hospital now served the seven thousand troops camped at the Cantonment, many of whom had fought at Yorktown. Though the war had wound down, Washington stationed these troops just north of West Point in case the British, still occupying New York City in considerable strength, sought a desperate reprieve with a final thrust up the Valley.

In this assignment the general had given Luke the option of becoming a full colonel in the Army or remaining an unpaid civilian employee. Not enamored of military formalities, he chose the latter, so he was never officially enrolled in an Army unit.

For Luke, leaving the Sanctuary became the most difficult requirement of the new position. He had grown fond of McDuffy and Emma Ryan. The patients too would be missed, for Luke had gotten accustomed to their friendliness and endearing tokens of appreciation – fruit pies, jugs of hard cider and beer and those knitted sweaters and socks. A younger physician, assigned by Tallmadge to succeed Luke, preserved the outward facade of the Sanctuary’s medical practice that still shielded the continued collection of information by McDuffy and his lady.

As Luke on horseback trotted toward Washington’s new headquarters, patches of snow and ice still glistened along the narrow roadway leading into town. A bracing March wind blew off the river to penetrate Luke’s woolen cloak and

chill him. The cold air dried his tongue and lips. At a gate to the headquarters, the distant sounds of fife and drum flitted through the surrounding calm.

Since returning to the Highlands on permanent duty, Luke had not been forced to choose between Anne and Renee. Unable to make such a momentous decision, he procrastinated, letting things drift. A busy schedule at the hospital plus family obligations had left him little occasion to visit Mrs. Lancaster in New Paltz, just 20 miles north. Unannounced, she dropped in on him once at the hospital when he was treating a pack of soldiers. Limited to a mere half hour together, she had fled in a huff. Languishing at the Keppler mansion for a while longer with few eligible males to woo her, Renee soon tired of the wartime homeland. On a brig from Boston, she headed for . In a tear-stained letter written to Luke at dockside, she proclaimed her departure, their impossible situation as the clear and present cause, then pledged eternal love.

Luke had lost her again by default, their relationship another casualty of war. Despite the sadness, it had all been for the better because he could never have left Anne and the children. They had grown too much a part of him, too dear. In his mind’s eye, Renee had always been an illusion, someone he loved but never could possess, at times within grasp yet dauntingly beyond his reach. Many men, he consoled himself, marry one sweetheart only to long for another as if in a dream.

Washington’s new official residence, the old Hasbrouck house, loomed larger and more comfortable than the Ellison house in New Windsor, the grounds too offered better accommodations for troops. Constructed of dark gray fieldstone and mortar, like the original French Huguenot houses in New Paltz, it was thoroughly familiar to Luke. During the early war years, he had been a frequent visitor there before Colonel Hasbrouck’s ing in 1780 forced his widow and children to vacate the home to accommodate the growing needs of Washington and his staff.

Military occupation had wrought extensive changes to the old house and its surroundings. North of the residence, a new barrack facility and stables had been constructed for the Life Guards and their mounts, Washington’s Praetorians, charged with protecting him. On the house’s south side, an enlarged kitchen had been built to feed the general, his official family and the Guards. On the waterfront, the Army had installed new docks and erected a powder magazine. Yet the ensuing congestion and commotion compelled local civilians to bombard the general’s headquarters with complaints.

Recognized by a sentry at the front door, Luke was hastily itted and announced to Washington’s aide-de-camps. Ushered into the staff’s office, he gratefully warmed himself at the large jamless Dutch fireplace. Five minutes later, a guard led him into another room on the ground floor.

“Welcome to our humble quarters.” Washington sat on a winged wooden chair behind a narrow, short desk. His new reading glasses, a pair of undersized, metal-rimmed spectacles, lay on the desk atop a stack of papers. Beside him stood David Humphreys, newly promoted to lieutenant colonel and currently Washington’s top aide.

“I’m delighted to be here, sir.” Luke shook hands with both men.

Humphreys gestured to Luke. “This is the man, General, we have to thank for uncovering the biggest fraud ever perpetrated on the Army—a plot of major proportions, I might add.”

Luke was puzzled. “David, what are you talking about?”

“He’s having some fun at your expense.” Washington smiled. “I believe he is referring to the case of Debra Sampson.”

All at once, Luke nodded and grinned. “Ah, Miss Sampson, yes. That was a rare case. Perhaps I should write her up for the medical journal in Philadelphia.”

“How could our officers have been such damn fools?” asked Humphreys.

“She was quite tall and big-boned,” Luke recalled. “Could’ve fooled any unsuspecting soul.”

“Tis true, but every day there she was right under their blasted noses. Do we really breed such blind and dumb commanders in this man’s Army?” Disgusted, Humphreys folded his arms. “It was inexcusable.”

“I’m told she grew up on a farm with lots of brothers, hunted and worked alongside them,” Luke said. “Alas, that s for her rough manner, skills and stamina.”

“So this woman pretended to be a man and served undetected as a soldier in that Massachusetts unit.” Washington shook his head in amazement. “Now what do we do with her?”

“If she hadn’t gotten sick and gone to your hospital, Dr. Davidson, we may never have known about her.” Humphreys turned to Washington. “I believe, sir, we ought to court-martial her.”

“No, no,” Luke protested. “Such punishment is not called for here. The crime, if it can even be termed that, doesn’t justify anything so harsh.”

“It’s a violation of every military code known to man,” Humphreys concluded. “She must pay for the error of her ways.”

“But she acted from good intentions and was dedicated to her country,” Luke came to her defense. “She did perform her duties well for years. The record is clear on that point. Sir, I would call her in, thank her for what she has done and give her an honorable discharge. Then I would say you’ll try to arrange a pension for her, but there are no guaranties she’ll get it from this Congress.”

“Good advice,” Washington said.

“Still the defender of the underdog, I see,” Humphreys remarked, taking defeat gracefully. “Something, I suspect, you’ll never outgrow, Luke, if you haven’t done so already.”

“Now, let’s discuss the real reason I asked you here,” Washington emphasized. “What about the smallpox inoculations for those at the Cantonment who haven’t been treated?” On matters of health, the general could be a stickler.

“They’ve already started,” Luke informed them. “Units come to the hospital every day, and we process them. It should take another week to complete.”

“Excellent!” Washington exclaimed.

A few iron pots, copper pans and metal scissors lay on the woolen blanket stretched across the ground – remains from a day’s sale to the troops. At the Cantonment, Paul and Jessie gathered these wares to put them back into the bin of the buckboard. Jessie folded the blanket as Paul hitched the horses. Then they drove off. The long stay in the Highlands had been extremely frustrating for Paul. Upon arrival in New Windsor, he expected to finish the mission straightaway and depart. Yet hindered at every turn, the right set of circumstances – the golden opportunity – never seemed to materialize for him. Was this truly so, or was he rationalizing, putting it off because of the many risks?

Since the war had not officially ended, he and Jessie continued to gather vital military information for the British about the rebels. Committing all to memory, Paul would at times ride south to the English outpost at Paulus Hook in New Jersey, write a report and hand it to the commander. At least they were doing something for the King’s forces, and that alone gave their lengthy sojourn in New Windsor meaning.

Although this couple pretended to be husband and wife to deceive the enemy, the deception itself shortly evolved into reality. After spending so much time together at close quarters, it was perhaps inevitable they would become romantically entangled. Still this relationship was rooted in something other than extended proximity.

Jessie had a calming effect on him, and Paul, in turn, stimulated her more phlegmatic nature with a restless outspokenness and energy. Without any criticism from her, his drinking bouts had stopped. Her sense of humor offset his serious intensity. When he became depressed or too obsessive, she dissolved such foul moods with wit and smiles. Relaxed and assuaged, the stomping, snorting bull in the pasture had been transformed by his mate into a more

mellow creature.

When in the company of this tough man, no one dared leer at Jessie. Tactfully hinting she should wear less revealing tops, Paul prompted a change to more conservative dress. Never patronizing, he grew effusive in respect for what she had achieved as a spy and the dangers she had endured. Immensely pleased, she could tell how proud he had become of her.

At the beginning of the New Windsor stay, Jessie had obtained a sutler’s license, signed by the camp’s commandant. This allowed them to sell merchandise to the troops, along with the other merchants and peddlers, in a designated market three days a week. The goods they had initially transported from Manhattan were soon all sold. Forced to scour the countryside for new wares, they discovered a local Tory who made a savory hard apple cider. The pair purchased a steady supply of the beverage from him and secretly resold jugs to the troops. To Paul’s utter delight, the cider often made the troops drunk, undermining their effectiveness.

In the winter months, huge snowfalls in New Windsor restricted Jessie and Paul to the well-heated cabin for days at a time. During daylight hours he would trudge into the forest on primitive snowshoes, chop wood for the fireplace, or hunt for deer and small game. Afterward, utilizing a sled, he would drag both the wood and quarry back to the cabin.

“Should we stay here much longer?” Jessie asked one cold evening before the blaze in the hearth.

“Why, of course,” Paul replied, “until I’ve accomplished what I set out to”

“But the war is really over, even if a formal treaty remains to be signed. We cannot do much more here.” She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders to ward off the cold.

“That’s untrue,” he argued, reflecting on the mission. “Do you mean to tell me the king and Parliament will just give up? Not after all this time and effort, they won’t.”

“They may have no choice. I fear wars are expensive, and other interests may prevail.”

“Mark my words, when the winter is over, there’ll be another campaign.”

“Nay, it is time to quit. I just feel it in my bones. Perhaps it’s just a premonition.”

“Be patient.” He grasped her hands to reassure her. “My chance should occur very soon.”

“You still won’t tell me why they sent you, will you?”

“It’s safer if you don’t know.” He rubbed her stocking feet to warm her. “No harm will possibly come to you then. That’s of the utmost importance to me.”

“Mind you, I’m a big girl,” she said, with an air of competence. “I’ve been exposed to danger long before we met.”

Spread over hundreds of acres, the Cantonment resembled a good-sized town. In rows along separate streets, wooden cabins with shingled roofs, stone chimneys and fireplaces comfortably sheltered the bulk of the Northern Continental Army. The Cantonment’s eastern section sat on higher ground than its western counterpart. A newly constructed causeway over an extensive swamp lay between them. On the eastern half a large wooden building, called the Temple of Virtue, served as a place of religious worship and secular meetings for the troops. Kitchens, blacksmiths, armories, and stables were interspersed throughout the Cantonment.

Unlike the trying winters at Valley Forge and Morristown, the rebel soldiers at New Windsor were at least well-fed and clothed – the efforts of Robert Morris, the new finance genius appointed by Congress, having largely borne fruit. Supplies of uniforms, shoes and boots from had poured into the country. By the standards of leaner years, food too had been plentiful. For the first time uniforms were standardized – dark blue outer coats, white overalls and waistcoats, with red or white facings and white linings. Under Washington’s supervision, officers now wore sashes, cockades and epaulettes to distinguish rank.

While at the Cantonment, soldiers were kept busy chopping trees for firewood and construction, raising buildings and drilling regularly. This was all part of Washington’s plans. Activities, he reasoned, would promote morale, diminish boredom, and limit troublemaking. Since the British still held New York City with a large contingent of troops and ships, it was imperative the rebels at the Cantonment maintain a high degree of readiness.

Still, the prospect of peace itself had an unsettling effect on the Army in New Windsor. Like a festering tumor, it had become a divisive issue. Congress had not paid the troops. If peace occurred, they would no longer be needed and might never be compensated. If disbanded, the soldiers would plainly lose all leverage. None of these circumstances was lost on them.

In the staff offices at the Hasbrouck house, Lieutenant Colonel David Humphreys sat down at a desk to start the new day. Outside chilly, dank breezes blew off the river.

“Looks like we are here all alone, Ben,” yawned Humphreys in an effort to shake off drowsiness. He did not relish the prospects of twelve hours of tedious paperwork.

“Yep,” Major Benjamin Walker answered.

“Why didn’t we take furloughs like our smarter brethren?” asked Humphreys.

“Because we had no place to go. Nonsense. It was our greater sense of duty.”

“Actually, the old man wouldn’t let us leave. That’s the trouble with being too damn efficient and indispensable.”

“Just think, the war’ll be over soon – it has not been a pretty business. Death, destruction, injuries. How glorious to be civilians again and enjoy peace!” crowed Walker.

“I’ve surely had a belly-full of this war. It’s gone on too long and gets damn confusing at times. Fact is man behaves at his worst and best in war. Insanity, cowardice and cruelty come out as well as genius, courage and selflessness. None of us are angels. Just look at how we’ve treated our fellow countrymen, the

Tories. Even when they didn’t actually oppose us, we tarred and feathered them, drove them from their homes, and in some instances hung or shot them. irable aren’t we, fighting for liberty the way we do, while denying it to those who disagree with us or have different colored skin. What’s on the agenda for today?”

“There’s the usual,” Walker said. “Three cases of desertion, stolen boots from a Newburgh store, a slew of animal thefts – pigs, chickens, cows. The men caught are guilty as sin. But we have to follow procedures and set up the court-martials. In the end I trust they’ll each get lashes. istered rather lightly, I might add.”

“Right. We want them available for military duty, not laid up in the hospital. What else is there?”

“Here’s something we have to take care of first thing,” Walker said with emphasis. “We must assign five guards to escort Mrs. Washington on a visit to General Knox’s wife late this morning. That has the highest priority.”

Unexpectedly, Washington entered the room and said, “Colonel, please come in here so we can go over the report you prepared yesterday.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Humphreys.

In the confines of the general’s office, both men sat down.

“Still no definite word about a peace treaty, sir, although there’re plenty of rumors,” Humphrey said. “Mr. Franklin and Mr. Adams have their hands full with the British negotiators, I suppose.”

“So I hear, David, so I hear.” Washington was lost in thought. “It’s a shame Colonel Willett failed in the attack on Oswego.”

This was a complete non sequitur and old news to boot. The change in subject puzzled Humphreys.

“I know, sir. If it’s any consolation, the plans for the invasion of Canada are finished and appear promising.”

“Good.” Washington grasped Humphrey’s report and his eyes widened. “What’s this!” he frowned. “Lieutenant Sheffield complains about men pitching pennies in violation of written orders. Don’t we have more important things to fret about?”

“Sorry, sir, I should’ve eliminated it from the report. You’re absolutely right, that’s inconsequential. But there’s something else bothering you,” the perceptive Humphreys observed.

“Have you seen that anonymous letter, calling for an officers’ meeting tomorrow because of Congress’ failure to act on back pay? It urges bolder action.”

“Yes, sir, it’s further down the list for today’s briefing.”

“This is a dangerous situation. ions are inflamed, and there’s no predicting what will happen.” He looked worried. “The men have a just cause, we all know. They’re owed a lot of money. Congress has failed to come up with an adequate plan to satisfy legitimate concerns, and the states have entirely ignored their responsibilities.”

“Is there a solution? Congress just does not have the funds, does it?”

“Patience and persistence must triumph, not blackmail or force,” Washington proclaimed. “This reminds me of Colonel Nicola’s letter. Do you recall that situation last year?”

“He wanted you to seize absolute power and become king. You categorically refused and chastised him to boot.”

“Yes. Like this group of malcontents, Nicola had lost faith in our system of government, and sought to replace it with a monarchy.” Washington rose, a fist pounding in his hand. “But we’ve just fought a long, hard war to rid ourselves of one king and establish our republic. Indeed, we don’t need another.”

“The letter that called for the officers’ meeting has gotten wide circulation.”

“I am afraid it has, Colonel. This group exhibits a rebellious attitude and means to have its way. Who do you suspect is behind them?”

“Colonel Stewart and Major Armstrong, Gates’ aide, I would wager. Perhaps General Gates himself, but that is unclear. What do you propose to do about it, sir?” Humphreys realized the general could be faced with a violent insurrection or even a coup d’état.

“Confront it directly.” Washington could not avoid it even if he wanted to. “We’ll ban the meeting and call our own for next Saturday at the Temple.”

“Good, I’ll make the necessary arrangements, sir.”

“Before I became a general,” Washington advised, “I served for years in the Virginia House of Burgesses, then the Continental Congress. Congress must always control the Army and not the other way round. The fate of our nation is at stake.”

Command always weighed heavily on Washington. The twisted politics of the war added even more pressures. After the American victory at Saratoga in the fall of ‘77, some in Congress had promoted the candidacy of General Horatio Gates to replace Washington as commander-in-chief. However, Gate’s cowardly retreat later at Camden, South Carolina had entirely undermined that bid. There was the matter of Charles Lee, another general officer who had sought to supplant Washington. Then came Lee’s defining moment – the Battle of Monmouth in New Jersey where an unwillingness to attack the British, contrary to orders, had spelled treason, cowardice or ineptitude. It led to his court-martial and early retirement. In the past, these challenges to the general’s authority only reinforced a continued persistence.

Over the next few days Washington visited the Cantonment. Chats with key officers there enabled him to gauge opinions and stress the necessity for order. In missives to Congress, he reported the peril and urged to find a solution

to officer complaints. Throughout this tense period, the general still dealt with the most mundane matters – onishing irregular behavior, handling courtmartials, promoting good military appearance. These activities kept him from dwelling too much on the back pay issue.

After Washington banned the unauthorized meeting and announced the scheduling of a legitimate one for later in the week, a second anonymous letter appeared at headquarters. It reiterated the prior demands but noted the general’s meeting underscored the correctness of airing grievances in a public forum. To counter the letter, Washington posted a series of Congressional resolutions in the general orders for the troops to see. They authorized settlement of Congress’ obligations to the Army when funds became available and called for the states to pay their fair share. Hopefully, the matter could be defused.

Lieutenant Colonel Humphreys had kept Luke informed about the gathering storm and invited him to Saturday’s meeting at the Temple. Faced with a pressing workload at the hospital, Luke initially declined, but Humphreys persisted. For years so gracious, Humphreys grew testy and dogmatic. Luke suspected Humphreys meant to gather all allies under one roof in case of trouble.

Luke explained the dilemma to Anne, who without hesitation prodded him to go to the meeting. “Your patients can do without you for a few hours. You devote entirely too much time to them, anyway. David has been a good friend. You surely owe him this.”

Still Luke hesitated until Thursday morning when Humphreys rode over to the hospital to speak with him.

“We are facing a crisis, Luke, and I want you there to lend a hand. General Washington feels the more ers we have at the Temple, the better, and I

concur. We won the war in part by controlling the river. Saturday we must preserve and defend the peace on its banks. If we fail, there could be anarchy, dictatorship or continued war.”

No one seemed to notice Luke in civilian dress slip into the Temple where he sat with officers of the Continental Army late Saturday afternoon. Benches constructed of split logs with peg legs furnished the bulk of the seating. Blazing fires in huge stone fireplaces at either end of the room generated enough heat. A foot-high platform stood at one end of the room, edged by a short railing, with several chairs, a long table and a stand for papers. Lit candles in wall holders struggled fitfully to brighten the room. Luke spotted Humphreys sitting on a front-row bench. Humphreys saw him at the same time and nodded.

When the room filled with officers, a door opened on the side of the dais, and four senior officers filed in to take seats. Ten minutes later, the same door reopened, and General George Washington strode onto the platform. A murmur of astonishment ran through the room. Beforehand it had been rumored the general would not attend the meeting. Now there he stood at the podium. Clad in a resplendent blue uniform with a full head of gray hair, the tall 51-year-old soldier looked every bit the ideal image of the Army’s commander-in-chief.

General Gates rose from a seat on the dais to ask, “General Washington, will you please address us, sir?”

Silence reigned as Washington removed papers from a coat’s inner pocket and placed them on the stand. In the next instant, he withdrew a pair of glasses from another pocket, grasping them in one hand. “Gentlemen,” he stated, “you’ll permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray, but almost blind, in the service of my country.”

With this humble beginning, the respected commander deeply touched the audience. Many choked back tears watching him. The general had struck just the right chord to win over his men. Luke too was moved.

“Anonymous letters have been circulated to stir your emotions and inflame you,” the general announced. “Their aim is to incite you to do something regrettable. Reason must prevail. Of course, you have a just cause, and Congress and the states must compensate you for your gallant services to this country. I personally pledge to exert all my influence on your behalf to insure you are paid.”

In a quick glance around the room to gauge the audience’s reactions, Luke caught sight of a cloaked figure in the back, leaning upright against the wall. Barely distinguishable at that distance, the man reminded him of someone – someone he could not quite identify. At first Luke, paying it little mind, turned back to listen to the general.

“I urge you,” Washington said, “not to take any action that in the calm light of day would diminish the dignity or blemish the glory of your achievements. Resist those who would have you overturn the liberties for which you fought and the government you so valiantly defended. No need exists for civil discord or violence among us. Let me assure you, Congress intends to do ample justice and to reward your service.”

Washington raised his voice and articulated with ion. “By being patient and having faith in the republic and its system of government, posterity will say you were not found wanting. You abided by your principles and rallied behind the nation. You put the interests of your country, first and foremost. Hence the world will have witnessed the ideal human nature can achieve.”

Luke turned to check the back of the room. The cloaked figure had moved

toward the Temple’s central door under a set of candles. With the man closer in clearer light, Luke mentally struggled to place the faintly familiar face.

Washington read out loud a letter from Congressman Joseph Jones, confirming Congress’ intent to fulfill its obligations to the Army and settle the back pay issue. Once finished, the general stepped down from the podium to depart through a side door.

Again Luke glanced back at the cloaked figure against the wall. The man’s shock of blond hair and straight nose stood in sharp relief as he opened the main door to slip outside. Memory refreshed, Luke at last realized who it was. So many years had elapsed since he had last seen that boyhood friend, Paul Keppler. What a fool he had been not to recognize him sooner.

But what is he doing here? He’s a British Army officer. This is a meeting just for Americans. And peace had not been declared.

Alarms went off in Luke’s mind and body. He jumped up, ran down the aisle and dashed out the door in pursuit of the cloaked figure.

In the twilight, Washington and three guards emerged from the building’s far end. As if he had vanished in a low-lying cloud, Paul was nowhere in sight when Luke first scrambled outside. Yet something or someone stirred in a grove of large elms, twenty-five yards away. Behind a tree a man lurked. From this distance Luke could not identify him. Partially hidden by lengthening shadows, he held an object in one hand against his side. In the fading light, a piece of metal glinted, possibly a knife. As Luke drew closer to the trees, the contours of a pistol materialized. In an instant all doubts dissolved.

His pulse quickened in the race forward. Older now and out of shape, Luke no longer possessed the fleetness of foot of youth. Straining both limbs and lungs, he rushed on. When the man raised his left hand to aim the weapon at Washington, Luke hit him on the run with the full force of his lowered shoulder. The pistol went off. Knocked off his feet, the sharpshooter dropped the gun. Luke fell to the ground and rolled over several times. The assassin jumped up and fled into the woods. Luke regained his feet and hurried to the general’s aid to tend any wound.

“I’m all right,” Washington said, “no harm done.”

Luke breathed easier. He returned his full attention to the assailant. Highly suspicious, he could not be sure it was Paul. He grabbed the reins of a guard’s horse, hoisted himself into the saddle and raced off through the woods where the man disappeared. He crossed a rolling meadow, then spied a horse and rider rapidly traveling north along a narrow dirt road.

The mare my Father rode reared up on her hind legs, whinnied and dashed off at full speed after the other rider. The sounds of the animal’s hooves hitting the ground blocked out all other noises to overwhelm my Father’s thoughts. Nonetheless, he spurred the mare on, the creature straining every muscle to overtake the assassin. My Father had not ridden this hard in many years, and soon began to tire. Yet both mare and rider went clattering along after him. The man they were following, an expert horseman, continued to surge ahead. At first my Father could barely keep up, and as evening came, he fell further and further behind.

In the cloudy dusk, Luke stopped to stretch in the stirrups for an instant to get a better view. He could no longer see the rider, but felt confident of the general direction his quarry was headed. Unless the man radically altered course, he would soon be located. If the assassin were Paul, then he would travel north toward the Keppler mansion. The fading light made it dangerous to ride too fast

so Luke kept the horse at a canter.

During General Knox’s speech, Humphreys roamed through the room to sample opinions. Elated, he discovered Washington had won the men over. Having seen Luke dart out the Temple door earlier and heard the musket shot moments later, he grew concerned. He hastened outside and hailed one of the general’s Life Guards. After explaining what happened, the guard pointed to the path in the woods where Luke had pursued the assailant. The attempted assassination infuriated Humphreys. Who would have ordered and executed such a outlandish deed at this point? Only mad men, he concluded. Humphreys seized a horse, then rode off in search and of Luke.

Unbeknown to Luke or Humphreys, another traveler had taken the same road, behind Luke though ahead of the colonel. In a wagon, she vigorously slapped the horses with the reins to urge them forward with shouts of, “Faster! Faster!”

Contrary to instructions and without his knowledge, Jessie had followed Paul to the Temple and watched him enter with the American officers, undetected in the confusion of the gathering crowd. She waited patiently outside and observed him dash from the building to hide in the grove of trees. Moments later, she spotted another man rushing out the same door toward Paul. Not an actual witness to their collision, she heard the shot, then learned it had missed the intended target.

Paul’s attempt to assassinate Washington astonished and horrified her. Her horror did not relate to the act’s immorality but rather its senselessness. How could Paul, or the instigator of the plot, be so stupid? The war was already over; the risks of getting caught were entirely too great. Even if Paul had succeeded, nothing but more enmity and retribution would have ensued. All of a sudden, she realized this could not be Colonel Stuart’s scheme. He was too clever and practical. This plot had to be Sir Henry Clinton’s. At times, she wondered about that man’s sanity. His obsession to eliminate Washington had driven Paul to absurd extremes. No wonder the Americans had won this war, she reckoned.

Clinton had failed to capitalize on British advantages, reacted too tentatively and had lost the initiative.

Still seething, Jessie had the presence of mind to move on. Anger persisted as she drove the horses forward. She ed Paul’s parting words. He had asked her to meet him at a stone armory further north just after sunset. In the search for new wares to buy, they had ridden by it numerous times. So Jessie was sure she could find it even at night. Other instructions made her feel more uneasy. If he did not arrive by midnight, she was to head north and stay at his parents’ home on the river. He had given her a letter for them just in case. She shuddered at the prospect of missing him at the Armory.

Hans Reinhardt’s exposure to Luke’s experiments with exploding spear guns and mines had transformed him from a mere craftsman specializing in clocks and guns into an inventor. Before he had taken other peoples’ designs and executed them in concrete form; now he developed his own plans and turned them into real devices. Work had taken on a different meaning, and creativity ruled life as never before.

Hans had grown dissatisfied with the old method of loading muskets with powder and shot either in loose form or with paper cartridge from the end of the barrel, ramming it home with a rod, then relying on a spark from powder in a pan. How slow, often unreliable, and inefficient. Would it not be much better, he reflected, if a complete cartridge could be breach-loaded and fired near the hammer of the gun? A ramrod or priming powder would not be required. The rate of fire would increase dramatically without being hampered by poor weather and misfiring.

It was a grand goal, but faced many obstacles. Hans worked hard on the project in the Armory almost every evening. Newly appointed as foreman, he would dismiss the other workmen at sundown and focus solely on his goal.

He was bent over his workbench and so immersed in his invention that evening he failed to notice an intruder sneaking into his personal laboratory. But then a shadow fell over him. He raised his head and turned to see a man standing there, with a pistol aimed at him. His first reaction was more annoyance than fear.

“Who the hell are you?” Hans shouted. “You’re not supposed to be here. This is private property.”

“Shut your mouth!” the stranger snapped. “I’ll ask the questions and give the orders. Is there anyone else here tonight?”

“No,” Hans replied, at last grasping his disadvantage.

“Is anyone expected?” The man was short of breath.

“No.” Han’s voice softened, aware this man could be dangerous unless placated.

“Tell me your name and position here.”

“Hans Reinhardt, foreman of the Keppler Armory.” He wiped his brow with a rag from the bench.

“Take off your clothes,” the stranger told him.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. Take off your clothes and be quick about it.”

Hans realized no other choice existed, so he disrobed. Then, he felt a blow to the back of his head and slumped to the floor.

Paul Keppler was a desperate man, ready to take desperate measures. After knocking out the armory worker, he dragged the man over to the nearest wall and dropped him. He rested his saber on the open hearth, then undressed to rid himself of the British uniform and its accouterments. He had worn the uniform under a cloak to prevent being labeled a spy if caught at the Cantonment, but now he had no further use for it. He changed hurriedly into the worker’s clothes. The two men were about the same size and the clothes fit Paul fairly well.

His plan was simple: fade into the civilian population. He would visit his parents briefly, then travel north to Montreal. This escape route was long, but it was the safest. Because of the assassination attempt, the rebels would likely patrol all roads south to New York City. And he had to consider Jessie. She had consented to accompany him in their flight and become his real wife.

As a staff officer, Humphreys had not seen any action in quite a while. The arduous trip on horseback in the darkness exhausted him. He struggled to discern the road ahead, his body ached from the jolts. He slowed down. Earlier along the same road, he had barely avoided crashing into the wagon, driven by that buxom woman, the itinerant merchant, who always seemed underfoot. Now, he’d made a wrong turn. He was lost and would have to double back.

The clouds had disappeared, and a half moon and stars illuminated the countryside. My Father spotted a faint glimmer of light ahead as he rode north. Why would anyone be in the Armory at this hour? he wondered. The workday had ended hours ago. It made him suspicious and leery. The horse’s pace slowed while they cautiously approached the building. After dismounting and tying the reins to a tree branch, he searched the immediate vicinity to find another horse. Highly lathered, it had plainly just been ridden long and hard.

My Father crept to the Armory’s side door. Before entering, he paused. Because of this unexpected chase, the sole weapon he possessed was a British Army knife, a farewell gift from Betsy Cromwell. If the culprit proved to be Paul Keppler, my Father doubted what to do. Should he take Paul prisoner and turn him over to the appropriate authorities? If Paul resisted, how would he react? Perhaps he should leave now, letting his old friend go free in light of the close relationship with the Keppler family, but he just could not. My Father still must try to capture the man who had almost killed Washington. He thought of peering through the windows to discover who was inside and what was happening. All dirty and smudged with grime, they barely allowed enough interior light to escape, let alone real images.

Mustering his courage, Luke opened the door. He saw two men. One lay on the floor against a wall. It appeared to be Hans Reinhardt, but he wore a British uniform and that made no sense. A second white man was bent over in the far corner. He was in civilian work clothes and had his back toward Luke. He straightened up, startled at the sound of Luke’s entrance and turned around. The man frowned in the flickering light.

“Luke? Is that you?” he asked.

“Yes, it is I, Paul.” Luke was disappointed and saddened to find that the would-

be assassin was indeed Paul Keppler.

“What are you doing here?”

“I suppose I should ask you the same question. But I already know. I witnessed what you did at the Cantonment earlier. There is no mistaking, it was cowardly and senseless.”

“That depends on what side you are on. In my humble opinion, I was doing a great service for my king.”

“But the war is over and to assassinate a great man at any time cannot be justified.” Utter disgust laced Luke’s words. In speech or action, this was the first time he had ever confronted Paul directly.

“I was acting under orders.” Paul raised his chin in defiance.

“Whose? An absolute villain?”

“That’s unimportant now. Was it you who hit me?”

“Yes.”

“Damn you.” Paul shook a fist. “You cost me a promotion.”

“A promotion.” Luke shook his head. “My dear old friend, you sold your soul too cheaply.” His face tightened. “Obviously, you’re in league with the devil these days.”

“I resent that coming from you. You, of all people, have no right to criticize me.”

“No one cares what you resent, but I truly pity your parents, considering how low you have sunk. I’m taking you into custody.”

“Never,” Paul cried. He snatched up the sword from atop the hearth. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

A long thin iron rod lay against the stone wall. Luke seized it, ready to defend himself.

“You’ve no chance against me.” Paul strode forward. “I’m a first-rate swordsman, trained by the finest fencing instructors in England. You should just leave, and no one will ever be the wiser.”

“I’ll know and that’s all that counts.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Paul raised the sword. “I don’t wish your blood on my hands.”

“Believe me, it won’t be. : you could never beat me at any endeavor when we were growing up.”

“But a lot has happened since. I’m an experienced professional soldier, and you’ve been reduced to a mere country doctor.” Paul growled. “The odds are with me.”

Still, there was truth in Luke’s assertion. In a sense, the war came down to one last confrontation.

With the speed and quickness of a mountain lion, Keppler sprang at my Father, skillfully wielding his sword. Caught off-guard, Father fell back as he raised the iron rod to ward off the overhand sweep of Keppler’s saber. The weapon my Father held was crude, but effective. It blocked the descending arcs of the blade that cut through the air. After fending off several slashes and thrusts, Father grasped the iron rod with two hands and rapidly swung it at Keppler as if marking the air with a series of Xs. The force and speed of this whipping motion became overpowering, fracturing Keppler’s sword. Compelled to retreat, he adopted a more defensive tactic.

Still on the floor, Hans Reinhardt awoke. Befuddled, he sluggishly rose. The clash between Paul and Luke for a moment transfixed Hans. He staggered towards the two fighters. Without purpose, he wanted to act, furious at Keppler for the indignities forced on him. Paul was wearing his clothes and he, the redcoat’s. The horror of it, plainly intolerable. He grasped the collar of the strange uniform in an attempt to rip it off. And what was Luke doing here? As Reinhardt neared, both swordsmen eyed him incredulously.

“Hans get out of the way,” Luke shouted frantically. “You’ll get hurt.”

Reinhardt ignored the warning and lunged forward. The fighting stopped momentarily only because Hans pushed between the combatants. Paul and Luke were bewildered. Unsteadily, Reinhardt, twisting, lurched at the doctor, arms thrown around his neck to brace himself while Luke turned away from Paul to catch him. Unable to stay on his feet, Hans accidentally grasped a medallion draped about the doctor’s neck as he slumped to the floor. In the confusion, Paul hit Luke on the head with the full force of the sword’s hilt, and he fell too.

Outraged by this treachery, Hans grabbed the knife sheathed in Luke’s belt beside him. With the workbench for , he struggled to lift himself, then stumbled towards Keppler, who was busily gathering pistol and shot. In reaction to the renewed threat, Paul dropped them to grapple with the inventor. As they wrestled, Keppler, exerting a firm grasp on Hans’ wrist, swiveled the knife towards his stomach. With intensity, Reinhardt turned the blade back at Paul. Fearing any remaining strength would soon desert him, Hans threw all his weight forward and, in short powerful steps, drove Keppler against the wall. Too strong for Hans, Paul, with a quick twist, forced the outstretched knife into his opponent’s ribs. Blood gushed to bath the pair in a sticky warmth.

Freed from Hans’ grasp, Keppler pivoted away. On his feet, Reinhardt staggered to the corner of the room. The knife still stuck in his mid-section, hands pressed on the wound to prevent further bleeding. In a muddled frenzy, he sought escape, any haven from Paul’s pursuit. Against the stonewall in a last spurt of energy, he pushed one foot down on the back end of a wooden floor . It instantly popped open. With the same foot he lifted the ’s front end to expose the hole beneath. Slumped in a sitting position on the edge, he disappeared down a long chute into oblivion.

Anxious to depart, Keppler grabbed all possessions and rushed outside. There Jessie waited. Having collected his and Luke’s horses, Paul tied them to the

wagon’s rear, then leaped into the driver’s seat. Bloodstained, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek, took the reins, then slapped them hard and often against the team’s rumps in a hasty flight north.

When my Father woke, exhausted and groggy, he stood unsteadily to scan the room. Keppler and Hans were gone. He detected a pool of blood next to the wall and red traces across the floor. Opening the Armory door, he wandered outside to look for the horses. They too had vanished. A further search revealed neither the presence of Paul nor Hans. Luke did not know what had happened to either.

But even if he had subdued and captured Paul, he had second thoughts about his eventual fate. He felt too indebted to the Keppler family ever to put the hangman’s noose around their son’s neck. And he took great comfort in having saved Washington’s life.

Throughout the war’s darkest days, when the cause of liberty almost died, the general stood as the rallying point for his countrymen – in their eyes always deemed the nation’s savior despite initial inexperience, indecision, and mistakes. Personally, he had gambled everything – wealth, property, family, comfort and life itself – for no pay to defend the country and its ideals. Father ired him for such resolve and determination to persist in the face of enormous obstacles and disadvantages. Indeed, this persistence led to the ultimate triumph. The symbol of national survival and unity, he had inspired fellow citizens to believe independence would be preserved, hence persuading them to stay the course.

My Father recalled Humphrey’s words about preserving and defending the peace. For years having witnessed Washington’s ability to keep the country and Army together through all the travails, he recognized this man would play a critical role in that peace. Here rode a commanding general who, upon a colossal victory, willingly cantered away from power to his farm at Mount Vernon in rejection of dictatorship, whatever the form, in favor of democracy. An event rarely recorded in the annuals of warfare except for Cincinnatus of ancient

Rome. Afterward one word resonated in my father’s mind about Washington – character, character, character. Upon his character this odd collection of former colonies, united in war, would be launched as one entity, absent the threat of British dominion. With the war over, the task of building a nation lay before all Americans. Without Washington to lead them, how could they possibly succeed?

Brad McClain, putting the book down on the table, paused to reflect on what he really discovered. While the identity of the skeleton and circumstances surrounding his death still mattered, Luke’s feat, the saving of Washington’s life, mattered even more. Here in the Hudson Valley, the cradle of the nation, his ancestor had directly influenced the course of history. It was wonderful just to know that. Cheerfully, Brad mused about how overjoyed the city’s historical society would be to hear Luke’s life story. The programs and exhibits it would mount could regenerate Newburgh. Perhaps he should dangle the biography plus the skeleton as carrots to settle the litigation between the club and the society. That certainly would take the heat off Byron.

Though there were other pages to read, Brad closed the book. What was already learned answered all pertinent questions. Smiling in triumph, he reached for the phone to call Cal, then Debbie. At last he felt vindicated. Past mysteries had been unraveled, posing no further obstacle or doubt. Time, effort and a dash of luck had ultimately made the difference. Stronger and more capable, he stood ready for whatever else life had in store for him.

About the Author

A graduate of Yale College and Columbia University Law School, Ken Cascone heads a New York law firm, where he specializes in corporate finance. Mr. Cascone is a history buff who has done extensive research on the American Revolutionary War and toured many of its battlefields and campgrounds. He has lectured and written articles, book reviews and essays on the subject. River of Triumph is his debut novel.