Excerpt from THE GUNS OF LIBERTY

THE FRONTIERSMAN AND THE DESERTER ….

A wilderness fight

Autumn turned to winter, and with it came snow. Old Bill taught Caleb how to make his own snowshoes out of a green willow sapling, then weaving rawhide strips in between. They continued trapping, the skins piling up at the back of the cave they were using for shelter. 

The cave kept off the worst of the cold and snow. Except for the coldest part of winter where game had been scarce for a week or two, there had been plenty to eat, in part because Caleb had shot a buffalo—the largest game animal that he had ever come across. Old Bill also taught him how to hunt black bears in the winter, looking for the telltale cloud of vapor a sleeping bear’s breath made in the cold air above his hidden den. Caleb loved bear toes best of all, letting them roast in the coals of their campfire.

With spring came the snow melt. They had already stopped trapping, the animals having lost their winter pelts, but they had needed the snow to clear before they could make their way back to the trading post.

If Caleb had started out as a greenhorn, he couldn’t be called that now. He had quickly learned the ways of the woods, everything from starting a fire with a flint and steel to the ability to load his rifle in less than a minute. 

They were pulling the last of their traps out of a creek when the Chickamauga caught them. Caleb had looked up and spotted seven warriors staring at them, not more than fifty feet away. He and Old Bill were on the creek bank, both of them up to their knees in the water, their rifles leaning against a rifle.

For a moment, the white men and the Chickamauga just regarded each other. 

Then one of the braves raised his rifle.

“Oh, hell,” Old Bill said. 

He scrambled up the creek bank with surprising speed, Caleb right behind him, both men grabbing for their own weapons. A shot rang out and Old Bill grunted in pain. He’d been hit in the lower back, blood staining his buckskins.

Caleb didn’t feel any fear, only a sense of calm as he aimed his own rifle at a brave who was about to shoot. He fired dropped the Indian in his tracks. Caleb had never killed an Indian before—or anything else with two legs—but he didn’t have time to dwell on taking a life. It had simply been something that needed doing.

The Chickamauga hadn’t seemed to expect Caleb to fire with such accuracy and kill one of their own. It gave Caleb and Old Bill a few precious moments to get out of the open and into the cover of the trees.

Behind them, they heard a war whoop, then another. The Chickamauga were coming after them.

Caleb had started back toward their camp, but Old Bill stopped him.

“Don’t lead them back to the cave, those bastards will steal every last skin we’ve got,” Old Bill said. “I know a place.”

“You’re hit!

“Maybe, but I ain’t dead yet. Come on. I know a place.”

The bullet wound hadn’t seemed to slow down the old trapper, who led the way through the woods. Caleb had the unsettling thought that Old Bill might be like the buck that kept running, not knowing that he was already dead.

The woods thinned out and they entered a rocky plateau covered with strewn boulders, some as big as a log cabin. Caleb looked around in surprise. As much as he had explored their surroundings this winter, he never had found this place. But Old Bill seemed to know all about it. Quickly, he led the way into the rocks, which created a maze where they could hide.

Old Bill noticed that he was leaking blood, leaving a trail that would be plain for the Chickamauga to see, and cursed. “Might as well hang up a sign for them fellers,” he muttered. “If we can get down into those rocks, we might stand a chance.”

“Here, let me take a look at that wound,” Caleb said.

He cut the tail off his shirt and used it to make a bandage. At least Old Bill wouldn’t be leaving a blood trail.

They hunkered down in the rocks and caught their breath. Caleb reloaded both their rifles. For a long time, they listened intently but didn’t hear anything. “Maybe we lost them,” Caleb said quietly.

“From your lips to Jehovah’s ears,” Old Bill replied.

Both men held their breath, listening. Old Bill claimed that his ears weren’t what they used to be, but he never seemed to have trouble hearing Caleb mutter some complaint under his breath. Caleb heard a scuff that sounded like the sole of a moccasin on stone. He turned to Old Bill to warn him when an arrow smacked into the rock beside him. Another arrow flicked past, making a snick sound as the tip struck a boulder.

Caleb raised his rifle, seeking a target. Suddenly, a lone figure appeared, standing on a rock above him, silhouetted against the sky so that all Caleb saw was the dark outline of a warrior aiming a gun at them. Before the Indian could fire, Caleb aimed the rifle and squeezed the trigger, surprised at how calm he felt. The warrior grunted and then toppled off the rock. 

“Good shot,” Old Bill said approvingly. “Here, take my rifle. You’re the better shot. I’ll reload your gun.”

Caleb peered down the barrel, but no more warriors appeared. Then came the sound of more scuffling on the rocks. The furtive noise made the hair stand up on the back of Caleb’s neck.

“They’re creeping up on us,” Caleb said. “I can hear them.”

Old Bill stood, wincing with the effort. “Let’s get deeper in among those rocks,” he said. “Maybe you can shoot another one and make ‘em think twice about coming after us.”

Another arrow hissed in, the point glancing off a boulder. The arrow was followed by the crack of a rifle, the ball smacking against the rocks and ricocheting with a sound that made Caleb’s spine vibrate. Caleb swept the rifle in every direction, but the Indians were doing such a good job of keeping under cover that he couldn’t see anyone to shoot at. They had learned their earlier lesson all too well when he had managed to shoot one of the braves.

However, it was clear that the Indians could see them. From the corner of his eye, Caleb saw another arrow zip past. He ducked out of sheer instinct—which was lucking, because it might have hit in him the neck. With a sickening sound, the arrow buried itself in the small of Old Bill’s back, the stone point driving into his kidneys.

“Aahh!” he cried out. “I’m hit again.”

“Come one,” Caleb said, giving the old man a shove. “We need to keep moving.”

Sensing blood now, the Chickamauga warriors began whooping and shouting. Their boldness made them careless. One of them appeared from around a boulder, waving a tomahawk, and Caleb used Old Bill’s rifle to shoot him dead.

Old Bill led the way deeper into the rocks, entering a place that was much like a tunnel. The boulders closed in around them and cut off the daylight. The rocks also meant that the Chickamauga couldn’t get at them except by coming at them from behind.

Then the path gave out and they found themselves in a dead end with nowhere to go but up. Caleb studied the stone walls and realized it would be a hard scrabble for him. The climb would be impossible for Old Bill.

The old trapper had come to the same conclusion. He was breathing hard. “You go on,” he said. “The only way I’m getting up these walls is if I grow wings.”

Caleb wouldn’t hear of it. “I can carry you,” he said. “Or I’ll climb up and rig a rope—”

“We ain’t got a rope,” Old Bill said, then added with a guffaw. “Or a block and tackle. I’m too damn fat for you to haul up.”

“We’ll fight them—”

Old Bill shook his head. “Listen, I’m done for. I can feel that arrowhead every time I take a breath. And I’ve already got a ball in me from before. I’m lung shot, I tell you.” As if to prove the point, he spat a stream of frothy spittle onto a flat rock. 

“I don’t want to leave you behind,” Caleb said.

“If you stay here, you’ll die, plain and simple,” Old Bill said. “There’s too many of them. I’m giving you a chance to live, boy. Take it.”

“If we can hold them off until dark—”

Old Bill just shook his head. “Load my gun. I’ll take out as many of them as I can to give you a fighting chance.”

Caleb loaded both guns while Old Bill watched for any movement in the tunnel behind them.

When he had finished, Caleb said, “Take my gun too. At least you’ll have a better chance.”

Again, Old Bill shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let some warrior get your gun. That’s too fine of a rifle. My gun is worn out—the redskin who gets it will be sorely disappointed, let me tell you. Now, best get going or there’s gonna be two sets of bones bleaching in the sun.”

“Damn you, Bill—”

“Go, you young fool.” 

At that, Old Bill turned his back on Caleb and leveled his rifle at the tunnel exit. His breathing was labored now, bright red blood showing at the corners of his mouth. The bullet and the arrow really had done their worst.

Caleb used a leather thong to rig a sling so that he could carry his rifle over one shoulder. He looked up at the steeply sloped sides of the ravine. The climb wouldn’t be easy, even for him. Old Bill was right that the climb would have been impossible for him—even if he hadn’t been wounded.

From deep within the tunnel came the ominous sound of scuffling feet and voices. The Chickamauga were so certain of catching their quarry that they weren’t even trying to be quiet about it.

Caleb stared at the wall, then turned back, not ready to abandon Old Bill just yet. “Listen now, we can both do this—”

The old trapper turned toward him, his face a savage mask as he prepared to meet the enemy. In that moment, it was as if the years had slipped away and it was easy to get a glimpse of the tough young man that he had once been. He snarled, “I’m done for, boy! Now, get your ass up that rock or I’ll shoot you myself!”

Caleb turned away and started to climb, using his knees, his feet, his elbows—anything he could to gain some purchase on the rock. He wore buckskins but the rock scraped right through one knee. He started to slip back down and dug his fingers into the rock with such force that his fingernails started bleeding, but he ignored the pain. Slowly at first, and then with more speed as the stone walls became more sloped, he left the ravine behind. When he looked down, he saw Old Bill covering the tunnel entrance, gun in one hand and knife in the other, waiting for the Chickamauga to rush him. That was the last glimpse Caleb had of Old Bill before slipping over the top of the ravine and out of sight.

A swath of scrambled rocks spread before him. He started across, scuffing his feet here and there, then doubled back and started in a new direction, being careful to leave no sign of his passage. These were lessons Old Bill had taught him. He crossed the rock field and headed into the forest beyond. The Chickamauga would hopefully waste time following the false trail. Even if they weren’t fooled, tracking his actual direction across the rocks wouldn’t be easy, especially with the light failing.

The ancient forest enveloped him as he ran silently across the mossy ground. Once he was sure that the Chickamauga weren’t on his trail, he would double back toward the shelter of their cave.

From behind him, he heard a distant rifle shot, soon followed by triumphant whoops. He hoped that Old Bill had sold his life dearly and died quickly.

Caleb felt a hot sting in his eyes that puzzled him momentarily. Had he gotten gunpowder in his peepers or grit in them from climbing that stone wall? But no, he realized with surprise that these were tears—a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was a small boy. He blinked them away and ran on.

Deep down, he knew that Old Bill had done the right thing. If the tables had been turned, if Caleb had been wounded and there was any way for Old Bill to escape, Caleb knew that he would have traded his own life for the trapper’s. But that didn’t make it sit any easier with him. He felt like a coward. Right then and there, he vowed that he would never run from a fight again.

Given another chance at life, Caleb had stayed in the mountains. Thanks to Old Bill, he had gained enough skills to survive. He marked time by the seasons. As the years passed, he wandered deeper into the frontier, seeing sights that others back East wouldn’t have believed—rivers filled with beaver, great grasslands that stretched to the horizon, lands to the south where it never snowed and palm trees grew. He had seen this great, sprawling country in a way that many never would. He’d fought the Chickamauga and helped drive them even further into the interior, gaining some reputation as an Indian fighter.

When rumors of war reached him about a War of Independence, it had been his first inclination to ignore that business as someone else’s concern. He had enough to worry about just surviving from one season to the next. But the thought all those cruel masters he had experience as a boy gnawed at him. What was a king but another cruel master to all the colonists? 

Independence. It was a big word, a word said with intention, and he liked the sound of it.

He spent one final winter in the mountains trapping, but when spring came, he journeyed back to Pennsylvania to join the fight against the king.

Promising Shores

August 25, 1777

At first sight, the sails on the horizon appeared to be an illusion, or a hint of low clouds just visible on the shimmering, hazy surface of the Chesapeake Bay in August. Up close, the water was clear enough that blue crabs and rockfish could be seen swimming among the underwater grasses. An osprey that had been circling overhead plunged to the water, flapping away again with a wriggling silver fish gripped in his talons. 

Despite the calm, sunny day, the shadow on the horizon grew closer, taking on the shape and form of wooden ships. Dark hulls loomed above the blue water, then the magnificent sails that, up close, showed rents and tears where they had been battered by more than one storm during their long sea voyage from New York. Their gun ports were open and the ships’ cannons became visible, the muzzles like dark cyclops’ eyes watching the hostile shore. 

Above it all, the Union Jack flew from the highest mast of each ship. The sight of the flag struck fear in the hearts of some on shore, and relief in others who remained loyal to the Crown.

It wasn’t just one ship, or a dozen, or twenty that now sailed into Chesapeake Bay. Stunned citizens of the Maryland countryside watched from shore as they counted nearly three hundred ships. Not even the famous Spanish Armada had so many vessels. The British fleet under command of Admiral Howe carried nearly 18,000 troops, an army comprised of Redcoats and the dreaded Hessians, along with supplies for a massive campaign. 

Hugging the Eastern Shore of Maryland, the fleet passed by the Chester River, then the mouths of the Sassafras and Bohemia rivers, before passing Turkey Point at the tip of the Elk Neck peninsula and entering the Elk River, approaching the upper reaches of the Chesapeake. Despite the river’s name, the Royal Navy sailors hoping to catch a glimpse of an Elk found themselves disappointed because the only animals they saw on the passing shores were cattle and sheep.

“Come about and luff the sails,” called the captain of HMS Resolution. He stood near the bow to keep a close eye on the lead line, which was fed out to measure the water depth. The upper Chesapeake was notoriously filled with shoals, pushing the limits of their navigation abilities for these large ships. 

“Two fathoms,” replied the sailor.

“Keep a hawk’s eye on that reading, Mr. Wilson,” the captain said, squinting in concern at the brackish water, as if it might reveal its secrets to him. “The last thing we need to do is run aground within sight of these rebels on shore. They would surely cut us to pieces if that were to happen.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the sailor replied, touching a knuckle to his cap. He didn’t care for this proximity to land any more than the captain did. They were both blue-water men and didn’t trust the shallow upper Chesapeake with its many shoals. The sooner that these men and supplies were ashore, the sooner that these sailors could return to their natural habitat—the sea.

The captain supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised by this latest challenge. After all, it had been a difficult voyage from the start. They had left New York and the wind had been against them as they sailed south, making progress slow. The seas had been rough, making soldiers seasick and the horses unwell.

If they ran aground, the captain was right that they might be easy pickings for the rebels. Not that there were any armed rebels to be seen. On shore, the Marylanders had to being wondering what business the British had in the upper Chesapeake. To be sure, the soldiers and sailors on deck looked back with equal curiosity. 

One of those on deck was 16-year-old Johann Schmidt. He was a tall, handsome lad, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and curious blue-green eyes. Because of his youth, and the fact that he was quick to laugh at their jokes and eager to tackle any task, he was a favorite of even the gruffest older soldiers. Everything about Johann reminded them of sons and younger brothers left behind, and deeply missed. 

Like the others, Johann had been conscripted by the Hessian ruler, Frederick II, and “loaned out” to the British to help fight their war for them. Their pay went to the royal coffers back in Hessia, but not into their pockets. They had been forced into the army, and when they would ever get out again was anybody’s guess.

He and other Hessian soldiers had been allowed just an hour on deck twice each day, a brief respite from the fetid conditions below deck. The stated intent was to keep them out of the way of the sailors operating the ship, but the truth was that the Royal Navy viewed the Hessian soldiers more like a cargo of cattle and treated them accordingly.

But in the excitement of arriving at their anchorage and in the face of the fierce heat, even the strict discipline of the Hessian officers had relented. The men had been allowed on deck for longer than their usual allotted time. Most welcomed the thought of getting ashore again and having solid land under their feet.

Young Johann was enjoying every minute that he could on deck. He had shed his coat and even his linen shirt, enjoying the warmth of the hazy sun on his shoulders. There was just enough of a breeze to offer some relief from the heat. Belowdecks, the stifling heat and humidity was almost unbearable, worsened by the smells of unwashed men and stale air in the cramped, dark quarters. For soldiers used to the cooler weather of Europe, the late summer heat was almost more than they could stand.

The heat didn’t bother Johann as much as it did the older soldiers, some of whom stared out at the shore sullenly. To them, landfall meant marching and fighting. But for Johann, after the long sea voyage where they had endured storms and seasickness in the cramped quarters, the fresh land smell carried on the breeze was almost intoxicating. He could smell trees, and hay in the fields, and even the smell of the corn that grew tall on the shore. The subtropical growing conditions made it all seem so very different from his home in Germany.

“Come out of that sun, boy,” said one of the Hessians, a man named Wiest. “You will get sun stroke before we march a step.”

“How soon do you think we will go ashore?” Johann asked the older Hessian, who was part of a group of nearby soldiers. They all spoke their native German.

“Why are you so eager?” Wiest shook his head. “We will only have to march many miles in this heat, you know, chasing more of these American rebels.”

Johann knew that was probably true, but he didn’t care. He was so sick of this ship and the terrible food. He longed for some fresh meat and perhaps even some fruit once they reached shore.

Another one of the Hessians, a man named Blutzer, studied the shore appraisingly. There was always a kind of anger simmering just below the surface with Blutzer—not at any particular person, but at the order of the world. “It looks like good country,” he announced. “Better than all that cold and snow back home. Perhaps I will stay here.”

Wiest scowled. “Don’t let one of the officers hear you say that. You know what happens to deserters.”

Blutzer nodded toward the vast shore before them. As usual, his voice had quickly taken on an angry tone. “How would they even find me in all of that?”

He would not have been the first to speak openly of desertion. After all, many of the Hessians were not in uniform by choice. They had been rounded up by press gangs that roved the countryside, catching unsuspecting young men and forcing them into service. This is just what had happened to Johann. He had found himself in uniform before he could even say goodbye to his family. The poor pay and harsh conditions had caused more than one soldier to desert. The consequences of being caught were severe because there was only one punishment—execution.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard his name shouted by an English voice, “Johann!”

Looking around, he recognized Captain Ferguson, one of the British officers sailing with them. As advisors to the Hessian officers, the handful of British officers had almost no duties to perform and were simply passengers on the ship. Some of the Hessians grumbled that this was because the British didn’t trust them. 

The young captain had taken Johann on as a servant during the voyage, having lost his previous servant to a shipboard fever. 

It turned out that the captain was far more easygoing than the Hessian sergeants or officers, which was just fine with Johann. He had gladly blackened the officer’s fancy boots and brushed his bright red uniform coat clean each day. Ferguson often spent much of his spare time in shooting practice, firing a special target rifle at a small barrel bobbing in the waves. Sometimes, one of Johann’s chores was to clean the rifle.

His servant duties had even given Johann a respite from the cramped quarters below deck because Captain Ferguson often wanted him nearby to carry out some errand. There had even been a few nights when the British officer had slept on deck to avoid his hot berth and Johann had been allowed to spread his own blanket on deck to enjoy the cooling breeze and summer sky above the sea.

He had learned that Ferguson was Scottish rather than English, a difference that seemed clear to the Redcoats, although the distinction meant little to a German like Johann. 

He liked the gruff but outgoing Scotsman. The captain had taken it upon himself to teach Johann a little English. Johann had progressed to the point where he could read a little out of the captain’s copy of the King James Bible. 

Johann was quick to learn and had memorized some of the verses, including James 1:25, But whoso looketh into the perfect law of liberty, and continueth therein, he being not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work, this man shall be blessed in his deed. 

For someone like Johann, who had been told what to do by someone else his whole life, whether it was his father or the local burgermeister, or now the Hessian and British officers, the idea of liberty resonated. Personal freedom for someone like Johann seemed like the rarest of gems. Perhaps this was why the Americans were fighting, he thought. The idea of an entire people rising up and fighting for liberty astounded Johann. 

“Good morning, sir,” he said as the English officer approached.

“It will be a damn sight better once we get off this ship,” Captain Ferguson said. “What do you think of the countryside?” 

Although he could understand the captain well enough, Johann had trouble putting all his thoughts into English words. He settled for a single word, “Beautiful.”

Ferguson laughed. “I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then. To me, it looks quite hot and overgrown. It’s not Scotland, that’s for damn sure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We shall be going ashore soon enough, and then you can see for yourself how much you like it then.”

“I look forward to it, sir.”

Captain Ferguson nodded in approval. “Your English has improved remarkably, Johann. I’ll grant you that,” he said. Then Ferguson continued down the deck to speak with one of the naval officers.

They were soon joined by another British officer, Lieutenant Richard Marwood. Thrown together by the sea voyage, Ferguson and Marwood had bonded somewhat because Marwood had taken an interest in Ferguson’s unusual rifle and had joined him in some of the target shooting sessions. However, the two officers couldn’t be more different. Ferguson was tall, broad, blue-eyed and handsome in a red-faced weathered way, with a straightforward Scottish gruffness that he used to mask a naturally kind manner.  

Marwood was a shorter man with skin scarred by smallpox. Where Ferguson was outwardly smart and earnest, Marwood was cunning and watchful. He had managed to keep his pale English complexion despite the North American summer sun. He was long-necked, with long bony fingers and a pointy chin and nose that gave his face a fox-like appearance. He wasn’t lean so much as scrawny, the sort of man who would have done well to help himself to another biscuit or two around the supper table. There was a quiet joke among the men that there was no such thing as a skinny officer. The fact that Marwood didn’t fit the mould made him suspect. Then again, even the officers had not eaten well on this voyage. Despite his middling height and build, his outsized meanness made him seem bigger than he was. The men knew not to cross him—he’d had more men whipped than any other officer.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering to teach this one anything,” Marwood said, regarding Johann with a sneer. “These Hessian oafs are a bloody waste of time.”

As soon as the lieutenant fell into conversation with Captain Ferguson, Johann made sure to rejoin the other Hessians before Marwood noticed him again. Although Johann was Ferguson’s servant, Marwood never minded ordering Johann to blacken his boots or look after his clothes. While Captain Ferguson gave him a coin now and then, not to mention an occasional kind word in his gruff way, Marwood was far quicker to give him a tongue lashing than a shilling. 

Marwood was stingy with his coins and Johann thought that he knew why. The few times that Johann had been drafted to brush Marwood’s bright red coat, he had seen that it was far more worn, stitched together here and there, and not nearly the same quality as Ferguson’s. Johann had always lumped officers together as men of wealth and prestige far removed from Johann’s own humble background. It had been an eye-opener to realize that perhaps not all of the Redcoat officers were the rich gentlemen that they passed themselves off as being.

Once, deep in his cups after dining with the ship’s officers, Marwood had even struck Johann so hard that he had knocked him down when he had judged the boy too slow in fetching him a light for his pipe. Johann’s lip had been swollen for the next two days.

That wasn’t the only incident that had convinced him to steer clear of Marwood. He recalled how during the voyage, several of the weaker horses had been pushed over the side. The poor beasts were starving, malnourished and suffering from the unexpectedly long voyage and summer heat. There had been no hope of nursing them back to health once they reached land because the army would need to move out immediately. The ship had been at sea so much longer than expected that they were running low on supplies and no more water or feed could be wasted on the weakened animals. Many were weak to the point where they would soon be unable to move on their own—no one wanted to haul out the heavy, dead carcasses of horses. 

Although it had been done out of necessity, putting the horses overboard had been a cruel business. Their shrill, fearful screams as they were forced over the side to drown still haunted Johann late at night. He had grown up around horses and knew of the bond they developed for their riders. To toss them into the sea seemed the worst kind of betrayal of these innocent beasts.

It also served as a reminder of how they might all end up floundering in the sea if there was a leak or a shipwreck. Johann was one of the few Hessians who could swim, but it wouldn’t do him much good far from land. A few men claimed that they had seen the dorsal fins of sharks that were following the ships, as if they could smell doom in the water.

While most had witnessed the spectacle of the horses being put over the side with sad hearts, or had found any reason not to watch, Lieutenant Marwood had stood at the ship’s rail, clearly entertained as the horses were forced into the sea. He had even tried to make sport of it.

“The chestnut there looks like a strong swimmer,” he said. “I’ll bet a half-crown that he outlasts the rest.”

There had been no takers. It wasn’t the amount of the wager but the idea of it. Captain Ferguson had left the rail and made some excuse to go below. One by one, the struggling horses had slipped beneath the waves. Marwood had stood at the rail, watching enraptured until the last horse had drowned. 

Johann pushed the unpleasant memory from his mind and returned his attention to shore. He had been speaking truthfully to Captain Ferguson when he’d said that he looked forward to getting his feet on land again, the sooner, the better.

He noticed that some of the ship’s officers seemed concerned about the fact that the shoreline had grown quite close, putting the ship within range of any American batteries. However, there were no defenses of any kind to be seen, just woods and fields. 

A few small boats had appeared, rowboats or small sailing skiffs, but they kept their distance. These Eastern Shore residents were curious, but they weren’t about to approach the British fleet. With a thrill, Johann wondered if some of the boats held spies.

Suddenly, the heavy air was split by the sound of a gunshot from shore. They heard the buzz of a bullet coming for them across the water. A splinter of wood went flying not far from the captain’s head, causing the man to duck.

“Blast these rebels!” the captain shouted. He straightened up, seemingly embarrassed that he had flinched—although that was understandable, considering that the bullet had missed him by mere inches.

“Are you all right, sir?” Ferguson asked with concern.

“Quite all right,” the man said, regaining his composure. “At any rate, they could not hope to hit me from such a distance.”

“Nonetheless, it was an impressive shot,” Ferguson remarked. “I hope that all the Americans don’t shoot that well.”

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Marwood said. “We’ll be going ashore and teaching these rebels a lesson soon enough.”

“Indeed,” the captain said, straightening his hat. The large, cockade hat worn by naval officers had without doubt made him a target.

“Sir, should we return the favor?” asked one of the ship’s lieutenants, eager to unleash one of the guns at the shoreline.

The ship’s captain didn’t immediately reply, but seemed to be thinking it over. He spent a moment studying the shore with his spyglass before lowering it. There was nothing to be seen but a wall of tangled greenery lining the shore. 

“I think not,” he finally said. “These rebels would like nothing better than for us to waste our powder and shot on them.”

The captain had a point. On shore, they could see the telltale puff of smoke that showed where the shot had been taken. However, not so much as a single rebel presented himself as a target. There was nothing to see there now but some trees and shrubs.  

Johann had done enough soldiering to know that it had been an expert shot. With his own musket, he doubted that he could have come so close to hitting the captain at that distance. There were many stories and rumors about the Americans being crack shots. Soldiers always told stories, but maybe these were actually true.

As he studied the spot on shore where the shot had seemed to originate, he was surprised to see the figure of a lone man appear. His stance seemed to be defiant and he held a rifle in his arms, although he wasn’t aiming the weapon at the ship.

Lieutenant Marwood had seen him too. After that first rifle shot, he had gone below and brought up one of the rifles that he and Ferguson often practiced with, firing at barrels and the like floating on the sea. They were called Ferguson rifles, after the captain, who had invented them. Captain Ferguson was a crack shot, with Marwood proving himself almost as skilled with the weapon after long hours of practice under Ferguson’s tutelage. Johann was familiar enough with muzzleloading weapons, but these weapons were something different because they were loaded at the breech. Compared to a muzzleloading musket, the rifles were faster to load and far more accurate. 

The rifle now in Marwood’s hands was already loaded. 

Ferguson appeared out of the hatch behind him. Seeing what Marwood was planning, he laughed. “You’ll never hit that impudent colonial at this distance, Marwood.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Marwood replied coldly. Johann had noticed that Marwood always seemed to have a chip on his shoulder where other officers were concerned. “In fact, would you care to make a wager?” 

“I’d hate to take your money,” Ferguson said, clearly still amused.

“I think you have that backwards,” Marwood said. “I’m the one who will be taking your money. But if you’re worried about it, let’s make it a small wager. What do you say to a half-crown?”

“Fire away,” Ferguson said cheerfully, apparently having missed Marwood’s serious tone.

The entire ship now appeared to be watching Marwood as he raised the rifle and set it over a wooden rail, carefully taking aim down the long barrel. On shore, the colonial marksman seemed to have no idea that he was being targeted—or did he? It was just possible that he had seen Marwood appear on deck with the rifle and had guessed his intentions. His stance now seemed like a taunt.

Johann held his breath. Finally, Marwood fired, a swirl of smoke wreathing the officer and blocking some of Johann’s view. Others on deck could see more clearly and a collective gasp went up, and then a ragged cheer.

Had Lieutenant Marwood hit his target? Johann strained to see.

When the smoke cleared, Johann saw that the colonial on shore was picking his hat up off the ground. 

Giving the British ship what must have been a rueful glare, he retreated into the woods and disappeared.

Marwood turned toward Ferguson. “Well?”

Captain Ferguson laughed. “You didn’t kill him, but shooting the hat off his head was worth a half-crown, and then some. Excellent shooting, Marwood.”

Ferguson offered him a coin and a flask, with Marwood taking a celebratory swig of liquor.

 The sound of gunfire echoing along the shores of the Chesapeake were not enough to spoil the summer morning for Johann. He stood at the rail, drinking in the scenery and the fresh air. The landscape filled with wildflowers, plus fields of corn and wheat ripening in the summer sun, held so much promise.

He would soon find out. The Hessian officers shouted orders, herding the men back below. They were being told to gather their gear and make ready, which could only mean one thing. They were finally leaving this hot, crowded ship behind and would make a landing soon on the green shores of Maryland. 

Johann couldn’t wait.