by Arianna

Inspired by the song of the same name, sung by Kenny Chesney.
The lyrics (incorporated into the prologue) follow at the end of the story.
This story, set for the most part during the American Revolution, is a part of the continuing AU that presumes that Jim and Blair have lived many lives over the course of time. While I've inserted significant roles for the characters, I've also made an effort to present the actual events and the thoughts and actions of real historical personages in accordance with historical records.

********************

Leaning heavily on the sturdy support of his stout, walnut walking stick, James Ellison limped slowly through the long, waving grass of the jutting headland. The sweet scent of clover and the pungency of the peat moss mingled with the fresh brine carried by the brisk breeze blowing in from the Atlantic. Above, the sky was a deep cerulean of such incredible clarity it was wondrous, and was softened only by the high white cumulous clouds, pure and pristine, as they scudded swiftly to the northeast. A perfect summer day, warm but not hot; a peaceful day, one to gladden the heart and raise a smile of gratitude to simply be alive.

But Ellison wasn't smiling; the haggard lines etched in his pallid face, the sadness in the depths of his light blue eyes suggested that he smiled rarely, if ever. He was garbed simply in a faded, homespun cotton shirt and trousers, and his moccasins were scuffed and worn, revealing a man who preferred comfort to style. His bowed back and stiff, awkward gait spoke of injuries badly healed, and of burdens that he'd never learned to set down; though not yet forty, he looked and felt as old as the hills. Panting with effort, he drew in shallow, open-mouth breaths as if starved for oxygen but afraid of inhaling too deeply.

Doggedly, though every limping step pained him, he continued on until he reached the point where the land fell away, dropping dizzily in a steep, rugged cliff to the sea. Below, the heaving waves roared as they surged up against the land's face in their eternal battle to wear away the rock, spewing white water in rhythmic, dazzling fountains of crystalline drops that refracted the light like thousands, maybe millions of tiny rainbows.

Jim winced and shielded his eyes against the bright, glittering glare of sun on the water, and searched the distant horizon, endlessly seeking what would never again be found in this life. His hand dropped and he took a breath; stealing himself as if for a blow, he turned away from the ocean's majesty to look down upon the plain stone marker at his feet. "Sunny days seem to hurt the most, kid," he murmured hoarsely, rolling his shoulders to ease the pain he wore like a heavy coat. Glancing back across the meadow he'd traversed, he sighed. "I swear, Chief, I see you everywhere I go."

Shaking his head wearily, he stepped around the grave to ease his weight onto a boulder that had been rolled next to it for just that purpose. Over the past four years, he'd spent every moment he could, though they'd been few and far between, out here on the edge of the world, remembering, regretting ... and talking to his lost friend. The man he couldn't seem to let go, and didn't want to ever forget. However foggy his mind became with irrelevant details of daily life that held no interest for him and the illness that weakened him more each day, the memories he carried in his heart were as clear as if the events had happened only moments before.

Memories of Blair.

"I see your smile," he whispered huskily, frowning as he studied the grave marker, as if it couldn't be real.

As if it was all still just a terrible nightmare and, someday, he'd wake up to a new morning where ... where Blair would still be with him.

"I see your face."

Like it was yesterday, not four long years since he'd last seen those sparkling eyes, the exact colour of the sky overhead - only Blair's eyes had been brighter than the sky, as if bits of starlight had been captured in their depths to add the sparkle of effervescent life. Four very long years, almost to the day, since he'd looked into those eyes. Cocking his head, he listened, his eyes closed so that he could concentrate better, and then a wistful smile played over his lips. "I hear you laughing in the rain." Such a rich, rollicking laugh, full of exuberant joy even as Blair bitched and groused about how wet and cold his world too often seemed to be - as it had been on the day he'd died. Swallowing heavily, feeling salt sting his eyes, he blinked and sniffed. "I still can't believe you're gone."

Sorrow welled in his chest as it always did, rising with a futile anger undiminished despite the passing of those infinitely lonely years. Looking away from the gravestone and back toward the sea, he railed into the wind. "It's not fair! You died too young!" His voice cracked and broke as he muttered, "Remember? You told me once that I was your favourite book?" Sniffing, he swiped his hand over his face and whispered huskily, "Well, kid, I never told you that you were my favourite book, too, but your story had only just begun." His throat thickened and his voice cracked as he went on, "I ... I'd looked forward, you know? To seeing your story unfold ... to watching you grow old."

Desperate, impotent rage flared. Lifting his gaze to glare at the sky, his tone a curse against a too cruel God, he rasped bitterly, "But Death ripped all your pages away." Sighing, achingly weary, he bowed his head to gaze at the grave and said hollowly, "God knows how I miss you; and all the hell that I've been through just knowing no one can take your place." But he grimaced, disgusted with his own whining. He was alive, dammit, much as he resented that fact every damned day. He had little enough reason to complain. Reaching out to caress the warm, worn stone, he husked with wistful poignancy, his voice again cracking with guilt and grief, "It's just that - sometimes, I wonder ... who you'd be today."

Looking out to sea, he went on musingly, "Would you be out there somewhere, seeing the world? Chasing your dreams?" A slight, fond smile drifted over his lips. "Or would you have settled down with a family?" But the smile faltered and died as his eyes again misted, and he whispered brokenly, "I wonder, what would you have named your babies?"

He waited, as if half-expecting answers to his questions, and then lifted his gaze to the vast, endless sky, squinting against its searing brilliance. "Some days the sky's so blue," he sighed, "I feel like I can talk to you." The drawn expression eased, the lines of anguish melting away, and he smiled ruefully as he shook his head. Shrugging negligently, not really caring, he admitted, "I know it might sound crazy."

Missing his friend with an ache so deep he knew there'd be no easing it until death claimed him, too, he rubbed at his chest. The endless, unremitting, inconsolable grief of a loss so profound - of a friend, a soul so unique and dear to him - had ripped him apart, shattered him, and his heart had never been able to heal. Old, old guilt that he'd failed, that it was his fault, rose up to clog his throat. His lips trembled and he leaned forward to cover his face with his hands. No longer cursing God but himself, wishing fervently that his friend was still there, beside him, he moaned, "It's just not fair, you died too young." Struggling with his pain, he rasped, "Your story had barely begun before Death tore the pages all away."

Over the years, the same helpless words and thoughts had gone round and round, haunting him and wearing deep grooves of guilt and regret in his soul, like the wheel-ruts on a muddy road, so that he stumbled over them again and again. He hadn't allowed himself to weep in the all the years since, afraid if he lost his tightly held control he'd never regain it. But it didn't matter anymore; his work was done and he could finally let loose the reins on his grief. Tears leaked from his tightly closed eyes to slip down his weathered cheeks. A sob rose and broke, bearing all the pain he'd held bottled up inside day in, day out, as the weeks, months, and finally years passed with no healing, no peace and no acceptance that they'd lost one another forever. His heart knew that it couldn't be over; it had barely begun. Fate couldn't be that cruel. But his mind, his memories, knew that Fate was, indeed, that cruel, that heartless, that uncaring about the trivial matter of one man's death and another man's loss; hell, he'd carried the ashes here himself, buried them under that damned stone.

For all his heart railed and denied the truth, this was all he had left. This place and his memories.

"God knows how I miss you, and all the hell I've been through, just knowing no one can take your place," he whispered again hopelessly. The words, muffled by his hands and raw with sorrow, were caught by the wind and blown away. "Sometimes I wonder ... who you'd be today," he said again, repeating words he'd spoken a hundred times over the years, as if by imagining Blair's future he could somehow make it be, somehow call his friend back to him. Alone on the heights, with no one to see or hear, he could finally let his grief ride him, let the hot tears fall, and the sobs wrack his gaunt frame.

"Today," he whispered over and over, needing to imagine his partner as if he were alive, yet whipping himself with the reality that there were no more todays for his best friend. All of Blair's todays had ended years before.

The wild storm of grief passed, leaving him empty, exhausted, and breathless. A violent fit of coughing assailed him, cramping the muscles of his chest, and he gasped for ever more elusive breath until his breathing settled, as much as it ever did these days. Sniffing, he scrubbed the wet trails of hot tears from his face with calloused hands, carelessly wiped the smear of blood from his mouth, and then straightened his back. Lifting his head to again look out again across the rolling indigo sea to where it met the bright blue sky, squinting against the glaring sunlight that felt as if it could blister his eyes, he chafed under the soft shirt that nevertheless badly irritated his skin. The rhythmic roar of the waves battering the rocks filled his ears like claps of thunder, and the pungent, sweet and salty scents were so strong that he could taste them. Desperate for relief, he slid off the boulder and bent his stiff knees to slowly drop down beside the grave.

Gripping the stone, he tried to remember the way Blair had grounded him with his gentle but firm touch. He struggled to recall the rich, warm voice that had taught him so much, in so very short a time, about how to manage the senses that seemed his cross to bear ... or, as Blair had always said, his gifts to use. Blair had told him that he had to choose, had insisted that he could manage them, but not if he continually resented them and fought them. And while Blair had been with him, it had all worked and he'd been able to manage and use his senses, could harness them so that they didn't torment him; but only while Blair had been with him. Blair had held a kind of magic within him that made everything work, made the mystical and mysterious make sense.

This was the only place in recent months - out here on the headland beside his friend's grave - where he could sometimes find that peace again. Not that he believed Blair's blithe and lively spirit was buried in the earth or tied to the stone marker; he didn't. But ... out here, with only the wind and the water and the sky, he felt that if he listened hard enough, looked closely enough, he could reach out and touch his friend one more time. Though he knew it was crazy, sometimes ... well, many times in the past years, he'd felt as if he was actually hearing Blair's voice on the wind and imagined he could feel his friend's touch on his arm or on his back, steadying him, helping him focus in moments of danger and crisis, and assuring him that everything would be alright. There were even times, strange, inexplicable moments, when he'd been knocked right off his feet just in time to miss being hit by a bullet, just like Blair had often pushed him out of harm's way; only there'd been no one there, and he knew he must've just stumbled. But those moments of clarity, those illusions, only ever happened when he was in battle, and the battles were now all over. So he came out here and strove to recall the timber and cadence of the low, strong, compassionate voice that had anchored him and given him hope; hope and the strength to endure. If he could hear that voice again, feel that touch, see that bright, smiling face, and rejoice in the musical lilt of that laughter; if only ... ah, God, he ached with the need of Blair. It had been too long, too damned long.

He'd done his best in the years since, gone on fighting the good fight, doing all he could to help win the war, as Blair had wanted him do, had even been convinced he was born to do. Staring out over the long grass bent under the wind, he marveled that he'd lived to see the end of it, for he'd given no thought to his own survival after ... after Blair had died. Coldly, he'd buried his grief and, feeling little but helpless rage, he'd fought like a berserker, heedless of the risks because he hadn't cared a damn about living. Inside, he'd died on a stormy afternoon and, now, his body was as sick as his heart and soul had been for years. Recent wounds weren't healing properly; they said he was too weak, too ill to heal. Consumption filled his lungs and stole his breath, and he was glad to know that he was dying, that he could finally let go. He was tired, so unspeakably tired. All that was left these days was to come out here to the headland, to grieve and remember.

The breath tight in his heavy chest, Jim wrapped his arms around the stone and leaned sideways to rest his cheek upon it. Much as he wanted to indulge his imagination and pretend it was Blair's sturdy shoulders he embraced and Blair's chest that he rested his head upon, the stone was too hard, too still to play its part in such an illusion. Once again, his darkening eyes sought the sky. "Sunny days hurt the most," he rasped breathily. "Warm, bright, sunny days that you loved so much ... days like this when you should be here, laughing with that simple joy you had in just being alive. God, Chief, the pain of missing you ... the pain of these damned senses without you ... s'like a heavy coat I don't know how to take off, you know? Wears me down. I'm sorry to whine like this, kid, but I'm tired, Blair. I'm so tired." Drawing in a slow breath, steadying himself, he went on more strongly, "The only thing that gives me hope is I know I'll see you again someday."

'Someday ...' echoed in his mind, over and over, and then, 'Soon,' he thought with poignant hope. 'Please, Chief, soon.' Weary, so very weary, more than ready to be done with the business of life, he smiled wistfully and with gratitude to his long-mourned partner. Even this single, final comfort of his life, this unshakeable belief that they would meet again someday, had been a gift from Blair; for it had been Blair, not him, who had believed in forever and the ultimate mercy and joy of the universe. Blair had never shied from the mysteries, the unexplainable, and he had believed fervently that life wasn't about beginning and ending, but about learning more and more, to be of more use the next time around. Blair had told him with utter conviction that the soul was eternal and didn't die, but could choose to come back again and again. His last, very last words had been a promise ... "I'll see you again some day."

So Jim had clung to those words all through the empty, lonely years, and he clung to them still. They had to be true. It was all that had sustained him, all that had kept him even marginally sane. He longed with all his heart for the day when he'd finally see Blair again.

Closing his eyes, enjoying the cool, fresh breath of wind on his face, he remembered Long Island in the late summer of 1776. He remembered meeting young Blair Sandburg just before the devastating battle with the British had nearly ended the Revolution before it had hardly begun....

********************

Staying well clear of the open fields of barley, keeping under the thick canopy of the primeval forest of maple, oak, ash, birch and sycamore, filthy and disheveled, long strands of hair escaping the frayed ribbon at the nape of his neck, Jim stumbled through the dark, moonless night toward the encampment. He'd been following the course of the river, knowing that, even if he could barely see through the narrow slits of his swollen eyelids, the soft gurgle of rushing water would guide him back to the camp. He picked up the scent of burning wood and cooked meat, and hastened his step, only to stumble over the uneven ground, crashing to his knees. Cocking his head, he could hear the low murmur of voices, the occasional burst of low, masculine laughter, a voice raised in drunken song; almost there. He fought the profound ache of his muscles, resisting the urge to stop and rest, even if only for a few breaths of time. Up ahead, through the trees, he could see the flickering splash of firelight against the stygian darkness.

Close, he was close now. Nearly there.

Reduced to feeling his way forward, stumbling and crawling one painful foot at a time, he gritted his jaw against the need to curse with frustration and the maddening, relentless itch on his face, hands and arms from the poisoned ivy that he'd tumbled into just before the previous dawn, a rash that seemed to cover his whole body and that was exacerbated by countless aggravating mosquito bites.

It had taken him too damned long to get back from his provisioning mission to his brother, Steven's, farm, where he'd negotiated for the harvest on behalf of the General. He should have reported back days ago, but he'd been cut off by the sudden, unexpected arrival of a massive contingent of the British Army. He'd needed nearly a day to scout the opposing force, and had been shocked, even frightened, by their number; far too many for the much smaller American force to successfully meet in battle. Never had he seen so many redcoats; there were thousands of them. Though it was urgent that he report as soon as he could, he'd had to circle around the huge force that was making its way across the marshes from where they'd landed at Jamaica Bay. Wary of their guards and scouts, for two days he spent the daylight hours perched high in trees, or scrunched into a moldy log and, later, the trunk of a dying oak, trying to evade detection by the enemy, and moved only at night. Even traveling under cover of darkness had been hazardous with so many enemy patrols roaming the countryside. The night before, he'd had to take refuge in a swamp, all but his face under the surface of the malodorous muck as a foot patrol passed close by. Now, covered with the dried mud of the bog, he stank so badly his own stench nauseated him with every shallow breath. He craved being clean as he never had before, and was so tired that he could barely stay awake. Unable to risk hunting or a fire, on the move or stealthily still and alert for enemy patrols, he hadn't slept or eaten more than bark and berries for days.

But the very size of the opposing force had made it ungainly and slow, giving him time once he was around them to make it back with critical information - and none too soon if the redcoats kept moving this way.

"Oh my God," an unknown voice, as rich and warm as hot cocoa, cried out softly from the darkness. All Jim could make out was a vague impression of wild hair, and he smelled leather and fur. Briefly, he wondered if he'd encountered a hunter. "Captain Ellison! Are you wounded? Here, let me help you, sir."

Hands touched him, his arms, his back, and he had to bite back a moan. The words surprised him, scattering his confused belief of having encountered some hermit of the woodland, for this stranger recognized him and addressed him like a soldier. He could have wept with the profound relief of knowing he'd finally made it back to the camp. Floundering in his weakness, he grabbed hold of the other man, feeling soft leather garments under his hands, not the rough homespun apparel of the usual enlisted man, and he wondered again who the other man was. But satisfying his curiousity wasn't important; his mission was all that mattered. He had to pass on the terrible information he carried only in his head, or they'd all be lost before their battle for independence had scarcely begun.

"Need to see the General," he grated breathlessly. "Take me to him. Hurry."

"Sure - whatever you need," the man assured him, and then he asked hesitantly, "Can you ... can you lean on me? I don't want to hurt you."

"Yeah," Jim sighed, looping his arm around sturdy shoulders and, though the touch played hell with his skin, he was grateful for the strong arm that wrapped around his waist. The sentry was shorter than he was by several inches, but sturdy, and he willingly took Jim's weight as he supported Ellison through the camp.

The guard posted outside the General's tent started to challenge them, but then he hesitated. "Captain Ellison?" he asked uncertainly, and Jim got the impression the soldier was trying to see past the grit and swamp mud that coated him.

"Yeah," he muttered.

"Thank God," the guard exclaimed. "We'd 'bout given you up, sir! The General will be some pleased to see you."

Jim heard the slap of canvas on canvas as the tent flap was flipped back, and the sentry holding him helped him inside.

"Jim!" General Washington gasped, relief mixed with anxious concern clear in his tones. "What on earth happened to you?"

"L-long story, sir," Ellison stuttered, his words slurring as he fought off unconsciousness, his struggle to stay awake sorely challenged by the simple relief of having reached his goal. "The British Army ... only about a day's march from here, moving out of the flatlands toward Jamaica Pass. Took me awhile to get around them. Looks like as many as twenty thousand men, maybe more. Headed this way."

A moment of shocked silence greeted his words, and he could imagine the General's frown of concentration, but the pale, flickering light of the lantern burned his eyes and made them water, robbing him of what little sight he'd had. "Good work, Captain," Washington approved with a solemn, measured tone. "You've given us time to prepare. Corporal - see to the Captain's needs. If we have to fall back quickly, your first responsibility is to him - whatever he requires. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" the deep, unaccountably soothing voice replied with alacrity. Wearily grinning to himself, Jim could almost hear the salute and he wondered just how young this kid was. Groggily, he shook his head. The General had called him, 'corporal', so he couldn't be all that wet behind the ears, not just a buck private who barely knew how to hold his weapon.

As they stumbled and staggered away from the command tent, Jim heard the orders go out for all the campfires to be doused, and all senior officers to report to the General immediately. Would they make a stand or fade off into the forest to fight another day? There was no doubt that the British were better armed and there were more of them but, God, he got tired of being on the run, of harrying rather than confronting. It wasn't in his nature to constantly slip into the shadows and hide.

Not that he was in any condition to fight at the moment. Hell, he was beyond standing up on his own.

It seemed to take a long time to get to wherever the Corporal was taking him. They must've made their way back through almost the whole of the camp, once again drawing close to the river bank where the kid had found him. Though feeling dazed, and knowing he wasn't thinking clearly, Jim nevertheless thought it odd that he'd not been simply assisted to the tent he was assigned. And he was also disturbed by some of the grumbled insults and suspicious or antagonistic, drunken shouts he hazily heard as they passed, realizing belatedly that they were being made about them - or at least about the soldier who was leading him somewhere. He wondered if the kid was hearing the unflattering commentary as well - he could scarcely miss it - or if he'd heard it all before. The only sound the Corporal made beyond low and encouraging murmurs that it wasn't much farther, was to call out with surprisingly fierce authority to a passing private to bring fresh clothing from the Captain's tent ... and to make damned sure he brought cotton or soft linen, not wool.

Finally, they drew to a stop and Jim dimly realized they were once again close to the river, for he could hear it burbling not far away.

"Easy, Captain," the kid's voice murmured. "We're here." Jim could hear the hesitation before the Corporal said quietly, with as much conviction as he could put into his voice, "Look, I know you're just about out on your feet, but I really think we need to get you cleaned up, so you can rest properly. So, uh, let's get your clothes off and I'll help you bathe in the river. It's got a bit of a chill, but not too bad. And I've got some mild soap that'll help with those bites; take the sting and itch out of them."

Jim was torn. On the one hand, he just wanted to fall on his face and sleep for a week. And it wasn't exactly decent to strip to the buff just to get clean. But ... the itch was driving him wild and his own stink sickened him. Besides, it was as dark as Hades, so who would even see? Not like there was a ladies' tea party going on anywhere nearby, and he didn't have anything the camp followers hadn't already seen. But, while he was dithering, the decision was taken out of his hands. Nimble fingers undid the buttons of his garments, and slid them and his boots off his body, while still holding him steady; the filthy ribbon tying back his shoulder-length hair was loosened. Briefly, he found himself leaned against the papery bark of a birch tree, with the hurried explanation, "Just give me a minute to get what I need, and I'll help you into the water."

The minute, maybe a little more, left him reeling, more asleep than awake, and then the strong arm was around him again, leading him down to the riverbank. He was aware of naked skin pressed against him, but was too tired to give a damn. Under his arm, Jim could feel the leather strap of a kit bag over the Corporal's shoulder, and he heard the dull thump when the kid dropped it to the ground.

The rush of cold water over his bare feet was a shock, and he hissed, but the gentle, firm coaxing continued, and the lure of being clean proved irresistible. He was soon immersed almost to his shoulders in the fast-flowing stream, and then eased back to float. The Corporal used his own body to brace him and cupped one hand under his chin to hold his face above the water, so he wasn't carried along by the current, and then strong fingers were massaging soap into his scalp, washing his hair until it squeaked with cleanliness. The sensation of the firm massage was incredibly soothing and he found himself going with it, drifting almost into sleep. A hand with a soft cloth began gently washing the grime from his face and then the slow flow of cool water from a cupped hand over his burning eyelids felt wonderful. He didn't know for sure what had caused the swelling, but figured he must've touched his eyes after he'd stumbled into poisoned oak or ivy in his last, desperate scramble to find cover before the dawn broke that morning. His body was lathered with whatever the soap was; gradually the itch diminished, and he sighed with simple gratitude.

He lost track of how much time they'd been in the river before he was being helped back onto the bank, to sit on a low rock. The caress of the night breeze made him shiver miserably, but then warm water was being slowly poured over him, like gentle rain upon his head and body, driving off the chill. Then he was being toweled dry, very carefully and gently, so as to not aggravate the abrasions, bites and pervasive rash.

"Just a few more minutes and you can get some clothes on and lie down, Captain," the soft voice assured him. His nose twitched, picking up various scents. One was sharp, astringent and it seemed to go with a balm that the kid was dabbing on his bruises and bites. Then an herbal scent filled the air, softer, sweeter than the pine and spruce of the trees around them, and a different, slightly stickier but more soothing lotion was being rubbed all over his body. "For the rash," the kid murmured, his hands moving in long, sure, firm strokes that relaxed stiff and sore muscles until Jim slumped against the other man's body, nearly dozing off. A light shirt made of homespun cotton was slid over his arms and back. Loose and soft, it rested lightly on his skin, and then he was helped into breeches of the same material. A tin cup of cool water was pressed to his lips and he drank thirstily. The Corporal eased him to his feet and guided him into a small nearby shelter, to lie upon a soft, clover-scented bedroll.

"I just want to do something for your eyes, so you'll be able to see out of them tomorrow," the kid said gently, soothingly. He made an inarticulate sound of agreement, feeling as if he was floating, the comfort of being clean and the relief of no longer itching leaving him in a state very near euphoria. Two small sacks, slightly damp, were rested over his closed eyes and he thought he caught the scent of herbal tea just before he slipped into sleep.

********************

The low, urgent voices of uncertain men, soft nickering of horses, rasp of canvas, the clink of battered cooking pots and mugs being quickly packed away, and the creak of wagon wheels woke Jim in the early, pre-dawn hours of the next morning. Swallowing to moisten his dry throat and rubbing at still puffy eyes, he sniffed the scents of bread, meat and ale, and realized he was ravenous. More fully awake, he understood that the distinctive sounds that had called him from sleep meant their force was breaking camp, preparing to move out ... and doing so both swiftly and quietly. With a passing grimace, he idly scratched at the lingering rash that troubled him - profoundly glad that the fire of it was muted - and figured the General had decided to choose different ground for the coming, inevitable, confrontation with the British. Finally opening his eyes, he was confused to find that he wasn't in a tent but in a lean-to woven of pine boughs.

Frowning, he flipped away the blanket that covered him and crawled through the low portal to find the young man he assumed was the Corporal sitting outside on a log, waiting for him. Early dawn light burnished long curls and lit the wide, startlingly vivid blue eyes that met his. The suggestion of a smile, hesitant, uncertain, played over the generous mouth. And he'd been right the night before that this man seemed no ordinary soldier, garbed as he was in a soft buckskin sleeveless vest loosely laced over his hirsute chest, fringed leather leggings, and durable moccasins rather than the more crudely made boots or shoes of the regular foot soldier. A curious tiny wolf carving dangled from a hoop in his ear; and then Jim's eye was caught by the war club dangling from his belt. Just over a foot long, shaped from a single piece of carved, smooth wood, a bird's head and beak at one end for a solid grip, gradually widening to a sweeping curve topped with a deadly, fist-sized rounded ball, it was an impressive weapon. Altogether, except for the bright blue eyes, the kid looked a lot more like an Indian scout than a colonist, but his fine features and his skin, though a rich golden tan, were clearly those of a white man who'd spent endless hours under the sun.

"Good mornin' Captain. Bet you're hungry," he said cheerfully, and handed him a bread roll stuffed with meat and cheese. "Sorry, no fires this morning, so no hot food. And no tea or coffee, either, but the ale and the water will slake your thirst. And, I've got more of the same when you've finished this." Pausing, he gaze dipping away briefly, he shrugged and said, "You were shaky last night, like you hadn't eaten or slept for a fair bit of time, so I figured you'd want double rations today."

"Thanks," he replied as he took the proffered food to break his long and involuntary fast and had to restrain himself from wolfing it down. God, it tasted good, the cheese sharp and the wild turkey tender and fresh. After a long pull on the canteen, he accepted the second stuffed bread roll and settled on a rock to eat it at a more leisurely pace.

"What's your name, Corporal?" he asked between swallows.

"Sandburg, Captain. Blair Sandburg."

Nodding, thinking the name tallied with some of the comments he'd dimly heard the night before, he wondered what a Jew was doing dressed like an Indian. Idly, as he pondered the small mystery, he scratched his stubbled cheek - and realized neither the bites nor the rash tormented him. The maddening itch was nearly gone.

"What'd you put on my skin last night?" he asked curiously. "Whatever it was, worked like a charm."

Sandburg shifted as if he was nervous or uncomfortable, and his jaw tightened. "I used no witchcraft," he asserted with stiff, nearly reflexive defensiveness but, as if by a force of will, he visibly relaxed again. "Just some herbal mixtures that I learned from the Cherokee." Rising from the log, he secured their sleeping rolls, neatly wrapping and tying the canvas strips around the blankets.

"Really?" Jim rejoined, one brow arching as he shifted his gaze to the river, idly watching the sunlight's reflections dance on the water. "That why some of 'em call you the Medicine Man?"

Startled, Sandburg looked up from tying up the roll, gaping at him, and then nodded. "Yeah. I guess maybe you heard some comments last night when we crossed through the camp," he replied with a low, grim edge to his voice. "Lot of people mock or fear what they don't understand," he added, now sounding slightly defiant as he slung the tightly bound canvas roll over his shoulder. Swiftly, he packed the rest of his gear and some of what Jim recognized as his own into a sturdy canvas bag, which was also slung over his shoulder. The kid must have gone to his tent while he slept, to gather what he'd need in the days ahead: an extra pair of socks and linens, two cotton shirts, and a pair of cotton twill breeches.

"True enough," Jim agreed mildly. Looking back over his shoulder at the main camp, he asked, "What're the orders?"

"As you can see, we're moving out," the Corporal replied earnestly, with no tone of mockery about stating the obvious. "From what you told the General last night, it's clear the British outnumber us badly, so we're choosing the better part of valour and most of our forces are falling back toward Brooklyn Heights. General Alexander - Lord Stirling - has taken two regiments to try to hold the Gowanus Road. Word is, the five men guarding the Jamaica Pass have fallen to the enemy."

Nodding to himself, Jim reflected that Washington had little choice but to return to the safety of the batteries he'd established on the heights over the East River. But he frowned, thinking about the threat of the British Navy. Had the British General William Howe landed his full force or were there more back in New York? Was Howe's brother, Richard, the Admiral, lurking in the East River, ready to bombard them into submission while they fought off the redcoats? They needed information about the enemy's deployments, and they needed it urgently. Standing, he took a long pull of ale, emptying the mug, and then said briskly, "Thanks for the, uh, help last night, and the grub. But I guess it's time I earned my keep and set off ahead to scout our path of retreat."

"It'll take most of the day to get our men and supplies back to the Heights," Sandburg told him as he stuffed a coonskin cap into his pack and bent to pick up his musket, seemingly unfazed by the idea of an officer undertaking a duty more usually assigned to noncoms. "I think the General hopes the forest will slow down the British and make it harder to follow us. Not easy to move thousands of men through virgin growth." But his mouth twisted with the wordless acknowledgement that their own army faced the same challenge. Both men knew Washington would be hard-pressed to get his men to relative safety before the British were upon them.

Nodding wordlessly, Jim attached his powder horn to his belt and slipped his own musket over his shoulder before turning away. But he'd not taken many steps when he realized Sandburg was following him. Slowing, he looked over his shoulder and asked, "Where do you think you're going?"

"With you," the Corporal replied calmly with easy assurance. "The General's orders last night were very clear, sir. I'm to stick with you and give you whatever support you need - and," he carried on determinedly, "your eyes and skin are still irritated. You'll need more of my ointments before the sun goes down."

"Kid, er, Corporal, I work alone," Jim replied repressively. "I'm grateful for your help last night, but I'll be fine."

"You really want to bother the General right now? To get new orders?" Sandburg pushed.

His lips thinning, Jim snorted. "Just go back to your squad."

"I report directly to the General, sir," Sandburg retorted, holding his ground stubbornly. "My usual job is to fetch and carry, and write the occasional dispatch before delivering it - clearly, last night General Washington reassigned me to fetch and carry for you." Holding his arms wide and grinning impishly, he drawled, "I'm all yours, Captain."

Jim frowned, his gaze flickering away. He vaguely remembered having seen the Corporal on the fringes of the General's personal staff, and his gaze narrowed at the memory - he'd discounted the kid, thinking him an odd blue-eyed, lightly bronzed half-breed in camp to barter information for supplies, or perhaps a slave who saw to the General's personal needs. Clearly, he'd been wrong. Idly, he wondered where the kid had learned to read and write well enough to transcribe dispatches, as they weren't particularly common skills among the enlisted men. Rolling his eyes, Jim gave up the debate, and muttered, "Just see that you keep up - and try not to give our position away to any enemy scouts."

"I'll do my best, sir," the kid agreed cheerfully but, when Jim cast him a sharp look, he added with exaggerated solemnity, "to not attract unwanted or undue attention from the enemy."

"Uh huh," Ellison grunted; then turned away in a brisk lope to the northeast.

********************

Skirting cleared acreage that had been turned into farmland, they kept to the trees. Occasionally, the Captain tossed a quick, evaluative glance at him, and a slight smile or nod of approval seemed to indicate he was pleased that Blair was able to shadow his steps with tireless, silent ease, revealing no strain in his steady pace that kept up with Ellison's longer and equally effortless strides. From time to time, Jim held up a hand for them to stop. Each time, and he cocked his head unconsciously as he listened to the sounds of the forest, and his gaze penetrated the murky depths. At regular intervals, he carved slashes in the trunks of trees, signals for those behind to follow, indicating the way ahead was clear. Though the thick foliage above them blocked most of the sunlight, dust motes danced in shafts of light that found the ground and, in places, the shadowed layers of leaves that carpeted the forest floor were dappled by the sun. But, despite being shaded by the ancient trees, the heat in the forest and the heavy humidity grew stifling as the sun climbed higher. Runnels of sweat streaked their faces and dampened their clothing, dehydrating them, so that they drank gratefully each time they happened upon a fast running, crystal clear brook, and took care to keep their canteens full.

A half step behind him and a bit to the side, Sandburg kept a close eye on his charge. He noted Ellison's behaviours when they stopped, the intense listening and the minute scrutiny of the forest. Chewing on his lip, he reflected on occasional, admiring comments the General had made about Captain Ellison: that he could 'see like an eagle' and 'hear like a fox'. That the man was 'uncanny' in following a trail, as if he could sniff out those he was following better than any bloodhound. But the General also harbored concerns for this man and, when he'd failed to return as anticipated days before, he'd fretted that 'Jim', as he called him, had fallen into one of his fits of stillness, in which he seemed totally unaware of his surroundings, and as unresponsive as a statue. Blair had thought these observations intriguing and was secretly delighted that he'd been assigned to Ellison, at least for now.

He found Captain Ellison to be a man of contradictions. He spoke like an educated, wealthy man, his accent of the north, perhaps Manhattan, but with tones of the Appalachian highlands like those acquired by explorers. His clothing was well made but plainer than that of most gentlemen, as if he had no interest in being a fashionable fop. He was direct, verging on arrogant in his manner and his way of giving orders, but he was also sensible, not bucking higher orders or insisting on his own way, so he wasn't particularly competitive or overbearing in petty ways. He'd been half dead when he'd arrived at the camp the night before and Blair had some sense of how much he'd been suffering from the rash that had gotten so bad that little pustules had erupted and been rubbed raw all over the man's body, yet he'd not complained. So, fiercely dedicated to his task, and to the General, and inclined to put his own needs behind those of his mission and larger priorities; a disciplined man, and a dedicated one. A man to be trusted, who was driven by commitment and integrity.

He was obviously a gentleman, as opposed to a warrior by nature and upbringing yet, in his way, a humble one - but he donned the warrior's role and manner as if it were a second skin, as if it were all he'd ever been. He wasn't an ordinary warrior, who fought by the side of comrades, drawing comfort and confidence from their collective numbers, but one who ranged out on his own, a scout checking the way forward, ensuring the safety of those who followed. Ellison looked to be in his late twenties, thirty maybe, whereas most of the recruits were only fifteen or sixteen ... or were well into their middle years. Blair suspected that, if his Captain were willing to take on a larger command responsibility, Washington would promote him to a much higher rank. But ... the Captain seemed happiest to be out on his own; so he wasn't a man, like some of their senior officers, who wanted power, privilege and influence as much, it sometimes seemed to Blair, as they wanted to win the war.

As the hours passed, Blair felt excitement build, a sense of anticipation and wonder growing in his chest and mind. Could it be? Could one such as he'd heard about with the Cherokee have grown to manhood within the embrace of a city? If so, how had he managed alone without the traditional support of a companion - or did he manage perfectly well? Those 'fits' the General described gave Blair pause and left him with a sense of anxiety about the Captain's vulnerability. Clearly, the General had no idea of what was happening in those long minutes, considering it an affliction like those that fell to the earth, convulsing and foaming at the mouth, confused once the fit had passed. But, apparently, while Ellison could be brought to his knees, as if in pain, by sudden sharp thunder, or the roar of cannon fire, he always shrugged off concern in minutes and seemed able to resume his normal peak level of functioning quickly. If Blair was right in his speculations - which were fast becoming certain conclusions - such episodes were far from being any kind of illness or mental aberration. Indeed, they were the hallmark of the guardians he'd heard tales about - guardians who needed companions to help them avoid such periods of still oblivion, bring them back when they occurred, and protect them while they were insensible.

He needed an opportunity to talk quietly with the Captain, to share his knowledge and his beliefs. But Ellison seemed a reticent man and, besides, they were fully occupied in seeking a route of retreat from the annihilation such a massive British force threatened. Quiet conversation in the near future seemed unlikely, even inappropriate. There simply wasn't time, given the greater need of the Continental Army to escape disaster. Still, when Ellison stopped to undertake what Blair was certain was a sensory scan of the world around them, he contrived to step closer and place a light hand on the other man's arm, to ground him with his sense of touch - a protective practice that he'd heard could stave off that odd tendency toward unnatural stillness. The first time he'd done so, Ellison had looked at him oddly, impatiently, but he'd explained that he was simply taking their brief respite from travel to examine the Captain's skin, to ensure he was healing well, and not in need of further ministrations. Jim's gaze had narrowed, but then he'd shrugged and turned his attention back to scanning their environment for threat.

When Blair judged from the direction of the shafts of light and the burden of heat upon them that the sun was reaching its zenith, his voice was nearly inaudible when he suggested a halt at the next stream they came to. He dug food from his pack - chunks of bread and cheese, and a small portion of what remained of his supply of wild turkey - and handed half to the Captain. "We need to keep our strength up," he remarked very quietly. Again Jim gave him that penetrating look of assessment, but he accepted the food with a nod and wolfed it down, so that they could continue on their way with little delay.

They couldn't have traveled for more than another hand-span of the sun's trip across the sky - the way most people without cumbersome clocks or expensive pocket watches gauged an hour of time - when Jim stopped dead, grabbed his arm and hauled him down into a tight crouch behind a hedge of thick wild blueberry bushes. Ellison lifted his index finger to his lips, a warning for absolute silence, and then his gaze slipped sideways as his head tilted. Gripping his arm, Blair could feel how tensely the man was concentrating to focus his ability to hear clearly. Then, again with a gesture to maintain absolute silence, Jim led him in a crouching lope to the west before again hunkering low to peer through the foliage and thickly growing tree trunks.

"The British," he whispered tightly into Blair's ear, and then motioned him to follow back the way they'd come. They ran a mile before Jim called a halt. "Thousands of British; must've circled around from behind us," he rasped, his expression harried. "They're creating a pincher movement, to trap our Army between them. There're too many. We'll be decimated, utterly destroyed."

Blair swallowed heavily, forcing away the fear the words spawned in his belly. "There must be something we can do," he whispered back. "The Army can't hold out forever even if they make it to Brooklyn Heights. We need to find a way off the island - and fast."

Jim stared at him, and then nodded soberly. "There may be a way," he grated urgently, pulling a ring that would have paid a King's ransom from his finger. "I want you to take this to the ferry dock west of here - there's a fishing village of maybe ten houses. Find a black man named Simon Banks. Tell him we need Colonel John Glover and his Marblehead Mariners to organize fishing boats, barges and rafts to urgently ferry the whole Army - men, horses, cannon - across the river. He'll need to send a messenger to Washington's Headquarters on Manhattan as quickly as possible. You'll find Simon on the dock loading barges for the farmers sending market goods into the city; he's a mountain of man, a few years older than I and he may be with another, older, black man, nearly as big, named Joel. Show Simon this ring and tell him I sent you, and that he's to get it to Colonel Glover - John will recognize it." Looking back the way they'd come, and then ahead where the Continental Army followed more slowly, miles back along the trail they'd forged, he shook his head. "I have to warn the General. We'll have to hold off the British for the rest of today and tomorrow - hopefully, John will organize our transport across the East River before the redcoats overrun us."

Turning his steely blue gaze upon Sandburg, he asked harshly, "Do you understand what you need to do? The importance of your task? The urgency?"

"Yes, sir, I do," he replied staunchly, slipping the ring into a leather pouch that hung from his belt.

"Then go; go as fast as you can. Whether or not the Continental Army survives is now in your hands."

Painfully conscious of the Captain's sense of urgency and impatience, Sandburg rummaged hurriedly in his backpack, drawing out two small, waxed-sealed ceramic bowls. Handing them to Jim, he instructed firmly, "The blue one is for your eyes - if the itch re-appears, rub a small amount on your eyelids. The plain one is for your skin - same thing. Use it when you notice the itch returning." Slipping his pack over his shoulder he said with solemn, solid, even reassuring confidence, "I'll meet you on the Heights later, sir, after dark - to confirm the completion of my mission." Blair hesitated a moment longer, his gaze searching the Captain's face, and then he blurted quickly, "And, uh, don't concentrate too long on just your hearing or ... or in looking at anything; or, if you do, do both at the same time."

With no more ado, he flipped the Captain a swift, brisk salute and then hared off to the west with a nimble, silent speed that impressed Ellison, his dark hair and leather clothing quickly merging with the shadows of the primordial forest. Briefly, his gaze narrowed in acute surprise at the last fast words, Jim watched him go, and then he set off in a steady run back toward his General and the ten thousand rag-tag town and countrymen who made up the core of the recently constituted Continental Army.

********************

Blair slowed as he came to the small fishing village of a dozen or so clapboard cottages about ten miles north of Brooklyn Heights. Some of the buildings were meticulously maintained, gleaming with fresh white-wash, and made cheerful with flowers around their borders, while others were ramshackle and well-weathered, dreary-looking places. Four of the cottages stood separate from the others, and he assumed that Simon and others like him lived slightly apart from the white inhabitants. Moving onto the path that wound past the domiciles to the ferry landing beyond, he kept a watch for a large Negro and shortly spotted two such men laboring shirtless, their sweaty skin glistening like ebony in the heavy heat, loading bags of grain and baskets of produce bound for the city's markets onto a barge. Bearing Jim's instructions in mind, he approached the taller of the two big men and called out, "Simon Banks?"

The man straightened from the huge burlap sack he'd been about to lift to his shoulder. The gaze he fastened on Blair was astute and curious. Nodding, he asked, his voice a deep rumble, "And who might you be?"

"Corporal Blair Sandburg. Captain Ellison sent me to engage your help in mounting an evacuation of the Continental Army to the mainland. There are upwards of twenty-five thousand British redcoats and Hessians closing in on our forces, and we need to ensure the means of retreat tonight, or we'll be wiped out. Captain Ellison told me you'd help get word to Colonel John Glover, Commander of the Fourteenth Massachusetts Infantry, at the Army Headquarters on Manhattan," Blair reported in a fast flow of words that made the older man blink. Cautiously, with a glance over his shoulder to ensure no one else could see, he drew the ring from the small pouch on his belt. "Captain Ellison gave me this to confirm the urgency to the Colonel. He's gone to alert General Washington. The Army is falling back to Brooklyn Heights, where they'll hold off the enemy while they wait for relief."

Simon's eyes widened in astonishment, but he quickly straightened his shoulders and demanded, "How many men need to be moved across the river?"

"As many as ten thousand, not including the camp followers, along with supply wagons, horses and cannon," Blair told him. "Can you help us, sir?"

Amused by the honorific he'd never heard directed his way before, Banks smiled and nodded. "I'll do my best, young'un, er, Corporal." Raising his voice, he called sharply, "Joel - over here!"

Less than two minutes later, Simon and Joel took two skiffs, rowing them out toward the fishing boats on the river. Anxiously, Blair watched as they talked with the fishermen, and then the small boats hoisted their single sails and, catching the wind, moved off in different directions, one heading across the river, and the other moving with the current to the north. Simon and Joel then rowed to other little boats, and others still, until all had dispersed, moving up and down or across the mile-wide waterway. Only then did they return to shore.

Climbing out into water up to his knees, Simon hoisted the skiff well up onto the slanting, stony ground and then strode to where Blair waited. "Captain Ellison's message is on its way to Army Headquarters. Glover and his men might be playing at being infantry but his Marblehead Mariners are seamen through and through - and are the only ones who have a hope of pulling off this retreat. But even they can't do it alone. I've sent word up and down the river to fishermen who either support the revolution or just plain don't care much for the King an' all the men he sends over here needin' to be billeted and fed when there's scarce enough as it is; they'll soon report to Glover that they're able and ready to lend their boats and their skill to the effort."

Blair looked toward the Heights and tried to imagine the magnitude of the task before them. His gaze then raked the river. "Have you seen or heard anything about Admiral Howe and his warships?"

Grimly, the big man nodded. "I've heard tell that a mess of British gunboats, a hundred and thirty or more, are anchored at the mouth of the river." Shaking his head in begrudging awe at the size of an armada the like of which the world had never seen before, he added quietly, "Not sure why the Admiral is holding his forces back, but there're rumours that he's sympathetic to the colonists." Looking off upriver, he muttered, "Guess we'll soon know if the gossip has truth in it - but he can't risk being thought a traitor to his King. Nor will he abandon his brother to the fates."

Thunder rumbled in the distance and both men turned, listening intently as their gaze raked the sky, wondering if they'd heard an approaching storm or the deep-throated roar of cannon.

Glancing sideways at the older man, Sandburg asked tentatively, "You mind me asking how you know the Captain?"

"No, I don't mind you askin'," Simon replied with jovial irony, his expression enigmatic and his gaze distant as he studied the horizon, but a faint smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Blair wasn't sure if he was remembering the past fondly, or simply enjoying the right to keep his own counsel, of not having to reply simply because a white man had posed him a question. "Hope you don't mind if I don't say. Not right away, anyhow. Not 'til I know you a whole lot better'n I do now."

Blair's brows quirked with surprise, and then his eyes narrowed in thought. Nodding slowly, figuring the story maybe had something to do with slavery and aiding and abetting runaways - illegal to be a runaway, illegal to help one - he decided it was probably better if he didn't know the details. None of his business, really. Another distant rumble of thunder drew his gaze to the south and he scanned the clear sky with misgiving. Though the air was heavy and so hotly humid that his skin was slick with sweat and he could feel a storm, a big one, was coming, the far-off rumble had to be the sound of artillery.

Battle had been engaged.

"I need to make my way back to the Army," Blair stated solemnly, his steady voice masking the flutter of anxious fear he felt in his belly and the sudden dryness of his mouth as he contemplated running flat-out into the fiery, deadly maw of war. A sensible man would be running in the opposite direction. But, then, rarely had he ever been accused of being sensible. Besides, Captain Ellison would be waiting to hear that the message was being carried to Colonel Glover. Looking up at the man who loomed over him, he held out his hand. Banks quirked a brow but then grasped it, man to man. "Thank you for your help," Sandburg said simply as they briefly shook hands.

"I'll be along behind you, as soon as I've gotten word back from the Colonel, to tell the Captain the plan," Simon told him, warmth in his rich tones. "Keep your head down, son. I'll see you on the Heights."

Determined to hide his fear, Sandburg flashed a cocky grin as he turned away. Calling over his shoulder with a confidence he hoped would be prophetic, "I'll be there!" he broke into a ground-eating jog that swiftly took him back into the shadows of the forest, toward the thunder of the distant guns.

********************

Flinching at the ear-shattering roar of artillery that belched flame and smoke with each blasted iron ball or mangle of deadly grape and chain, and the higher pitched cough and whine of bullets and shot from rifles and musketry, Jim crouched low to circle around the warring armies, intent upon reaching the flag that denoted the General's position on the field of battle. The Continental Army had turned to fight their enemy, and the formal battle lines were drawn up close together. The trained and experienced royals were pushing them back and back, and the patriots' only advantage was that they knew the land and could scramble for hollows or stands of timber as temporary, if inadequate, shields against the onslaught. The Patriots knew all too well that they were fighting a losing battle; they'd moved with all possible speed under fire, edging back toward the only safety that remained to them, high on the cliffs over the East River, behind fortified walls and their limited cannonry. The field was swirling with smoke, guttural screams of the wounded added to the chaos, and the air was thick with the smell of blood, gunpowder and the stench of fear. Overhead, unnoticed in the heat of battle, thick black clouds were gathering, and soon the crack and crash of real thunder rivaled the full-throated roar of the cannon.

Panting more from tension than exertion, Jim finally reached his commanding officer and called out over the chaotic noise that surrounded them. "General!" he cried urgently to get the older man's attention. When Washington whirled around at the sound of his voice, he hastened closer, reflexively ducking and pulling the General down as a cannon ball whined through the air, cutting dangerously close before exploding into the ground behind them, sending shrapnel flying in a deadly mist. Gripping Washington's shoulder, helping the man to stand, Jim reported bluntly, "There's a second column of at least eight to ten thousand redcoats moving toward us from the north. Howe's trying to catch us in a pincer, hoping to cut us off from retreat to the fortifications at Brooklyn Heights. They're not far behind me, sir."

"Damnation," Washington grunted, swallowing hard. No warrior, he felt nearly overwhelmed by the responsibility he carried on his shoulders. Why, he had half of the Continental Army with him on Long Island. If they were taken here, defeated, the revolution would be over before it had hardly begun. Though there was little choice left to him, he hesitated. He had to get as many of his men as he could to the relative security of the Heights, but running left a sour taste in his mouth. He'd waited weeks for this confrontation. His gaze narrowing against the heavy burn of smoke in the air, he looked over the field of battle and felt sick at how very many men were counting upon him to lead them to victory. He'd been a fool to lead them here, where they could be so easily surrounded and trapped. Closing his eyes briefly, he fervently hoped Divine Providence would smile upon them, or at least show mercy in sparing the lives of the gallant souls who followed him so bravely.

"I've sent word to Colonel Glover, sir," Jim told him, his voice tight with tension, as they retreated with the rest. "But John will need time to muster enough boats for an evacuation."

Washington turned to study him, his expression slipping from surprise to approval. "Good man," he said with warm approbation as he clapped Jim soundly on the shoulder. "If anyone can pull us out of the mouth of the British Lion, it's John Glover." His gaze again returning to the battlefield, he added, "But even his Mariners will need time to prepare. It's up to us to survive this day and night - and all of tomorrow as well, at least, as best we can."

"Yes, sir," Jim replied staunchly, though he swallowed hard at the prospect of holding off tens of thousands of skilled, well armed, well-supplied troops with men more used to plowing land, hunting for their tables or clerking in shops and offices in the city. They'd be lucky to not be massacred before the sun set on this desperate day.

Another cannonball whistled close overhead and again Jim tackled the General, pulling him out the line of fire and covering the older man's body with his own. The blast of the explosion shook the earth, and Jim felt molten fire sizzle through the flesh high on his left arm. His gut revolted and darkness swirled as the agony flashed scarlet behind his eyes. Desperately, gritting his teeth, locking his jaw, he fought off unconsciousness and shakily rolled off the General, onto his knees. Damnation, it hurt, hurt bad. Panting for breath, he fumbled for a handkerchief and worked it around his arm over the growing crimson stain. Washington, seeing he'd been injured, hastened to help him tie off the improvised dressing.

"I'll have someone help you to the surgeon's tent on the Heights," the General told him, his voice deep with concern.

But Jim thought of that bloody arena, more like an abattoir to his mind, than any kind of place of healing. "No," he rasped, shaking his head. "It's nothing. I'll be fine." He eased his left hand into his jacket above the last button to support his injured arm and focused on slowing his breathing. He'd just have to abide the pain.

Calling his aides close, Washington sent out immediate orders to retreat with all dispatch back to the fortified town. But, as he knew all too well, it was only a stopgap measure that would buy them little time. He didn't have the armament to last out a long siege. But, just then, the second British onslaught roared onto the field from the side, attacking with stunning, shocking surprise. It was too much for the untrained, ragtag army of volunteers and their lines broke as they panicked and ran. The aborted battle was a devastating introduction to the business of war, an experience that showed all on the field how unequal the colonials were to the challenge of facing the full might of the most powerful military force on the face of the earth.

********************

Later, when they were safe behind the barricades, panting with exertion and terror, most of the men were heartily ashamed to have given way with pathetic cowardice rather than having waged a fighting retreat; disgusted that they had turned tail to run for their lives back to the fortified walls of Brooklyn Heights. Despair mingled with their still quaking fear as word drifted across the questionable safe ground beyond the pickets and fortifications, whispered despondently by some, shouted in rage by others. Rumours spread that Lord Stirling and two hundred and fifty of his top Maryland troops - who had staged a noble, if doomed, effort to hold back the British tide to give the remainder of his regiments time to escape through the swamp - had all been lost.

More than nine thousand men crowded into the town behind the walls. The civilians scurried for cover, the Loyalists amongst them cursing Patriot stupidity in bringing the threat of British reprisal upon them all. The soldiers hunkered down, expecting to have to fight the redcoats in the fields around the town and in the streets, certain their limited cannon could never stop a concerted attack by so many thousands of men ... for another ten thousand at least had appeared from the north. The ground below the Heights was thickly blanketed as far as the eye could see with red serge of the British troops, and the blue of the mercenaries who sported tall bronze helmets, and looked both foreign and frightening.

As Washington stared out over the ramparts at the massive army below, he shook his head. His men had broken and run, had lost faith in themselves. They had no hope now of triumphing over the British Army and the terrifyingly violent Hessian mercenaries that were intent upon suppressing them - even annihilating them, if necessary. When he thought of the British armada at his back, he had to repress a shudder. Was it all to end so soon? So ingloriously? Was this all a folly of pride that could not be sustained?

Expecting his force to be swiftly annihilated, Washington could scarcely believe his adversary paused to draw up cannon and to set his men to digging trenches. Apparently, Howe planned to lay siege rather than fight a costly battle through narrow, winding streets where the advantage of his numbers would be lost. His lips thinning, Washington nodded thoughtfully to himself. Made sense of a sort; Howe was no doubt hoping he would waste what little ammunition he had in his supplies, so that his force could be easily over-run on the morrow or, at the latest, the day after. Rubbing his mouth, he considered his options, none of which left him feeling hopeful, especially when he wondered where the British fleet was and when the massive gunboats would be at his back. Still, they needed to conserve their ammunition and supplies. The war was just beginning; if he and his men could survive this siege and somehow escape, he'd need ammunition to keep fighting. So, he sent out orders to hold fire until the enemy showed signs of attacking in force, and he posted snipers on the walls, to watch for any sneak attacks as the day darkened under the gathering storm.

********************

Lightning flickered within the high bank of clouds overhead, setting off distant, threatening rumbles, and the wind was picking up, though the air remained scorchingly hot. Sandburg threaded through the forest, increasingly cautious and wary as the sounds of battle grew louder, fiercer. When he finally reached the end of the wild growth, his heart plummeted when he saw the British digging trenches between him and the fortified heights. He'd never make it across the open land. Retreating back into the shadows, he made his way to the cliffs and gingerly climbed down to follow narrow ledges, often little more than hand- or toe-holds, as he edged his way to the city walls over the river. He trembled, nearly paralyzed more than once by his abiding fear of heights but, whenever his gorge rose in his throat and he closed his eyes against treacherous dizziness, he imagined Captain Ellison waiting for him, watching, wondering what was taking him so long to report back, and he forced himself to seek another handhold, to keep moving precariously along the rock-face. Finally, finally, breathing hard, his heart pounding, he reached the tar-coated lane that ramped steeply up from the ferry dock below and scrambled quickly to the gate. Pounding on it, demanding entry, for the first time he was glad of the disparaging attention he'd received from the troops. He heard a lookout call mockingly that it was only the Medicine Man, the General's favourite, and to let him inside.

Nodding at the guard as he slipped past, he demanded to know the whereabouts of the General and was directed to the house where Washington had set up temporary headquarters. The privates on guard duty outside the entrance to the sturdy, two-story stone house also recognized him. Grudgingly, they stood aside to allow him entry, their lips thinning with aversion, whether for his Jewishness or his Indian garb he neither knew nor much cared. Inside, he followed the sound of voices to the parlor, where Washington was grimly receiving reports on the day's losses. Standing quietly in the entryway, he scanned the room and was relieved to see Captain Ellison in one corner, his face a flat, somber mask, though lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed him. To Sandburg, the older man looked as if he were in pain. Worried, he scanned the Captain's body, and quickly noted the bloodstained bandage binding a wound on his left tricep. Not wanting to intrude on the briefings taking place, eager to test one of his theories, he whispered very softly, "Captain Ellison?"

Immediately, Ellison's head lifted and steely blue eyes found his own. He jerked his head back at the hallway behind him and, nodding his understanding, the Captain quickly made his way around the periphery of the large room to join him in the corridor.

"What are our losses?" Blair asked, trepidation dark in his eyes.

Jim's voice was dry and harsh as he replied bitterly, "Dead, wounded, and captured? At least two thousand men - ten percent of our entire army."

Closing his eyes, Blair bowed his head. "Oh no," he murmured with genuine sorrow for those who had fallen and for the plight of the captured. Destined for British prison ships, their lot would be grim, if they even survived. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he lifted his gaze to Jim's. "Word has gone to Colonel Glover. And urgent requests for assistance have been sent up and down the river to fishermen and merchant men who may be inclined to render assistance."

Relieved, Jim leaned wearily against the wall behind him. "Good. John and his Mariners are our only hope," he rasped.

Eying the bloodied bandage, Sandburg asked, "How bad's your wound?"

Jim shrugged and looked away, but the slight movement brought a grimace of pain that spasmed and was quickly repressed. "It's fine," he muttered, then pushed away from the wall. "We have to advise the General that we need to develop plans for a swift, silent retreat." Pausing, he demanded, "What of the gunboats?"

"Last I heard, Admiral Howe was holding in the mouth of the river," Blair reported.

Jim frowned at that. It didn't make sense that the British hadn't pressed their advantage to crush them decisively and quickly. Earlier in the day, another British leader, Major General James Grant, had been slow to press his advantage, a hesitation that proved a godsend in terms of allowing the vast majority of the Patriot forces to reach the sanctuary of their fortifications. Even Howe was fighting cautiously, traditionally, out there digging trenches rather than simply sweeping over them. The timid use of overwhelming power was ... puzzling, as was the clear reliance on mercenaries, Hessians from Europe, when the British forces alone would have been more than sufficient to quell such a pathetically poorly armed and trained mob of rebels.

Pondering the odd, apparent reluctance to simply smash them into submission, Jim found himself reflecting on the British perspective on this war for independence. But he shrugged off his ruminations. There was no time at the moment for such luxury of philosophical meanderings. Resolutely, he strode back into the improvised war room and, when he caught the General's attention, he reported that Colonel Glover would, by now, be aware of their situation and be plotting a means to retrieve them.

An austere smile flickered over Washington's lips at the receipt of the first positive news of an otherwise devastating day. "Then we must make ready for him," he said stoutly. "But we must do it quietly, so that the British do not suspect our intent to slip out of their grasp, nor do we want to alert any Loyalists who might betray our plan. And we must still fend the enemy off if they decide to charge on the morrow."

A booming clap of thunder rattled the china on the buffet against the back wall, and Jim flinched, biting back a groan at the searing, sharp pain that drove like daggers through his ears into his skull. He swayed dizzily and Blair hastily reached out to steady him. "Permission to see to the Captain's wound," he said to the General and, receiving a nod and a wave of dismissal, he half-hauled a reluctant Ellison from the room.

"With all due respect, sir," he muttered fiercely, "there's a time and place to play hero - and this isn't it. You don't want to risk that wound festering."

Jim stiffened with instinctive ire at the rough, dictatorial tone, but the fierce glow in the dark blue eyes that were leveled at him stayed his tongue. The Corporal was right and he was being foolishly stubborn. In war, one needed to take advantage of unexpected respites to renew strength - to be able to fight again when the demand arose. Resistance bled from his muscles and he allowed Sandburg to pull him along the hallway and up the narrow, wooden staircase to the upper level. In one of the bedrooms, Blair found a pitcher filled with tepid water and a basin. Sandburg gave him a light push toward an elegantly brocaded chair, then dug in his knapsack for the supplies he needed, drawing out a handful of clean linen rags and several pouches of herbs.

Quickly, Blair soaked off the dirty bandage, minimizing the pull of cloth stuck by dried blood upon torn flesh. As he worked, he was pleased to see that all the puffiness was gone from Ellison's eyes, and the rash was so muted, it had all but disappeared. Noting the Captain's taut muscles and the rigid line of his jaw as he fought the pain of having his wounded arm handled, however gently, Sandburg frowned as he quickly but carefully cleaned the flesh wounds. Ugly deep gashes made by flying shrapnel cut through skin and muscle on the outside of his upper arm, but at least none had lodged in the wounds. "Do wounds or injuries normally pain you this much?" he asked softly, his gaze hooded as he concentrated on powdering the injury with herbs that would fight off infection before wrapping it again tightly with a clean rag.

The silence stretched between them until Blair wondered if he was going to get an answer. But, finally, Jim sighed heavily and then grated through gritted teeth. "No. But sometimes, it's like liquid fire. I can't explain why some are worse than others."

Hunkered down beside him, Blair finished tying off the fresh dressing before looking up. "I think I may have an idea about that, if you're interested," he offered carefully, uncertain of the Captain's reaction to ideas foreign to his culture.

"Do you now?" Jim grunted skeptically as he delicately fingered the bandage.

"Yes," Blair affirmed as he stood and washed his hands in the basin and dried them on a towel before returning his unused supplies to his pack. Avoiding Jim's eyes, he continued, "The Cherokee have legends about guardians, sometimes called sentinels, who had enhanced senses." In the silence that met his comment, he rolled up his clean rags and stuffed them into his bag and then carefully pulled the leather thongs on the pouches of his herbs before slipping them inside. "These guardians or sentinels could see farther, hear more clearly, smell and taste and touch with greater sensitivity than ordinary men or women. They watched for the approach of enemies, sought out game trails, were aware of changes in weather patterns before anyone else." Flicking a glance at Ellison, encouraged by the perplexed, thoughtful look on the older man's face, he said, "I watched you last night and today. And I've heard what the General and others say about you, that you can see like an eagle and hear like a fox - track like a wolfhound. I think ... I think you have senses that are more finely developed than the rest of us. And ... and," he continued, quickly now, "and I think sometimes you get lost or something in one sense or another, so that you're unaware of what's happening around you. I mean, I've heard that you have 'episodes' ...."

His voice trailed off when Ellison glared at him. "I'm not an Indian," he stated flatly.

"That's not the point," Blair countered. "In my own culture, there are similar stories of watchmen descended from the Gods, or God, I guess - angels, maybe, who mated with mortals, so their greater powers were, uh, passed along in their bloodlines." He shrugged and then asked pointedly, "You got a better explanation?"

Jim's lips thinned and he looked away. But he shook his head. "No," he muttered, sounding angry. "I don't."

Encouraged, marginally, as Ellison seemed only barely interested, Blair carried on determinedly. "I, uh, I was really interested in the stories and I kinda hounded the shaman to tell me more. Anyway, he said that these senses could be controlled, but the sentinel needed help - a ... a companion or comrade who watched his back, especially when he, well, or she, for that matter, as sometimes women were also born with these greater senses - anyway, when the sentinel was focusing on one sense in particular, to ensure they didn't get lost in it, or ambushed while vulnerable."

Frowning heavily, his tone reluctant, Jim echoed, "Controlled? How were the senses controlled? Mine ..." his voice faded, as if he found the confession difficult, but he rallied and went on, "mine are unpredictable. And ... and sometimes they're ... sometimes I hate them."

Blair rubbed his mouth and then moved across the room to again hunker down by Jim's side. "Maybe I could help you," he offered. "For example, you say the wound sears like fire, right?" When Jim nodded, he was encouraged to go on. "Okay, well, then, close your eyes and imagine pouring cold water on the flames, dousing them."

Ellison snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Hey, what can it hurt to try?" Sandburg cajoled. "C'mon. Lean back and close your eyes. Take a few deep slow breaths and then imagine drawing a cup of water from an icy river." Jim grimaced but complied, his shoulders and head leaning into the support of the high-backed padded chair. After a moment of quiet breathing, Blair touched his hand lightly and asked softly, "Can you picture the cup, the river? Filling it with icy cold water?"

"Yeah," Jim rasped with a bare nod.

"Good, that's good," Blair encouraged. "Now, imagine pouring a cupful of water over the fire in your arm, slowly, feeling the cold relief of it, feeling the heat of the fire lessen ...."

Only moments later, Jim's mouth gaped open as he blinked and stared disbelievingly at Blair. "It worked," he said, as if he wasn't sure he could trust what had just happened. "Why? How?"

"The mind is very powerful, Captain," Blair replied with a small smile. "We underestimate it, I think. Don't understand it very well. And we tend to ignore what isn't solid, concrete, what we can't see or touch. But I've seen shaman do some incredible things with the force of their minds. If you're, uh, willing to let me try, I think I can help with your other senses, too. Help you focus them, learn how to use them, instead of being used by them."

"What are you?" Ellison challenged then, drawing away instinctively. "Some kind of savage witchdoctor?"

Sandburg's expression flattened as he abruptly stood to cross the room and lean his back on the closed door. Crossing his arms defensively, he said hoarsely, "Now 'savage' isn't exactly polite, is it, sir? Especially when I'm doing my best to help you. And the word 'witch' has a bad connotation in our society. I'd really prefer if you didn't use it. This isn't black magic or anything evil. Just a ... a different form of logic." When Ellison continued to stare at him warily, he held out his hands. "C'mon, Captain. Your senses are natural, right? You were born with them. They're not some curse! So, if they're natural, it only makes sense that you can find ways to control them, use them effectively. You, uh, you already do that a lot as it is - going out to scout because you know you can see and hear better than most everyone else!"

When Jim's gaze dropped away and he seemed to tighten up, Sandburg asked with a note of understanding incredulity, "You don't think you're some kind of warlock, do you? Or that this really is a curse?" When Jim flinched, Blair strode across the room to drop to one knee beside him, instinctively reaching out to grip his wrist reassuringly. "Trust me, Captain. You're not cursed and you're not a witch. Your senses are natural, a gift." More forcefully, he added compellingly, "And we need your gift right now. We need every advantage we've got to try to win our freedom from the British. You give us an edge, Jim, er, Captain. A unique, incredibly valuable edge. Without you, the British would have overrun us and this rebellion would already be over. You know that's true!"

A muscle rippled along Jim's pale, stubbled jaw, and then he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Blair's eyes. "You really believe that, don't you? And you believe you can help me?"

"Yeah, I do, if you'll let me," he replied with naked solemnity.

Swallowing hard, Jim asked huskily, "How?"

Giving him a crooked smile, Sandburg stood and scratched his cheek. "Well, first, we need to get a handle on the strength of your senses, so we can figure out what your limits are. And then we need to figure out mental exercises, like the cup of icy water, to modify them, pull them back when the input is too much - like when you flinch at loud noises, like the crack of thunder. We need to muffle your hearing to protect your ears from too much or too sudden loud noise."

"Like tying a blanket over my head," Jim muttered disgustedly.

"Not literally, but, yeah, symbolically, maybe," Blair agreed. "I know it sounds weird, but I think we can work this out, if we try."

Jim rubbed a hand over his mouth and then sighed heavily before nodding reluctantly. "Alright," he allowed, in the tones of man who feels cornered and has little choice. "Let's try."

"Thank you," Blair replied with earnest humility. "I'll do my best, you know? To help you. To not let you down."

Studying him thoughtfully, Jim asked, "Why? Why are you so keen to help me?"

Sitting back on his haunches, his expression utterly candid, Blair replied, "Because you're special, sir. Because it's an honour to help you as much as I can." He hesitated and then added soberly, "And because your skills might make a serious, invaluable difference between winning and losing this war."

Quirking a brow, Jim chewed on his lip as his gaze shifted away, and he looked profoundly unconvinced. Blair couldn't help but read the bleak expression of uncertainty, even doubt. "We'll take it a day at a time," he encouraged. "Every minute we have free to work on this, we will. I think you'll be surprised at how fast you'll learn to use your senses so that you can rely on them and not just be plagued by them."

"I hope so, Corporal," Jim replied distantly. "I really hope you're right."

Eying him, Blair shook his head. "You're exhausted. You had hardly any sleep last night and just about none for several nights before that. And your rash is starting to look angry again." Taking the liberty of rifling in the pouch on Ellison's belt, he ignored the other man's instinctive tendency to pull away, and drew out the small pots of medicine he'd given the Captain earlier that afternoon. Opening them, he dabbed lotion on his fingertips and reached to matter-of-factly lightly coat Jim's eyelids. And then he said, "Let's get your shirt and breeches off so I can treat your skin."

Ellison began to object, but Blair overrode him. "We have the time now - there's a lull in the fighting. We need to take advantage of it."

Huffing a sigh, Jim nodded and began to undo the fastenings of his vest, and then of his shirt. Blair eased off his jacket and then the other layers, and helped him shuck his breeches. His touch as impersonal as a surgeon's, he quickly dabbed the herbal unguent on areas of inflamed skin, and then assisted Jim back into his clothing. Glancing at the bed, he suggested, "You might want to get a bit of sleep while you can. I'll go back downstairs to see what's happening, and I'll come get you if the General needs you."

Too weary to pretend he wasn't aching with exhaustion to a man who wasn't shy about calling him on his stubbornness, beginning to realize that Sandburg seemed, somehow, to see past all his defences, he succumbed to the encouragement and allowed the Corporal to help him to the bed, and to ease down on it.

"Make sure you come for me immediately, if the need arises," he muttered with the ill humour of a man who resented his own weakness.

"I promise," Blair vowed. "Rest, Captain," he urged, his voice seeming to fade into the distance. "Sleep if you can."

Jim grunted a final protest of resistance, but he closed his eyes - and was asleep before he drew another breath.

Blair watched him briefly, a fond smile gracing his lips as he lifted the blanket from the far side of the bed and tenderly draped it over his guardian, his sentinel. And then he quietly padded out of the room, drawing the door closed behind him. Hurrying down the steps, he wondered if he'd have to encourage the General to also take some much-needed rest. Shaking his head bemusedly, he reflected on the fact that the very strength of these extraordinary men was also their weakness. They never seemed to know when to let go, if only momentarily, to replenish their strength for the battles to come. But then he thought that it was probably because, as wealthy gentlemen of the colonies, they'd not fought many real battles before, life and death battles, and didn't know how to shepherd their energy. Well, he sighed, to himself as he crossed the hall and slipped into the war room, they'd learn. They'd have to learn or they wouldn't survive.

********************

The wind picked up after sunset and, though the stone house was sturdy, the shutters rattled and slammed and the rush of air howled eerily like a chorus of banshees, but still the rain did not come. The townspeople huddled in their homes, fearful of what the dawn would bring when the armed might of the British rushed the fortifications and wreaked their wrath upon the upstart colonials. Some, loyal to the King, cursed the foolhardiness of the Continental Congress and despised the insurgents; others, sympathetic to the revolution prayed that their boys would somehow be saved to fight for their collective freedom and futures. Tents were pitched on every available spot of land and in the common; soldiers huddled against buildings along the streets and alleys, nervously gripping their weapons with white-knuckled anxiety, only able to dowse fitfully, if they were able to sleep at all. Sentries patrolled the walls, staring past the pickets and the men crouched behind as the first line of defence, into the darkness, frightened that the heavy clouds that blocked all light from moon and stars would shield the approach of the enemy. Blinking against the grit flung into their eyes by the wild, hot wind, they muttered curses and imagined that they understood what it was like to be blind. And the howl of the damned wind left them deaf as well, leaving them with no hope of hearing the scrape of boots on stone or the jangle of chain, or the stamp of horses' hooves.

Officers roamed the town and the heights, reassuring their men as best they could, doing their best to hide their own fear, alert, even jovial, in spare moments, to lighten the tension that consumed the soldiers, wearing at their morale, sapping their energy and hope. Men sweated in the relentless, thick heat of the night and scratched mosquito bites with absentminded irritation and gut-twisting anxiety. No one amongst them could be certain they'd still be breathing when the next night fell. But despite their fear, their near hopeless belief that they were trapped on the heights with no escape, their terrible certainty that they could not repulse the overwhelming numbers against them, none whined or bitched about their plight. Though many gripped a token from a wife or mother or sweetheart, a scrap of ribbon or a pewter heart, they didn't speak of the homes they'd left behind and might never again see. The clowns amongst them cracked jokes, albeit nervously. Some hummed or sang softly, scarcely more than a whisper of sound but comforting to those around them. Others felt fury at their own inadequacy to meet the challenge, and such rage they could barely speak, borne of fear for their comrades, brothers and friends, who had been overtaken by the British, not knowing if they were alive or dead, not sure which would be worse, for to be taken captive and sent to the prison ships was a fate to be feared more than death.

So they were committed, when the time came, to fight with all they had to the last breath, taking as many redcoats and savage Hessians as they could to hell with them.

The wind grew ever more frenzied as the dark hours wore on, their passing marked only by the low tolling of a church bell somewhere near the centre of town. Lightning flickered in the banked clouds above, the brightness blinding after the unrelenting dark. Thunder rumbled threateningly, and then - just after the twelve hollow clongs marking the midnight hour and the start of the twenty-eighth day of August - a massive streak of lightning split the sky and the air cracked with a heart-stopping bang as the storm finally broke. Rain fell upon them as if the rivers of heaven had opened to cascade in a solid wall of water upon the earth.

In an effort to keep dry, soldiers scrambled to stuff their powder horns into their shirts and to arrange makeshift canvas shelters with their bedrolls but, in seconds, they were drenched to the skin. The torrents of rain were bitterly icy after the stifling heat of the day and evening, so they huddled miserably, shivering and teeth chattering, bent over their muskets and rifles, wondering if their lot in life could ever get worse and desperately afraid it could. Cobblestones became slick and slippery underfoot and then the shallow ditches filled, becoming roiling, rushing streams around their feet and ankles. Earthen alleys turned into morasses of mud and refuse.

The citizenry that supported the Continental Army and the dream of freedom from the whims of King George and a distant Parliament, stoked their stoves and boiled water and herbs for tea, carrying mugs and blankets out to the men closest to their homes, bringing some measure of relief and comfort.

The bell tolled again and again as the hours dragged past, edging toward dawn. But the storm didn't let up. The pelting rain stung their faces, washing away sweat and the grime of living off the land, leaving them blue with cold. Lightning flared through the night and the thunder rolled almost continuously, deafening in its fury. They envied the British camped below, snug in their tents, sleeping with no worries about sodden gunpowder. Grimly, they awaited the morn and the battle to come; some smiled like wolves as they imagined the redcoats having to slog through the mud up to the Heights, exhausting themselves before they ever stormed the barricades. Cold and wet they might be, but they would be fighting on their home ground, battling for their families, for a better life, not simply for the monthly stipend of the professional soldier. They might die, but it would be for something they fiercely believed in. They wondered what the redcoats and their Hessian mercenary comrades believed in. Wondered why they'd come across the sea to fight and kill men who only wanted to be free.

********************

Given leave by the General to retire hours before, Blair had scavenged bread, cold meat, cheese and ale from the kitchen before returning to the room he'd appropriated for Captain Ellison. He left the tray of food on the bureau and, exhausted, had shaken open his bedroll onto the floor next to the bed. Stretching out upon it, he was asleep almost immediately, and not even the wail of the wind or the banging of shutters had been enough to rouse either man in the first hours of darkness.

But a resounding sharp crack of thunder that sounded as if the house was splitting in two woke them both, shocking them into rising before they were even fully alert, each reaching for his weapon, thinking the battle had recommenced. But the flaring lightning, the rattle of rain on the roof and the next deep rumble of thunder released their tension; both shrugged to loosen shoulders, a bit embarrassed to have been off-balance and unaware when they'd first wakened.

Blair heard the tramp of feet in the hallway and on the stairs, and muffled voices. Another flash of lightning allowed him to see Ellison and he noted the other man had his head cocked, listening even as he flinched against the next explosive crash of thunder.

"Easy, sir," he cautioned softly. "You'll blow out your ears if you try to hear past this racket." Moving across the room, he drew flint from his pocket and struck a spark to light the lantern on the table under the window. "After I've checked your dressing, there's food, and ale, if you're hungry," he added, gesturing at the tray across the spacious chamber.

Jim scraped a hand over his face and nodded, but another clap of thunder directly overhead had him doubled over in obvious agony on the side of the bed, his hands pressed over his ears. Blair hastened to him, and dropped to one knee beside him. Instinctively, he reached out to lightly grip Ellison's arm reassuringly. "Dampen your hearing," he insisted urgently, though he kept his voice low and mellow, careful not to add to the man's torment.

His eyes pressed closed, humiliated by his weakness, angered by it, Jim grated harshly, "How, dammit!"

At a loss, Blair gaped at him, and then his gaze darted around the room in search of inspiration. "Like a lantern," he said, focusing on the flame he'd just lit. "Picture the lantern, the wick - imagine the noise is the flame, burning too high and too hot." He waited a beat, his eyes again upon Jim, and he frowned at the impatience on Ellison's face. "Trust me. Picture the flame, the lantern. You can do this. You can turn it down, until it's just barely glowing and ... and as you turn it down, your ... your hearing will be less sharp, will become muffled, so the noise doesn't hurt."

Another blast of thunder rumbled over the house and Jim flinched, curled tighter as if trying to crawl into himself. Desperate, he pictured the flame, the wick, imagined himself turning it down, lower and lower, and then he panted with relief. Blinking his eyes open, astonishment written on his features, he focused on Sandburg crouched by his side. "It worked," he murmured in amazement - having decided the earlier reduction of pain in his shoulder had been a fluke - and then he smiled with unconscious joy at what seemed to him to be a miracle of sorts. "It worked!"

Smiling in return, infinitely glad that his hastily conceived idea had proven effective, Blair patted his arm and then stood to move away a pace. "Good," he said simply. "You did real good, sir." Swiftly, he checked Jim's wounds and, satisfied that they appeared clean with no trace of infection, he re-bandaged the arm. Again, he gestured at the food he'd brought. "Now - you feel like having something to eat?"

"Yeah," Jim agreed, his gaze flickering over the younger man, an expression of gratitude lighting his eyes at the unexpected solicitude. "Yeah, I'm starving." He rose and broke open a roll, stuffing it with a slab of beef and cheese. "What about you? Aren't you hungry?" he asked, gesturing to the laden plate that held more sustenance than he needed.

"Yes, sir, thank you," Blair replied eagerly, as he moved to stand beside the Captain and helped himself to the simple meal. He poured the pitcher of ale into two mugs, and for the next few minutes they ate and drank in quiet contentment.

While they ate, Jim studied the younger man, his expression thoughtful, and Blair tried to pretend he didn't notice the scrutiny. But all the same, he was inordinately pleased to note that the distant wariness in the older man's eyes had given way to speculation and tentative warmth. And there was a slight, bemused smile on the Captain's lips that suggested the man wasn't entirely sure why Blair was thanking him for being offered food that Sandburg had provided, or giving him all the credit for having been able to gain some mastery over his mysterious and aggravating sense of hearing. For all his probable wealth, he seemed a humble man, unused and unwilling to take credit he'd not earned.

When the laden plate held little more than crumbs and the last of the ale was in their mugs, aware that Jim was only using his right arm, Blair asked solicitously, "How's the wound, sir?"

The warmth in Jim's eyes flattened as he turned away and grunted, "It's fine."

"Meaning it's hurting like the blazes again, right?" Sandburg challenged with a light, matter-of-fact tone.

Cool blue eyes flashed and the chiseled jaw tightened stubbornly, but then Jim relented and nodded. "Yeah, exactly," he admitted ruefully.

"Maybe you need to pour some cool water from that imaginary cup over your arm to ease the heat of the pain," Sandburg suggested with a slight, uncertain grin.

Nodding, Jim bowed his head and closed his eyes - and Blair could see his taut shoulders visibly relax as the pain of the wound eased. His grin widened and he murmured with undisguised admiration, "You're a wonder, sir. How quickly you've gotten the hang of it. You'll be marshalling your senses to your will in no time at all!"

Again Ellison swept him with an enigmatic look, but simply shrugged and moved to the window to look out at the sheets of rain that lashed the thick glass. "I need to get out there," he muttered. "Walk the walls; make sure the men are managing in this muck."

Sandburg straightened the counterpane of the bed and gathered up their gear while Jim drew on his vest, coat and tri-cornered hat. He handed the Captain his weapon and slung his own musket over his shoulder after he stacked the bedrolls in the corner. Jim noted his swift economy of motion and evident readiness to go along and seemed about to protest that his attendance wasn't required, but then he just nodded to himself and led the way out of the room.

They clomped down the stairs and Jim advised the guard outside the war room that he was going to do a circuit of the town, in case the General wondered where he was, and they'd be back in an hour or so. The soldier nodded, and they strode across the foyer and out the solid door into the full blast of wind and rain. Their shoulders hunched reflexively and their heads bowed under the onslaught as they turned toward the fortified walls. But they'd only gone a few steps when they were hailed from behind.

"Captain Ellison, sir!" a soldier called as he jogged through puddles and nearly slipped on the cobblestones in his haste to reach them. "There's a big Negro asking for you at the gate to the ferry road. Says his name is Simon, and that you're expecting him and the other one with him, sir."

"As I surely am, private," Jim called back. "Thank you." With a slap of approval on the man's shoulder, he broke into a fast jog, Blair dogging his heels, along the lane and around the corner into the wider street that led down to the river.

In minutes, they'd reached the double-sided, wide wooden gate that was barred for the night. A smaller door was cut into the wall, and Jim hailed the sentry standing watch. "Let Simon and his companion inside!"

"Aye, sir," the man acknowledged with a sketchy salute before shoving the door open against the muddy track beyond, and two large men as black as the night hurried past him into the fortified town.

"Simon, Joel, I am glad to see you," Jim welcomed his old friends. "The two of you look like very large drowned rats!"

Smiling crookedly, Banks chuckled. "Can't say as you and the young'un look a long sight drier," he rumbled as he swept rain from his face.

"You've heard from Colonel Glover?" Jim pressed, eager for some good news.

"Uh huh," Simon grunted in reply, sobering as he straightened.

Jim gestured them away from the gate, and led them some distance away so that they could talk without being overheard. "He's coming?" he asked but, sure of the answer, demanded, "When?"

"He'll have his forces in order, including the volunteer fishermen who are lending their boats, and the bargemen, by midday on the twenty-ninth," Simon reported, keeping his voice low as the five men crowded close together. "Providing the British gunboats don't block the river," he added starkly.

His head bowed, Jim chewed on his lip and nodded. "Almost two full days from now," he murmured, more to himself than the others. Looking up and around at the town, his expression guarded, he nodded again. "Come on. We need to tell the General - and you men need to get some good hot tea into you, to warm you up."

"Tea?" Joel echoed, a comically plaintive note in his voice. "Some ale wouldn't go amiss."

Smiling then, Ellison winked. "Then ale it is. You've brought good news and deserve a suitable reward for your labours."

Together, they turned and strode swiftly through the heavy rain, back along the street through the town, their boots splashing through muddy puddles.

Trailing at the rear of their little parade, Blair reflected upon the easiness between Captain Ellison and the others. Friendship between whites and blacks wasn't completely unheard of, but nor was it at all common. Once again, his curiousity was aroused and he wondered at the history these men shared; wondered, as well, if they'd ever trust him enough to share the details, or widen their circle to include him.

Once back at the house, dripping wet so that puddles gathered at their feet on the flagstone floor, Jim sought and was granted immediate entry to the General's presence. Inside the room, they found a fire burning brightly in the grate and candles and lanterns chasing the shadows into corners. Washington sat behind a desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up and, absent the wig, his fine hair in disarray, as if, like Jim and Blair, he'd only recently risen from his bed. He looked up from notes he was making as they entered, his high-browed aristocratic face lined with fatigue.

"Sir," Jim began with crisp brevity, "I wish to present to you Simon Banks and Joel Taggart, old and very good friends I'd recommend to you. They've brought word that Colonel Glover will be ready to ferry the Army across the East River the afternoon of the twenty-ninth. His Marblehead Mariners will be supported by volunteer fishermen and bargemen from along the river."

Warmth glinted in the General's intelligent eyes as he wordlessly acknowledged the messengers with an austere, slight nod. "Well, then," he replied, his voice firm, "we'll have to hold off General Howe and his forces until he can get here." His gaze lifted into the distance, and he thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "And we'll need to prepare, to be ready to move expeditiously when the time comes, but without giving the game away." Returning his sharp gaze to Simon, he demanded, "He'll be prepared to take us all - and our horses, cannon, wagons and supplies?"

"That's the plan, sir," Simon replied with formal dignity. Swallowing, he felt compelled to add, "Though Admiral Howe might have something to say about it. General Howe, too, for that matter."

"Yes, yes, you're quite right," Washington allowed, a frown furrowing his brow. "Is the Admiral still anchoring his armada in the mouth of the river?"

"So far as we know," Banks confirmed soberly. "And with the wind the way it is, they'll not be moving this night at least."

Again Washington nodded thoughtfully. The East was a narrow, relatively shallow, fast-moving river and the wind whipped up dangerous currents and waves that could soon dash heavy ships under sail against the rocks or ground them on treacherous sandbars. "Go, dry yourselves off, get some nourishment and rest," he directed. "We're safe enough from the enemy so long as this storm lasts." As they turned toward the door, he added meaningfully, "And hope that this storm lasts for the next two days." When they nodded in solemn agreement, he smiled. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said with rare warm courtesy from an aristocrat toward men of their colour, "for alerting Colonel Glover to our need, and for bringing word of his plans to us. When we leave this island, if you wish to accompany us, I'd be glad to offer you transport."

"Thank you, sir," Simon replied gratefully on behalf of himself and Joel. "We'd sure appreciate a ride across the river." Looking away, he hesitated, then faced the General squarely as he added, "I'm sure you know the British are offering freedom to any slaves that join their cause. But we're freemen, and this is our home, too. Given the chance, we'd be honoured to serve with you, General."

"Then serve you shall," Washington returned stoutly. "I've need of all the good men I can get - there are far more of them than us, I'm afraid. And they're better equipped. Better trained. But if I didn't believe we could prevail, I wouldn't have accepted this command. If we persevere, we will win. We must. As you say, this is our home and our future. We dare not fail. Captain Ellison, I assign these men to your command. Equip them and award their ranks in accordance with their skills and experience."

"Yes, sir," Jim acknowledged readily, while the others regarded Washington solemnly, nodding in general agreement with his sentiments - but they all knew they had to first hold back the horde of British and Hessian soldiers for two days, and then get whatever still remained of the Army safely off Long Island or the war could well be lost before it had scarcely begun.

In the circumstances, hoping for the violent storm's continuation seemed the least they could do for short term success, let alone survival.

********************

Once they'd gotten Simon and the others settled for the night in the sturdy, capacious stable behind the house, Jim and Blair once again set out to make their rounds of the town and to walk the perimeter of the barricades.

Jim was silent for several minutes and seemed preoccupied until he abruptly turned to Blair and demanded, "Would you take orders from a black man?"

"Depends on the man," Sandburg replied calmly. "From what I've seen of Simon, I'm assuming he warrants at least a sergeant's rating, and maybe Joel does, too. They seem solid and very intelligent. So, if you're asking if I mind if they outrank me, then no, I don't." Blair shrugged and looked away. "Captain, I don't know these men; you do. I will support your decisions on the matter. But that's not what you're asking me, is it? You're asking if I can serve with black-skinned men, let alone take orders from one or more of them." Lifting his gaze to Jim's, he stated earnestly, "I'm Jewish, sir, so some see me as a Christ-killer or eater of babies. I was born a bastard and some say that makes my mother a whore - which makes me trash by definition. I grew to be a man with the Cherokee, and you don't need to be told how folks feel about Indians." Waving a hand to encompass the town and the soldiers camped within its walls, he went on with low, fierce candour, "There are few who have much use for me, many who despise me on sight. I know right well what prejudice and blind hatred are and I don't hold with it. You can't tell who a man is or what he stands for by the colour of his skin or the name he was born with; takes time to learn another's soul and heart." He swallowed and visibly took a grip on his emotion. "But from what I've seen of them, they seem to be good, brave, sensible men, and besides, it's clear you trust them and that tells me a lot right there. I trust your judgment, sir, and I'll be glad to serve with them under your command." He paused and peered through the heavy downpour, and then added with a sad shrug and the helpless tone of a man who knew what it was to be judged unfairly, "You might be as well to ask them how comfortable they are about serving with me."

Taken aback by the small, bitterly blurted speech, more by the flood of personal information and taut emotion, Jim blinked. For a moment, he was utterly disconcerted, not knowing what to say and they stood in silence in the rain. But when Blair flicked a wary look at him, as if afraid he'd said far too much before his expression closed and he turned away, Jim felt a twist in his gut and a compulsion to somehow reassure the kid. Looping an arm around Blair's shoulders to move him along the narrow, dark street, he said meaningfully, "They're not the only good, brave and stalwart men under my command, Chief."

But Sandburg stiffened and pulled away. "Chief?" he challenged with a flash of disdain.

"Whoa," Jim exclaimed, gripping his shoulder to keep him from retreating further. "I didn't mean ... I meant that ..." he stammered, belatedly realizing that Blair must have thought it a reference to his life with the Cherokee. There was profound disappointment and no little bitterness in the fiery blue eyes that held his own. Swallowing, he continued hastily, "I meant nothing disparaging, Blair. If anything, given how you're showing me how to handle my senses, the way you helped me when I stumbled back into camp - was it only yesterday night? I meant ... hell, I don't know what I meant. I was trying to say I respect you, that's all."

Sandburg held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes, and then he looked away and nodded, the tension in his body easing as he accepted no slight had been intended. His brow furrowed as he thought about what Jim had said. Not really sure, given Ellison's rank, he asked, "How many men do serve under your command, sir?" Most captains would lead at least a company and for all Blair knew, Ellison did as well.

"Three, corporal," Jim replied, a grin twitching his lips. "Three good, brave, sensible men."

A small smile played over Blair's lips, and Jim saw a faint blush creep over the sun-bronzed, stubbled cheeks. Bobbing his head in a paroxysm of embarrassed humility, he seemed gratified but also off-balance, as if he was unsure of how to respond to the unexpected and unstinting praise. "Thank you, sir," he murmured softly.

Despite the blasting wind and pelting rain that soaked him clean through and chilled him to the bone, Jim felt a surge of affection for the kid; buoyed by sudden optimism, he smiled broadly. John Glover and his men would ensure their retreat from what might have been a certain, devastating defeat and now he had a small but skilled team of trackers and scouts to work with him in supporting Washington's command of the Continental Army. Though he was well aware of the prejudices that most of society held against his men, their roles would keep them separate and away from the main force most of the time, which suited him just fine. He'd take the forests over the stench and noise of the camp any day and be glad of the freedom of movement, free of oversight and the endless orders of superior officers. He gave Blair a comradely slap on the shoulder before again taking the lead on their informal patrol of Brooklyn Heights.

When they reached the wooden barricades, Jim found a vantage point to look down upon the enemy. With Blair standing close by his side, he squinted into the darkness, blinking frequently against the driving rain. Gripping the brim of his hat, he pulled it low over his brow to shield his eyes from sudden bursts of lightning, and studied the massive encampment below. He could see sentries patrolling but detected no hint of any sneak advance. The rain and wind, the runnels of water on rock and the mud were keeping the British undercover, at least for now.

Shaking his head, he felt a hollow sense of awe at the might of the forces arrayed against them. "There have to be twenty-five, maybe as many as thirty thousand men down there," he muttered under his breath. The magnitude of the challenge before them, the overwhelming odds against the ill-prepared and poorly equipped revolutionary army dampened his earlier sense of optimism and mild euphoria. Truly, they were embarking upon a venture that held marginal hope of success, despite the General's belief they had a legitimate chance of winning this war. Turning, he looked back over the town, the bleak darkness no barrier to his ability to see men hunched together, crowding streets and lanes, huddled stoically against the elements, shivering and afraid of what the morrow would bring. Close by, a barn had been commandeered for the wounded and errant gusts of wind brought the stench of blood and human waste, and he sighed. They'd lost over a thousand men that day and had no way of knowing how many of those had survived to be taken prisoner.

And the war was only just beginning.

"The General's right," he grunted as they left the fortifications and strode back into the town. "We better hope like hell that it keeps raining."

********************

Dawn, when it came, was dismal, gray and sopping wet. The storm's fury hadn't abated and the wind continued to churn up waves and dangerous currents on the East River, holding Admiral Howe and his one hundred and thirty gunboats at bay. Though the colonials kept a close watch on the British forces covering the flanks of the hills and the plain below, it seemed the redcoats were content to remain under the shelter of their tents and simply lay siege to the town until the storm blew past.

Eagerly grabbing the respite from battle provided by the inclement weather, Washington gathered his senior offices and logisticians to hammer out the tactics of moving ten thousand men, along with horses, cannon and supply wagons while simultaneously fighting a rearguard action against a force that outnumbered them by a margin of more than two to one. If the British ships blocked the river ... well, then all would be lost.

Sighing, the General got up to pace while his subordinates debated options in low voices. Pausing to stare into the fire under the heavy oak mantel, he struggled with his personal sense of incompetence, his fear of being unequal to the responsibility he'd freely accepted. Bleakly, as he listened to the rain drum on the window and the rattle of wind in the trees beyond the wall, he wondered if he'd been a fool, if they were all fools to believe they had any hope of triumphing over the most powerful military on the face of the earth. Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his tense shoulders. His jaw tightened and he chastised himself for his morose thoughts. Out in the streets, in the lanes and alleys, on the battlements, there were nearly ten thousand men who relied upon his leadership and trusted him to make the right decisions so that if their blood was spilled, it would not be for nothing. His back to his senior officers, he listened to their discussion, not so much to the words but the tones, and he heard impatience and frustration, uncertainty. But they grappled with the problems before them with utter sincerity and a commitment to do their best. Still, it was clear, none of them could envision any escape without suffering heavy losses - losses they could ill afford whether in men or armament - but an embattled retreat, they all seemed to agree, would be disastrous. Grimly, unwillingly, they were doing their best to come to grips with the terrible facts of their beleaguered situation.

"So ..." he pondered aloud as he slowly turned to face them, "we can't afford to fight our way out."

They looked askance at him, confusion on their faces. What other choice was there?

"Battles are fought in daylight," he went on thoughtfully. "Otherwise, it's chaos and we end up killing our own in the confusion." They nodded their agreement of this obvious assessment.

"Therefore, we should retreat under cover of darkness, while the enemy sleeps," he said then, bluntly. "If we're well prepared, muffle hooves and wheels with rags and ensure axles are well-greased, if we move in silence - we might even slip past ships anchored in the river."

The men before him stirred, straightening in their chairs, as the idea lent hope and energy to their demeanors. He could see thoughts skimming across their faces, in the looks they exchanged with one another. There was time to prepare - the unceasing rain gave them that opportunity. One by one, they nodded as the idea took hold.

"We'll need to get word to Colonel Glover," one of his subordinates observed.

"I can send Taggart," Captain Ellison volunteered. "Any loyalist or redcoat keeping watch won't suspect a poor black fisherman of carrying a vital dispatch. Given the weather, he may even pass unseen."

With an austere smile, Washington nodded as he moved to the desk and picked up a plumed pen. Dipping it in the inkwell, he swiftly scripted the message to Colonel Glover. After dusting it with sand to dry the ink, he rolled the small scroll and sealed it with a daub of wax impressed with his signet ring. Jim stood to receive the document and quickly left the room. Looking to the others, the General directed, "Gentlemen, our plans remain within this room; I want to take no chance of a spy bearing word to the British. Do what you can to prepare the cannon and wagons. We'll begin to evacuate Long Island one hour after full dark tomorrow night - as we move out, we'll keep the ranks on the pickets so the British sentries don't realize we're leaving. Those men will be the last to go."

********************

Sandburg accompanied Taggart to the back gate to see him off on his perilous journey across the rough waters of the East River, and then stood on the wet, windy battlements over the cliffs until he saw a distant flash of a lantern on the other side - the signal that he'd arrived safely and their message had been delivered. Ellison had been adamant that Joel was not to return on his own, but with the evacuation force so, for the moment, he was safe. After reporting back to the Captain, who was sharing a late meal with Simon in the stable, and unabashedly assuming the role of caretaker of their small unit, Sandburg first checked and re-bandaged the Captain's wounded arm, and then chivied the two older men into calling it an early night. They were all exhausted and, moments after bedding down in the hay, they were all sound asleep.

The wild storm continued during the night, and the winds and drenching rain remained heavy throughout the next day. Thunder rumbled overhead like distant artillery fire, and lightning flickered in the thick bank of gun-metal gray clouds. General Howe, apparently confident of victory and in no hurry to assert the superiority of his forces, kept his men warm and relatively dry inside their canvas tents. Strong, high swells on the river and the treacherous wind kept his brother and his gunboats anchored in the safety of the mouth of the channel, their sails furled.

Inside the fortified walls of Brooklyn Heights, men hunkered in the rain and tried not to think too much about what their future would bring. Hope that they might yet escape to fight another day kept the men's spirits alive; fear of failure haunted them. Loyalists watched from their windows and doorways. The palisades were well patrolled, the gates securely barred, and the dismal weather made it difficult to sneak out of the town; besides there was nothing much to convey to the British. Disgruntled, hoping the last desperate bid for survival would yet fail when the attack finally came, and end this ill-conceived rebellion, they washed their hands of it all and settled back to wait upon events. But those inhabitants who supported the Continental Army donated more blankets to the sodden men, and linens and clothing to make into bandages for the wounded; piles of cloth were torn into strips and carried to the barn where the injured lay tightly packed in rows of pallets. Townspeople also willingly shared their victuals with the soldiers, and continued to supply them with hot drinks to sustain their energy.

Though the preparations needed to be circumspect, Captain Ellison and his men took on the duty of temporary 'blacksmiths', assigned ostensibly to check the axles and wheels of the wagons and cannon carriages. It was tedious work, but they methodically persisted in greasing the axles, one after another.

General Washington had taken advantage of the brief respite to get some much-needed rest, sleeping through the whole of the night and late into the morning. Later in the day, he went out into the bitter weather to encourage his men, as well as to personally take stock of the stealthy progress made in the desperate and hurried preparations. As he slogged his way back to his temporary headquarters in the darkness of the early night, he cast his gaze upward and silently gave thanks for the rain that stung his face, even as he pondered the possibilities of the inclement weather continuing for another night and a day.

********************

First thing on the morning on August 29th, Jim and Simon engaged in discussion about what would be needed once the Army was safe on the other side. If all went as planned, the revolutionary force might be safe on Manhattan for a week, maybe a little more, while the Howe brothers organized the movement of men, supplies, and armament across the river. But the British would be hot on their heels and they couldn't afford to stay within reach for long.

"As soon as you're across the river," Jim directed as they broke their fast on the bread, cheese and ale Sandburg had scrounged for them, "I want you and Joel to scout north and west to ensure there aren't more British lurking on the other side, ready to box us in. I doubt that Howe left many men on that side of the river, but we can't afford to make any assumptions."

Simon nodded in agreement as he took a swig of ale. Lowering the plain, clay mug, he swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and asked, "Where will we find you on our return? Command Headquarters or your father's residence in the town?"

Curious about Jim and his background, Blair's ears perked up as he finished his own chunk of bread and, after handing out apples to each of them, began to gather up what food was left to wrap securely for later in the day.

Jim sighed and stared into space as he thought about his answer. He and Sandburg had to billet somewhere and it was foolish to commandeer other space when his father had a perfectly good mansion and room to spare. "After dark, at the house," he replied. "Otherwise at Headquarters."

"Which way do you think the General will jump?" Simon asked then, thinking about the challenges of moving thousands of men a safe distance from the British, to give time to regroup and determine the colonial offence plan.

"I'd guess north, through Harlem and into the forests of upper New York," Jim replied thoughtfully. "We'd lead the British away from the towns where they can easily demand supplies and shelter, and into the wilderness; I suspect we may be better at foraging than they, though we've more than enough townsmen in our own ranks to make finding sustenance a challenge. And we'd be handy to Fort Washington and Fort Lee for resupply."

Simon snorted and nodded as he stood; from what he'd seen of Fort Washington, the place was well-nigh indefensible when the British could easily surround it both on the river and on land. There was no need to say more or to belabor the immensity of the risks and hazards that the future would hold, providing they even made it across the river. The colonial bid for freedom was a bold and probably foolhardy undertaking that would most likely end in defeat. But they were each committed to the worthiness of the cause and resigned to the risks they shared. Fighting for freedom and the right to determine their own destiny was, by far, preferable to being dictated to by a capricious and seemingly insane monarch, and the indifference of the distant parliamentary governance of merchants concerned only with their own p