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“We will find a way out of here, Samuel,” William reassured his host, despite having no real idea of how to do so nor any real reason to believe he could find one. William had the advantage of knowing the history of the Siege of Boston on his side but the disadvantage of not being from this time. He reached out to pat Samuel on the shoulder, telling him, “Trust me. Between the two of us--”
He hesitated, remembering Samuel’s fireball of a sister, and corrected, “Between the three of us, we’ll find a way to keep us all safe … keep your sister, your wife … your child safe.”
They all went about their business for the time being: dealing with the one armed soldier, cleaning up the aftermath of the surgery, and more. William sat, stood, and paced about, hashing through his memory for important historical facts. He recalled that it hadn’t been just a rifle he’d brought with him from the 21st century. He retrieved his ink pen and a flyer of The Siege of Boston Reenactment, then -- not wanting the others to see it -- excused himself for some fresh air. William made his way inconspicuously to a small shed, found a shaft of light, and began piecing together the recalled events to come in more detail, scribbling them on both sides of the sheet of paper.
No matter what plan he began to formulate, they always seemed to hit a roadblock. Despite the Patriot incursion up the Bottleneck this morning, the British had firm control of the area, so flight by land was out. And to escape by water meant moving through difficult to navigate wetlands and swamps -- with a pregnant woman in tow -- or getting to more open waters which were heavily patrolled by small British boats filled with musket wielding soldiers. So, water was out, too. Helicopter extraction, William mused. All we have to do is call in a chopper … in two hundred years.
William sat back against the shed’s wall, peeking out through a gap in the rough cut planks. He caught side of a British patrol jogging his direction. He panicked, then calmed as they curved with the dirt road and continued south toward the Rebel lines.
I’ll think of something, he thought to himself. Between us … we’ll come up with something.
Of course, William couldn’t have known that someone else was already working on a plan to get him -- William alone -- out of British held territory. A pair of Patriot militiamen -- out of uniform to hide their rebellious leanings -- had snuck to the cabin to check on their injured man, a Private in the Massachusetts Militia. While one man spoke to Samuel and Keziah as to his prognosis and the chances of surviving extraction back to his family living to the south, the other went to kneel next to his comrade, since moved from the table to a more comfortable chair in the corner.
“He’s a British deserter,” the Private whispered to the soldier who happened to be his Sergeant. When the Sergeant showed his confusion, thinking the good doctor was the topic of conversation, the Private clarified, “The man in the strange uniform. I heard them talking. He’s one of them Hessians … come to fight King George’s battle ‘cause the English are to wimpy to do it themselves.” He looked to ensure Samuel was still engaged with the other militiaman, then continued, “He knows things … things ‘bout the British … troop movements … locations … somethin’ ‘bout a massacre.”
The Sergeant asked where the Hessian was currently, and after the Private shrugged, the Sergeant ordered in whisper, “You are to stay here … stay close, and keep your eyes on this man. I will have troops nearby in case he tries to run.”
“He won’t,” the Private said, reminding, “He claimed to be a deserter.”
They talked details for a moment, then as the Sergeant prepared to leave, the Private asked, “What are going to do ‘bout him?”
“I’ll pass word on to command, to the Colonel,” the Sergeant said, adding with a pleased smile, “And they’ll get word to General Washington. You’re gonna be looking at a medal for this, Private. Good work.”
He hesitated, remembering Samuel’s fireball of a sister, and corrected, “Between the three of us, we’ll find a way to keep us all safe … keep your sister, your wife … your child safe.”
They all went about their business for the time being: dealing with the one armed soldier, cleaning up the aftermath of the surgery, and more. William sat, stood, and paced about, hashing through his memory for important historical facts. He recalled that it hadn’t been just a rifle he’d brought with him from the 21st century. He retrieved his ink pen and a flyer of The Siege of Boston Reenactment, then -- not wanting the others to see it -- excused himself for some fresh air. William made his way inconspicuously to a small shed, found a shaft of light, and began piecing together the recalled events to come in more detail, scribbling them on both sides of the sheet of paper.
No matter what plan he began to formulate, they always seemed to hit a roadblock. Despite the Patriot incursion up the Bottleneck this morning, the British had firm control of the area, so flight by land was out. And to escape by water meant moving through difficult to navigate wetlands and swamps -- with a pregnant woman in tow -- or getting to more open waters which were heavily patrolled by small British boats filled with musket wielding soldiers. So, water was out, too. Helicopter extraction, William mused. All we have to do is call in a chopper … in two hundred years.
William sat back against the shed’s wall, peeking out through a gap in the rough cut planks. He caught side of a British patrol jogging his direction. He panicked, then calmed as they curved with the dirt road and continued south toward the Rebel lines.
I’ll think of something, he thought to himself. Between us … we’ll come up with something.
Of course, William couldn’t have known that someone else was already working on a plan to get him -- William alone -- out of British held territory. A pair of Patriot militiamen -- out of uniform to hide their rebellious leanings -- had snuck to the cabin to check on their injured man, a Private in the Massachusetts Militia. While one man spoke to Samuel and Keziah as to his prognosis and the chances of surviving extraction back to his family living to the south, the other went to kneel next to his comrade, since moved from the table to a more comfortable chair in the corner.
“He’s a British deserter,” the Private whispered to the soldier who happened to be his Sergeant. When the Sergeant showed his confusion, thinking the good doctor was the topic of conversation, the Private clarified, “The man in the strange uniform. I heard them talking. He’s one of them Hessians … come to fight King George’s battle ‘cause the English are to wimpy to do it themselves.” He looked to ensure Samuel was still engaged with the other militiaman, then continued, “He knows things … things ‘bout the British … troop movements … locations … somethin’ ‘bout a massacre.”
The Sergeant asked where the Hessian was currently, and after the Private shrugged, the Sergeant ordered in whisper, “You are to stay here … stay close, and keep your eyes on this man. I will have troops nearby in case he tries to run.”
“He won’t,” the Private said, reminding, “He claimed to be a deserter.”
They talked details for a moment, then as the Sergeant prepared to leave, the Private asked, “What are going to do ‘bout him?”
“I’ll pass word on to command, to the Colonel,” the Sergeant said, adding with a pleased smile, “And they’ll get word to General Washington. You’re gonna be looking at a medal for this, Private. Good work.”