By Thomas Wm. HAMILTON

                                   

Prologue:  Philadelphia, May 12, 1780

 

     "Tell me, Mr. Franklin, think you that we won the late war far too easily?"

     Benjamin Franklin eased back his elderly frame, and stared over his bifocals at George Washington.  "I have heard strange tales coming out of some battles, from Bunker Hill to New York Harbor, and beyond.  But I was in Paris or London for the duration of the fighting, and can tell little about the facts of the case.  You know this."

     "Aye, but I wish the benefit of your wisdom, and so I must request you to make a journey to a most curious site on Long Island.  They have many war orphans, and I am concerned for their welfare."

     "I daresay I know whereof you speak.  The rumors are out and strong."  Franklin made a theatrical groan.  "Cannot an old man get some rest?  Yet you presume in this case upon my curiosity, and so, despite reluctance, I go."

     Washington smiled.  "I will await with great interest your determination.  They have a most unique perspective on our history."  He paused, then repeated "most unique" with a chuckle.

Franklin was even more intrigued.  He had never known Washington to be a wit, or even an admirer of such.  And why such a barbarism as 'most unique'?

 

Chapter One:  Turn Back the Hands of Time

Thursday, April 30, 2009

     Sergeant/Major Larkin padded as silently as possible through the darkened halls.  It was well over an hour since taps, so he could legally be out, on his way to a latrine.  The problem was that he happened to be a long way from any latrine he would logically use.  Even a Sergeant/Major could get into trouble.  He passed the formal lobby, with its over-stuffed chairs, fancy, leather-bound sofas, and pricey carpeting.  Down the right side of the curving formal staircase to the landing.  The landing with grill work opening into a wind tunnel.  As Larkin knew from long, lonely late night hours at the adjacent switchboard two years earlier, the wind tunnel could be accessed by removing a mere half dozen screws from any one of the three grills.  At one end the tunnel led to the room where the band kept their instruments.  Larkin had only idle interest in the glockenspiel, drums, trumpets, and other noise making devices.  The other end of the tunnel led to a sealed and unused storage room.  At least, it had been unused until Larkin appropriated it to build his experiment.

     He lifted the grill, dropped into the tunnel, and reached back to pull the grill into place.  Now, if he were found missing, he would be regarded as AWOL.  If caught, he was definitely off limits.  Either one was sufficient to bust him off the battalion staff and back into ranks.  But virtually the entire battalion was scheduled to ship out Sunday afternoon for field training, and was not due to return until just two days before judging of the science fair.  He had a sockdoliger of an entry, unique and miles ahead of the usual cliched and politically correct environmental entries.  He knew one competitor, Cpl. Desmond, inspired by the five year old discovery that Arcturus had formed in a galaxy other than our own, was planning to present evidence of other stars formed outside our galaxy.  He hoped Desmond got entangled in a web of Population 2 stars to mess up his results.  But Larkin's own entry was not yet complete.  He had to work fiendishly to complete it.

     Sitting in the center of the otherwise abandoned storage room was a very strange looking construction.  Nearby were various tools, soldering irons, supplies.  Larkin wasted no time in getting to work on finishing what he hoped would be a generator of an impenetrable force field.  He worked for close to two hours, completing the device.  He checked his watch.  1:25 AM.  With reveille at 6:10 AM, he was likely to be well nigh worthless on Friday, but the job seemed to be complete!  A quick check to see if it worked--but Larkin carefully stepped back, not wanting to generate a force field which passed through his body.

     He pressed the button which should make it work.  Dials and gauges came to life.  He adjusted the powerflow.  With any luck, the field would not cut off one of his limbs when he hit the next switch.  He hit it.  There was a shudder, a thud.  Sparks flew from several places.  The device burst into flame at a few points.  Larkin cursed, and grabbed the fire extinguisher he had liberated early in his work.  

     With the fires out, it was obvious this device would never operate again.  Parts were broken, melted, fused, and otherwise rendered unusable.  He cursed again.  Forget the accursed science fair.  He went back down the wind tunnel, through the grate, and back up the formal stairs.  As he headed for his room, he ran into several people, all commenting on the strange shudder and thud.  Everyone argued as to whether Long Island was a known earthquake zone, but eventually all headed back to bed.  Larkin took a while to fall asleep, disgusted in his disappointment.

     Reveille:  Operating on sheer autopilot, Larkin threw on his uniform, and headed downstairs for morning assembly.  He took his accustomed position behind the battalion commander, Major Felbach, and to the left of the battalion adjutant, Captain Crespino.  Felbach ignored him.  Crespino nodded, and said, "Did you have your radio on this morning?"

      Larkin was so groggy from lack of sleep that he had to think for a moment before he even understood the question.  "I don't have a radio in my room.  Why, something interesting?"

     "Not unless you think nothing is interesting.  Our radio was dead, and so were the radios in the two rooms adjoining."

     "You two would provide a better role model for proper conduct at an assembly if you weren't jabbering," Felbach said without turning around.  Crespino grinned and mouthed what looked like "grouch" to Larkin. Larkin kept a poker face.  Felbach had been away when Larkin was promoted to Sergeant/Major, and had made it quite clear that he did not approve.  Nor was Larkin's record all that great.  For a couple years he had bounced so often between private and PFC that the Commandant had made a battalion-wide joke of him by commenting publicly that Larkin should get zippers put on his PFC stripe.  Just this past September he had been  promoted to platoon sergeant, and only two months later the Commandant had promoted him to Sergeant/Major and member of the battalion staff.  B Company second platoon got a new platoon sergeant, more geared for the strict discipline that bunch of crazies needed.

    Felbach checked his watch, and nodded to the bugler standing off to one side.  The first notes of the call to assemble were blaring out as a car pulled into the courtyard, narrowly missing the back row of the Band.

     The driver jumped out of the car, and yelled, "Have you medical staff on duty here?"  That question cut off the reprimand Felbach had been about to deliver.  Instead he turned, and ordered Larkin, "Go to the infirmary, and get the nurse."  Turning back to the driver, he said, "What's the problem?"

     As Larkin trotted away, he heard the driver say that as he was driving on the turnpike, a short distance away, he had come across a man crumpled on the ground, unconscious, and bleeding from what looked like a severe head injury.  Larkin ran faster.  The infirmary was a separate building located near the main building's loading dock.  It was marked with a large red cross painted on the roof a few years earlier by cadets working off some demerits.  Larkin found the nurse and her husband, a math teacher, just getting up in their apartment in the infirmary building.  He explained the emergency.  She grabbed an emergency kit and a cell phone, and followed Larkin in running back to the courtyard and the parked car.  She joined the driver in the car, which backed, turned around, and vanished as quickly as it had appeared.  

     Felbach called the battalion to attention.  "You've had your morning's little excitement.  Assembly for first mess at the regular time.  Rooms will be inspected by Capt. Crespino and the Officer of the Day during first mess.  Company commanders, you may dismiss your units when ready."  He did an about face and said in a lower tone, "While inspecting, Captain, you may think about keeping order in ranks.  Battalion staff, dismissed."

     Larkin shared a table with the Commandant for mess.  He loaded up on coffee in an effort to stay awake.  The Commandant's cell phone whistled.  He took it out.  "Gryffyth here."

     "Yes, Larkin was just filling me in."

     "The victim took a very severe blow to the head, minimum of a concussion, and possible skull fracture.  It looks like he was riding a horse along the road, and in the dark hit a tree branch, near the east end of the strip mall."

     "That's just one of several strange things.  All the power's out here, and so are the line phones.  I can't even get 911 to answer."

      The Commandant said, "Hold on," and called over one of the workmen.  "Get the pickup, load on a mattress, and go down to the east end of the strip mall.  Our nurse will be waiting there with a severely injured man.  Load him on and drive to the hospital."

      The nurse of course overheard this, as was intended, and said, "Wait, John.  One of the odd things is that the turnpike has vanished east of the mall."

       "The turnpike ends as though cut with a sharp knife.  Beyond it is a forest, with a dirt track that seems to roughly parallel where the turnpike was.  I think our patient was riding on the dirt track."

     "Alright," he said to the workman. "Bring him back here to the infirmary."  Into the phone:  "Anything else we should do?"

        "Take Sgt. Hardy with you," the Commandant told the workman.  Larkin, who had been following all this, got up and walked over to the tables where the troop ate, to find Hardy.  He got back in time to hear the Commandant ask if the patient was carrying any identification.

     "That's another part of the oddness," he heard the nurse say.  "He has sort of a leather pouch hanging from his belt.  There's no driver's license, credit cards, or anything else you might expect in it, except some very strange money.  A five pound note, four one pound notes, and several shillings, half crowns, whatever they are, six pence pieces, and the like."

     "The Brits have been using euros for at least a decade, and they abandoned most of the stuff you're talking about back when Thatcher was Prime Minister."

      "That's not the half of it.  None of the money has a date more recent than 1768, and refers to 'Georgium III Rex'."

      "The guy must have been at an SCA meeting.  The pickup will be there with your equestrian in five minutes.  I'll see you at the infirmary.  Keep trying to reach a local doctor on your cell phone.  Gryffyth out."

     The Commandant looked thoughtul for a moment, and then looked around the table.  "You are all under direct orders from me not to discuss or mention anything you may have overheard.  Am I clear?"  A chorus of "yes, sir" assured him he was.

     Following mess, Larkin was surprised to be ordered to the infirmary.  However, he had learned already that while Sergeant/Major was prestigious as a title, at times he was little more than a glorified gofer.  The patient was still unconscious.  A doctor Larkin did not recognize was examining an X-ray.  "There seems not to be any skull fracture, but you've got severe bruising along with the wound.  Why is this man dressed so oddly?"

     Larkin looked at the patient.  He was dressed like a character out of an historical painting--perhaps Ben Franklin style, although he looked a lot slimmer than Franklin.  Off on a side table was a bloodied hat, a tricorn!  The Commandant came in as the doctor resumed working on the wound, first packing it with antibiotic, and then stitching it up.  "How soon do you think he'll wake up?"

     "I've given him a sedative, so he probably won't wake up until late this afternoon.  Have you reached a hospital?  With a concussion, this head wound, and a cracked rib, he really should be in a bigger facility than your infirmary."

     "That's part of the curious events we're experiencing.  No landline phones are working, and cell phones reach only numbers in our immediate area.  No one seems to have  external power.  Since we installed wind generators several years ago, we have power, and a few neighbors with wind or solar that we've called have power.  Everyone else is dark.  We can't raise anyone on radio, TV, cable, internet, even the GPS is out."

     The Commandant turned to Sgt. Hardy, who was standing nearby.  "Sergeant, what did you do with this man's horse?"

     "Sir, since our stables are miles away, I brought the horse here, and it's tied to a fence post just off the parade grounds."

     "Good enough for now.  You may go wherever you're supposed to be.  Larkin, you're coming with me."  They went out to the Commandant's car.  Larkin got in the passenger seat, wondering where they were headed.  "I have a camera in the glove compartment.  Are you any good with cameras?"

     "I'm beginning to suspect you may have a chance to make some unique pictures.  Hang on."  The Commandant proved his reputation for slightly wild driving as he took a sharp curve onto a local road leading to the turnpike and the strip mall adjacent to where the patient had been found.  Another turn, and they were on the turnpike.  Traffic seemed to be nearly nonexistent, an unprecedented event.  They drove past the mall.  Larkin could see trees ahead, where the road should have been.  The Commandant was still driving until--hard  braking.  They stopped inches from the end of the turnpike.

     Several people were standing on one side.  The Commandant got out, and walked over to them.  "Has anyone tried to go into this new forest?"

    A fellow about 25 said, "I walked about fifty yards down the dirt track that seems to have replaced the turnpike.  All I saw were trees.  Oh, and a horse had relieved itself just about where I stopped and came back."

     The Commandant's eyes twinkled at the last remark, but all he said was "Very interesting."  He listened as the people present gave their opinions on what had happened.  Larkin nervously noted that one kept insisting the turnpike had vanished simultaneously with an "earthquake" about an hour or so after midnight.  In the midst of this discussion, another horseman came riding out of the dirt track leading from the forest.  He pulled up short at seeing the end of the dirt track and the crowd of people standing at the start of the  turnpike.  "Hallo!  What is this?"

     The Commandant took over before anyone else could react.  "I am Col. John Gryffyth.  My aide here is Sergeant/Major Larkin.  Whom have I the honor of addressing?"

     "I am James Paddington.  I am on my way to Brooklyn from the iron works in Patchogue.  I would hope to attain Brooklyn by nightfall.  What has happened here to our North Road?  And if you don't mind my saying so, Colonel, those are most unusual uniforms that you and your aide are wearing."  Larkin stared at Paddington.  He was dressed much like the patient picked up here earlier, from the tricorn on his head to the boots on his feet.  And we're the ones dressed oddly, he thought!

     Col. Gryffyth ignored the last remark, as he said, "You are in luck, sir, as for a short distance ahead you will find the road paved, permitting faster passage.  However, if I may be permitted, you certainly are not taking the most direct route from Patchogue to Brooklyn by coming through the North Shore."  

     Paddington touched his tricorn in a sort of salute.  "You have me there, Colonel.  I came this way because of a stop to see a young lady whose acquaintance I hope to improve."

     Gryffyth favored him with a momentary twinkle.  "We are all gentlemen here.  I'll ask no further on the subject."   Paddington removed his tricorn, and essayed a sort of bow from the saddle.  "Perhaps you could enlighten me on another topic.  Would you know the date?"

     "And the year?"

     Paddington blinked in surprise.  "'Tis the tenth year of our gracious king, George the Third, and the year 1770 of our Lord's birth."

    "Indeed, you are most kind to condescend to my foolish questions.  I wish you a good day, a safe journey, and your lady's favor."  Larkin stared at Gryffyth.  He had enough sense to keep his mouth shut, but he had never heard the Colonel speak in such stilted fashion, and the whole conversation seemed like madness.  Paddington again bowed from his horse, which with a flick of a whip cantered on down the turnpike.

     The Commandant turned to Larkin.  "Sergeant/Major, I am going to leave you here alone for a while.  I should be back with relief in an hour or so.  You saw how I handled this character.  Do you think you could do the same with anyone else who comes out of the forest?  And, also make certain none of the others hanging around here get involved?"

     "Good enough.  Your uniform alone should give you some sort of authority.  Before I leave, though, I must ask."  He pulled Larkin away from where anyone could hear them speak.  "Are you responsible for what happened?"

      "Me sir?  Why would you think that?"  Larkin's pulse rate shot way up.  He felt like he might faint.

     "Don't give me that.  You're the one person in the entire battalion with the brains to be able to do this, although I'm sure the consequences were not what you intended."

     "Sir, I was trying to create a force field.  You know string theory says that our three space dimensions and one time dimension are only a few of the existing dimensions, but the others are rolled up tight.  I figured if I could generate a field that made one of the space dimensions locally close on itself, I'd have an impenetrable field.  I think I must have goofed and rolled up the time dimension instead."

     Larkin looked wretched.  "No sir, my equipment shorted out and burned when I tested it.  And I don't have any replacement parts."

     "I doubt we'll find replacement parts available around here, if this really is 1770.  Tell absolutely no one what you just told me, because there'll be plenty of people who'll want to lynch you if they hear about this.  I'll be back with relief as soon as possible."  Gryffyth got into his car, and drove off.

     Larkin waited, while the dozen or so people standing around gradually got bored, and started to drift away.  After about half an hour, a wagon pulled by two mules came out of the woods on the dirt track.  The wagon had a poorly shaven, filthy man about 40 and an equally filthy, skinny boy of perhaps fourteen riding in front.  The back was loaded high with a variety of vegetables.  At the edge of the paved turnpike the mules paused, and the man looked up, apparently awakening.  "Hola!  What be this?"

      That's what I'm here for, Larkin told himself.  He stepped towards the wagon, noting a strong barnyard odor coming from somewhere.  The mules or the humans?  "I'm Sergeant/Major Larkin, temporarily in charge here.  Where are you going?"  Boy, if that isn't pushing the facts a bit!

     "We be headed to market with some early crops.  This be my son Jared, and I be Matthew Conroy."

     Thinking quickly, Larkin figured that there would be little food stored back at the battalion headquarters, since they had been scheduled to ship out in two days.  "Master Conroy, this may be your lucky day.  Our battalion is low on food supplies, and will, I suspect, pay you very well.  And what may be even more welcome, they are but half a mile from here, and the road is newly paved."

     Conroy agreed this was good news.  After getting directions from Larkin, he was handed a note the Sergeant/Major wrote from his ever-present stick pad.  "Ask for the Commandant or for directions to the loading dock.  The note says I directed you there and you should be allowed in."

     Little else happened for the next hour, when a car drove up, driven by the Assistant Commandant, Capt. Bacon.   A Company's First Sergeant got out, accompanied by a couple of hulking large privates.  The Sergeant carried his carbine.  "Okay Larkin, you're relieved.  Gryffyth said thanks for sending the wagon-load of food, that was using your head.  Now get on back, we're taking over here."  One of the privates started handing leaflets to the few people still standing around.

     Larkin got in the car, and they drove the short distance back.    On the drive he asked the Assistant Commandant what the leaflet was.  "Oh, we're inviting all the neighbors to a meeting in the auditorium late this afternoon.  The Colonel seems to think we have to explain something to the people living around here."  Just so he leaves my name out of it, Larkin thought.

     Back at the courtyard, Larkin got out of the car, and tried to catch the last of the morning classes he had missed.  At lunch he leaned over and whispered to the Colonel, "How did you pay that farmer I sent?"

     Gryffyth chuckled.  "We downloaded the infirmary patient's paper money into a computer, and then printed out copies using the color printer.  The thing's still running, but I'll bet we've already produced two thousand pounds.  Counterfeiting:  the first major felony of my life!"

     "Our copies are way beyond anything a contemporary counterfeiter could hope to achieve.  Even the Bank of England will never notice a thing wrong with our cash.  That farmer asked for two pounds for his entire wagon-load.  I'm sure he expected us to dicker, but I just handed him two one-pound notes.  You should have seen his expression!"  Gryffyth chuckled.

     Neighbors began arriving shortly before 5 pm, and were directed to the auditorium.  It comfortably seated the crowd of just over four hundred who showed up.  After waiting a few minutes for stragglers, Gryffyth walked on stage in full dress uniform, accompanied by the assistant commandant and headmaster.  As they were about to start, one of the teachers walked out and handed Rolandson a note.

     The headmaster rapped on the podium for silence, and then began.  "Welcome to North Shore Military Academy.  For those of you who do not know me, I am Leon Rolandson, headmaster.  With me is the assistant headmaster, Carl Mendham, Col. John Gryffyth, Commandant, and his assistant, Captain Charles Bacon.  Before we go any further, I would like to recognize a prominent dignitary who is with us today."  He glanced down at the note.  "The Honorable Joseph X. Casey, Judge of the Civil Court.  Would you please stand for a moment."

     "Judge, would you please join us up here?  For what I may have to say, your presence might be a help."  Looking very dubious, Casey worked his way to the aisle and went up on the stage.

      Rolandson resumed, "We invited all of you here to address the strange things you must have noticed.  Specifically, no radio, no TV, no cable, no internet, anything depending on the GPS is out, and those of you still hooked to LIPA are not getting any power.  Landline phones are dead, and cell phones can only reach a few neighbors.  Am I leaving anything out?"

     Gryffyth murmured a few words to him.  "Oh, and the roads out of this area seem to have vanished.  We'll address these and other issues after you watch a very brief videotape, all of which was shot this morning."  A ten foot screen rolled down as the lights dimmed, and they watched Gryffyth's interview with Paddington.  At the point where Paddington answered Gryffyth's query as to the date, there was a gasp and a mumble through the auditorium.  The tape continued, and the sounds died out as they saw the mule-drawn wagon.  Larkin's off-screen voice could be heard talking to the farmer.  After the wagon disappeared on its way to the school, the camera zeroed in on the point where the turnpike abruptly ended and the forest and dirt track began.  

     Finally, the audience saw a scene in NSMA's infirmary, with a man lying in bed.  The man's head was heavily bandaged.  A doctor, nurse, Rolandson, and Gryffyth all were standing near the bed.  The doctor was saying, "How are you feeling?"

     "That's what you get for running into a tree with your head.  Can you remember that happening?"

     "Do you remember your name?"

     "Do you know where you are?"

     "Do you know the date?"

     "The year?"

     Gryffyth stepped to the podium.  "I can well imagine what most of you are about to say.  Let me add to what you just heard.  Last night I was awakened near 1:30 by what felt like a minor earthquake.  When I went outside to see if there was any damage, I was puzzled at the sky.  The stars were correct, but instead of being just west of the meridian, Jupiter was low in the east, and instead of no moon, there was a moon low in the west.  I don't have any means of checking lunar phases or planetary positions for 1770, but the sky definitely indicated this was no longer 2009.  Let me now introduce Dr. Keith Rosenbaum for those of you who don't already know our distinguished neighbor.  Dr. Rosenbaum treated the injured man you just saw."

     Rosenbaum stepped to the podium.  "The man I treated, the man in the video you just watched, has a severe concussion.  His life is not in danger, and I have no fears about his recovery.  However, there are some distinctly odd features.  He has no vaccination marks on him.  He has a healed broken finger which clearly was either never set or set very badly.  And finally, I will swear that no dentist has ever looked into that mouth!"  Rosenbaum sat down.

     The room went noisily wild with people everywhere trying to speak.  After permitting a couple minutes of chaos, Rolandson took the mike and, with the gain apparently on full, called for silence.  This overrode the noise sufficiently that the room fell silent for a moment.  Taking advantage of this, Rolandson said, "Assuming we accept the validity of the obvious conclusions from all this, we face a number of problems.  First, food.  Your money is totally worthless, since it was issued by a country that does not yet even exist.  Second, you cannot safely tell the locals where we come from.  Their likeliest reaction is to think you mad.  You would not enjoy this century's idea of mental health treatments.  Those who are a bit more old fashioned might think you witches.   I trust we need not say more than the word 'Salem' to suggest you would not appreciate that reaction.  And if they believe you, we would be overrun by looters and by the British army.  Fortunately, we have some of the local currency, so for the time being, NSMA will take responsibility purchasing food from local farmers, as you saw us do on the video.  Now, if people will control themselves, I'll be delighted to take questions.  Please raise your hand to be recognized."

     Hands waved in every part of the auditorium.  Rolandson recognized the father of a day student at NSMA, and took him first.  "Our power is out.  What are we going to do?"

     "A splendid first question, since it must apply to many here."  Hands went down slowly as people realized Rolandson intended to speak for a while.  "NSMA gets its power via two windmills that were installed only a few years ago.  I understand some of the private homes in the area also have either wind or solar power.  The cell phone tower which has at least kept cell phone service operating  uses solar and wind both.  The country club offices for the golf course also uses wind.  We'll run lines from NSMA to about a dozen of our nearest neighbors, since we actually are slightly overproducing energy.  We'll also run lines from the country club, as it won't be in use.  That should power three or four homes.  The cell phone tower should easily power twenty or more homes, since there are very few cell phones using it, compared to what it was designed for, and the warning lights for low flying aircraft not only won't be needed, but would attract undesirable attention.  And every home with wind should be able to power at least one more home.  I think that within a few months we should have everyone hooked up.  As a practical matter, those who are without power now should use up any frozen or refrigerated foods first."

     Rolandson next chose a woman he did not know.  She stood up and loudly proclaimed, "I am Mrs. Florence Healey, a member of the Republican State Committee, and a personal friend of our member of Congress.  I demand you cease this nonsense instantly, and restore our power and our communications."

     "Madam, if I had the ability, I would have done all that without making all of you come here.  I have no idea how we were tossed back in time, but all the evidence shows it's real.  As for the member of Congress, that body won't be created for a few years yet, and your member won't be born for about 180 years."

     Rolandson pointed to a man towards the back.  The man stood up and said, "I'm Ken D. Land.  In addition to a gardening business, I grow things like Meyer lemon trees in my greenhouses.  If you aren't just goofing on us, I can help with some useful food crops."

     Rolandson thanked him profusely, and slipped a note to Vincent Avorna, one of the school's two science teachers, to drag Land out of the meeting and start working with him.  Most of the subsequent questions were directed to additional practical matters.  NSMA offered to open its classrooms to children suddenly left without schools, although they would be expected to participate in the academy's military discipline.  Work would begin immediately on hooking up those without power, and to providing an outlet for the sewage treatment plant.  Rolandson repeated Gryffyth's warning against discussing their origins with locals.  By 7:30 the meeting finally broke up, with Gryffyth asking any members of the National Guard or reserves to remain behind.

     Five men and two women stayed.  One man was a lieutenant in the Air National Guard.  Another was a sergeant in the 41st Field Artillery.  One woman was in tank maintenance.  The two remaining men were naval reserve petty officers.  Gryffyth addressed them, "Assuming we are correct about the time period, we are approaching a major war.  Your talents and knowledge will be important, even if there are no airplanes, tanks or other major technology.  We will be getting back to you as we develop our plans."  He dismissed them.  Four men and a woman left.  He looked at the remaining man, and did a double take.  "Dan Howard!  And how's our former D Company commander doing?"

     "I've decided I'm not really all that happy with college, but I guess that's not important now, anyway.  Do you think you can use me?"

     "Use you?  You're automatically back in your old job of armory officer, and we'll put you to good use in training.  We've lost most of our day students, but we just obligated ourselves to take on all the kids who came through with us.  If you're willing, at least until we train a few of them, I'd appreciate it if you would again serve as D company commander."   Howard indicated this was agreeable.

     "I'm Sheila Shenberg, professor of history at Queens College.  The colonial and early federalist period is not my area of specialty, but I have a couple books on the period at home.  Whatever your plans, I could be some sort of help."

     Gryffyth's response was to drag her off to meet with Rolandson.  There they had a long discussion on just what they could hope to accomplish.  After an initial discussion, Mendham, the Assistant Headmaster, and Bacon, the Assistant Commandant, were invited to join the planning conference.  All agreed that discouraging slavery and averting genocide against the Indians were desirable.  They were undecided on trying to include Canada when the United States came into existence.  Shenberg insisted that the Americans had already hopelessly poisoned relations with anti-Catholic rhetoric.  She did argue for trying to get women the vote, if possible.  The issues were left unresolved.

     At Saturday morning reveille Major Felbach read a series of announcements to the battalion.  "Plans for going to Camp Smith for field training are cancelled.  Normal weekday class schedules will run instead.  There will be no weekend passes until further notice."  This was greeted with muted boos and groans.  "All seniors will report to the library for a special meeting after first mess today."  After he dismissed the battalion Crespino asked if he knew what the meeting was about.  Felbach replied, "You'll find out at the meeting, just like the rest of the senior class."

     Since class meetings were almost never held, there was no assigned seating.  Larkin sat with a couple friends.  Col. Gryffyth and Mr. Rolandson walked to the front of the library.  Rolandson began, "Our regular commencement ceremonies will be held on schedule.  I realize that few of you will have your families present.  I'm sorry about that, but all of us have been stranded, and must make the most of our lives as they are presented to us."  He continued with a lengthy speech of encouragement, ending with, "After graduation, each of you will receive intensive training in contemporary life, politics, and habits, so you will be less likely to reveal yourselves.  Until that training is successfully completed, you will be confined to campus or the small area surrounding us.  For the future, we intend to break you up into groups of roughly ten or so and assign you to different colonies.  The same will be done with the next three or four graduating classes as they graduate.  If we're successful, we should be able to shorten the coming war, and alleviate some of the problems in America which would otherwise remain.  Yes, Lt. Darcy?"

     Darcy, a platoon leader in the troop, stood up.  "Sir, could I be part of the group assigned to Boston?  I"m related to the Adamses, and it'd be fun to meet them."

     Rolandson looked around.  "Is there anyone else who wants to be assigned to a particular location in order to meet relatives?"

     "My, uh, I think, uh seven times great grandfather was Rev. John Larkin.  He loaned his second best horse to Paul Revere, and uh, never got it back, according to my father.  Maybe I could help him get it back.  And his father's house was burned down by British troops marching to Bunker Hill."

     From somewhere in the room a voice muttered loudly, "Larkin, you ain't related to the horse's owner, you're the horse's rear end."

     Gryffyth stood up and glowered at the room.  "The circumstances are no excuse for a loss of discipline, gentlemen.  Demerits will continue to be handed out, and marching details will continue to work them off.  I would hate to see too many people busted in rank between now and commencement."  Felbach got up and stood to one side, where he could keep an eye on everyone.

     Rolandson again took over.  "Is there anyone else who knows of family in America in this era?  Don't concern yourselves with family back in Europe.  I don't see us being involved or making contact with them any time soon."

     After a few moments of silence, the commander of A Company stood up.  Rolandson permitted himself to look a bit surprised.  "Yes, Captain Green?"

     "Sir, I don't know anything about any of my family this far back, but the Afro-American students met in my room last night, and asked me, as the highest ranking Afro-American cadet, to ask what your plans are for us."

     "That's a reasonable question.  The Administration of this academy wants to achieve a few things.  One is to encourage as early and peaceful an end to slavery as possible.  We also hope to see the Revolution carried through with a minimal loss of life, particularly on the American side, and the Constitution adopted as easily as possible.  Clearly your group has a role to play, but life for you could be extremely dangerous.  We won't force any assignments on any of you.  However," looking at the rest of the group, "neither will we assign anyone to an area where their family is known to be already established.  The temptation to interfere or to reveal yourself would be far too great.  Getting back to Capt. Green, as an example of your personal danger, slaves were not permitted to keep African-sounding names, so you couldn't go anywhere using your first name."

     "Sir, I'm proud of the name Rakim.  I'm named for my grandfather.  He was a green beret and was awarded a silver star and a purple heart in Viet Nam."

     "That's all well and good, but you won't help your cause by attracting unwelcome attention, and you certainly can't go around talking about the Viet Nam war!"

     "I understand.  I'm willing to use a fake name as long as we know its fake, and work wherever we decide is best."

     "Thank you," Rolandson said.  "I hope the rest of our cadets feel the same way.  Our plan is that after graduation, your class, and future classes after their graduation, will get several months intensive training in the customs of this period, and the simple every day knowledge people are expected to have, such as reasonable prices, and prominent names.  You'll also get practice in concealing any foreknowledge.  Finally, you will be assigned one of the areas we have pinpointed as important.  Only those with excellent grades in French will be considered for Montreal or Quebec, and their post-graduation training will include a heavy dose of conversational French."

     "We're still working on those plans in conjunction with the history professor and your own  history teacher.  However, Boston, Hartford, several points in New York City, Trenton, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond, and Charleston, South Carolina, which in this time period is still called Charles Town.  There may be more.  Nassau in the Bahamas, for example."

     Darcy raised his hand with a big grin.  "If you won't trust me in Boston, I'll gladly volunteer to spend the next few years in the Bahamas.  Especially the winters.  I spent Christmas vacation last year there."

     Actually, the next three years were no picnic, either.  Purchasing food for nearly 800 people is not difficult or expensive in a time when one farmer produces enough for 50 or more people.  But in a time when one farmer produces barely enough for four people, food is more expensive and harder to collect.  Land's garden supply store in the strip mall was ransacked not just for gardening tools, but for seed stock of edibles, including radishes, onions, lettuce, tomatoes, and much else.  Over two dozen of the neighbors brought back with NSMA had their own garden plots, fruit trees, and the like.  One even had a few chickens in total violation of (no longer relevant) zoning laws.  Yields for all these were in every case well beyond those normal to crops or chickens native to the Eighteenth Century.  By the Fall of 1770 some crops were already providing useful amounts of food, and by the Fall of 1772 the displaced people from the Twenty First Century were providing almost all of their non-dairy and non-meat foods from their own sources.  Even eggs were approaching sufficient levels.  Plans were made to earn a bit of cash by selling surplus.

     Students brought in from neighboring families were integrated into the military academy's classes and structure.  The biggest change was not academic, but intermural.  The academy had teams in all the expected sports and a few not so common, but suddenly these teams had no opponents.  Basketball and tennis were not to be invented for over a century, and while progenitors of baseball and football existed, nothing resembling the modern game was played.  Nor were there schools in the area against which NSMA teams could play.  And a women's wrestling team, created from experienced athletes added to the NSMA rolls, would have caused little beyond shock and horror to contemporaries.

     Much of the first year was devoted to creating some croplands in the area transported through time and getting electrical power back to everyone.  Once that was done, the school's radio station went back on the air.  One year to the day after the time transference television was again available, leaning heavily on people's stocks of old movies and TV shows, interspersed with lectures on Eighteenth Century customs and some surreptiously created footage of people and events within a few miles of the school.

     Since ammunition was available for only 220 rounds per rifle, setting up a manufactory for ammo was also high on the list of needed items.  The school had two Operation Desert Storm era M102 howitzers mounted near the entrance with plaques memorializing several alumni who had died in wars.  The howitzers had long since been modified to be unuseable (just in case anyone had some 105 mm shells lying around), but they provided the models by which new simplified howitzers were to be built.  It was expected that by the outbreak of fighting in 1775 NSMA would have about 3000 rounds of ammunition for each of its 320 rifles, and perhaps as many as 22 functioning howitzers with a few dozen shells each.  Several of the neighbors had modern hunting rifles, and two had shotguns.  Some thought was given to sending graduating seniors to one of the handful of colleges--Columbia (still called King's College, and located near the bottom end of Manhattan), Princeton, William & Mary, Harvard, and Yale.  The problem was that all assumed a good knowledge of Latin and Greek for admission.  Also, it was felt that none really offered a serious education in terms that the 21st Century could respect.  Several students who wanted to become doctors, for example, found nothing acceptable for a medical education (hardly surprising in an era when bleeding was regarded as proper for treating pneumonia and a host of other ailments), and those hoping to be lawyers found the accepted route was not college, but an apprenticeship.  The two doctors sat with the school's science teachers and an industrial engineer from Northrup-Grumman.  Together they tried to work out a plan for making their own penicillin and aspirin. 

     Prof. Shenberg gave them part of their instruction, wrapping up with, "You will only get involved in important battles that the Americans would otherwise lose.  First of all, we don't want to risk your lives needlessly, and secondly there is the so-called butterfly effect, which suggests that something as minor as whether a butterfly flaps its wings can have a profound effect a couple weeks later on the opposite side of the Earth."

     Groups of graduates, following the training, were shipped out.  Felbach commanded the first group, which was sent to Boston.  Four of them joined the fun at the Boston Tea Party in 1773, while the rest sat it out.  Crespino headed a group of six sent to Staten Island, while other groups went to Brooklyn and Manhattan.  Darcy got his second choice, and established himself with five others at Nassau in the Bahamas.  Larkin wound up leading seven in Philadelphia.

October 10, 1770:  "Capt. Green, you and the fourteen cadets selected to go with you have completed the best training we can give to prepare you.  You'll also be starting with 500 pounds in British currency and a small amount of French and Spanish money.  How ready do you feel?"

     "Ma'am," Green replied, "I've experienced a few rough times in my life from racist attitudes, and I'm sure this will be a hundred, even a thousand times worse.  But we're ready, even eager to go."

     "We're not unrealistic.  A bit idealistic perhaps, but we figure we can do the job."

     "We'll try to link up with some local radicals called the Regulators, and try to influence them for ending slavery and cooperating on working for American independence."  

     "The current North Carolina capitol is in Hillsborough, near Chapel Hill, but Governor Tryon will be building himself a new capitol in New Bern, near the coast, in a few years.  We really don't know whether you would be better off setting up early in New Bern, or heading for Hillsborough."

     "I'm thinking of establishing a group of four, including one Afro-American cadet, in New Bern, and the rest of us going to Hillsborough.  New Bern may be firmly established as the capitol by the time the war starts, but I think we can be more effective in the interior.  I know we'll be separated by a day's travel time, but we can keep in touch by radio."

      Green's group traveled south, taking a hired ship from Brooklyn to North Carolina.  Once there, the commander of the group had to adopt the public appearance of being a slave to one of his real subordinates.  The four cadets to be left in New Bern planned to set up a business there, but found the first requirement was a bribe to Gov. Tryon for a permit to do business.  This took twenty of their pounds, while a license to establish a print shop took another thirty pounds.  Corporal Borden, whom Green had appointed as their business manager/accountant/treasurer, was at least as furious as Green himself.  Green reported the costs back to NSMA headquarters.

      The assistant headmaster was doing radio duty.  "I really don't see what you're griping about.  All the money you're carrying is counterfeit anyway.  It's not like anyone had to work to earn the price of the bribe."

     "It's the principle of the thing.  And I don't like getting involved in governmental corruption.  Do you think we should send a letter to the King complaining?"

      Green grunted in disgust.  "At least I shouldn't have to bribe anyone when we establish ourselves in Hillsborough.  Green out."

     Adjusting to the local culture, the bribe was paid, and the license obtained.  A fake print shop made to look like a contemporary installation was created.  A back room got the benefit of goods found in a forgotten store room back at NSMA:  a mimeograph machine, with a typewriter to help cut stencils.  In Hillsborough the group bought a farm in Corporal Borden's name, since a slave could hardly pull out hundreds of pounds to buy land and a house.  They began to get acquainted with the neighbors.

 

Chapter Two:  The Dogs of War

Eight months later.     

 

Half a dozen men came riding up to the farm house outside Hillsborough.  Fenwood, a black cadet who fancied himself as an actor, assumed the expression of a village idiot.  Capt. Green went into the house and summoned the nominal owner, Cpl. Borden, who went out and greeted the visitors.  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, one of the horsemen said, "We're lookin' fer a pack o' runaways.  Seven prime bucks, four wenches, and a couple o' pickaninnies."

      "Damn," Borden replied, "I had me a big buck and a prime high yaller gal light out on me jest last week.  I called 'em Jethro an' Jezebel."   Fortunately no one was looking at Fenwood, because his eyes popped, and he was very obviously suppressing some strong emotion.  He ran around to the back of the house.  Muffled laughter could be heard.

     "One hell of a lot o' darkies been runnin' off lately," said a second visitor, thwacking his thigh with a rolled up whip. 

     "Humph,  So you ain't seen no sign o' ours?"

     "'Spect you got that 'un right.  Well, have a good day, an' be on the watch fer more runaways."

     "You bet I will.  Life's hard enough withouts we get the expense o' raisin' a pack o' ungrateful darkies, and then they runs off.  Ifn you hear-tell uv a pair uh runaways named Jethro an' Jezebel, they bes mine."

    Green walked over to Borden and shook his hand.  "As of now, you're a sergeant, and the best damned actor in North Carolina."

     Borden shuddered and then started laughing.  "They must've been looking for that last group you liberated.  Let's not do too much of that near here, I'm not sure my nerves could stand it."

      As additional classes graduated, others groups went to Connecticut, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Georgia, New Hampshire, and Canada. Two other groups went to live in western New York, an area legally closed to settlement under the Intolerable Acts passed by Britain, to live with the Iroquois, and an area west of South Carolina and north of Georgia to live with the Cherokee.  The school's history teacher was half Iroquois, and had picked up some of the language from his mother.  He taught this and some details of the culture to the detachment assigned there.

     As groups travelled to their assignments, they checked in by radio daily.  Once on site, they generally reported every third day unless there was a problem.  Any close calls with revealing an anachronism had to be reported immediately.  One of the first of these came from Lt. Larkin in Philadelphia.

     "I don't know what the 2010 census would have shown for a population in Philly, but right now I doubt it has 25,000 people.  With such a small population, we keep running into the same people.  Of course, that isn't really much of a disadvantage.  One local I've gotten acquainted with is a very talented mechanic named David Rittenhouse.  His whole family seems to be oriented towards making things and being interested in science.  A few hours ago I ran into Rittenhouse as he was going into a tavern.  He dragged me in with him and started talking about something he was making.  I didn't pay much attention to his babble about gear ratios and the like until he said all this was to make a better planetarium.

     "Without thinking I told him we had one of those in a 24 foot dome back at my old school, made by Minolta.  I managed to keep myself from saying I didn't know planetariums existed so long ago.  He looked at me quizzically, and asked who was this Minolta.  'I thought,' says he, 'I knew the names of all the few who are interested in such things.'  I shook my head and told him semi-honestly I didn't take enough interest in it to know who or where Mr. Minolta might be.  I really don't know who, but I'm pretty sure I remember Minolta was Japanese, a nationality unlikely to be involved in trade in America during this time period I should think."

     "Anyhow, I asked him to describe his planetarium, wondering how he intended to project star images without electric lights, and he described an orrery.  He even included four moons for Jupiter and a few for Saturn.  I did not tell him Jupiter has over 70 moons, or ask him why he left out both of Mars' moons.

     "Of course, then he wanted to know what our planetarium looked like, so I described the little orrery we have sitting in the science lab, with a large yellow ball mounted on a metal rod and thin rods coming out for each of the planets--except I didn't mention it showed nine planets or rings around four of them.  I did stress it showed no moons at all, and gave him lots of praise for including them, as well as the gearing to give relative motions.  I think I left him assured that his so-called planetarium was way better than ours, and he had little to fear from any competition by the mysterious Mr. Minolta."

     Larkin was bawled out for the initial slip, and congratulated for the way he covered it.  A transcript was sent to everyone from the Twenty-first Century to learn from Larkin's experience.

     The neighbors who had been dragged along with the academy into the past had a role to play also.  Gryffyth and his assistant met with one.  "Mr. Pardell, I understand you were one of the people with prior military experience."

     "Yes, I was in the reserves, in an artillery unit.  But I'm afraid our howitzers and whatnot didn't have much in common with the cannons used in the 1770s."

     "I was Vice President for marketing of a small chain of convenience stores, Pete's Places, if you know them."

      "Of course, everyone's shopped there on occasion."  Capt. Bacon nodded.  "You sound like you're just the man we need for a very important job.  The nearest source of iron manufacturing seems to be in Patchogue, which sounds very strange.  I don't imagine anyone in 2009 ever thought of Patchogue as a a mining and manufacturing town."

      Pardell shook his head.  "To me it was just a rather underperforming Pete's Place, and the location of a wholesaler we used."

     "Good, so you're acquainted with its location, even if 1770 Patchogue looks totally different from the Patchogue you know.  I'm going to ask you to go there and bargain with the local iron manufactory to make the parts for new howitzers.  You know we've got two mounted near the entrance to the academy.  We'll disassemble them, make molds of the crucial parts, and have the people in Patchogue make them.  Since the parts will be disassembled, and we'll have multiple copies of each part made at a separate time, they'll never see the completed item or know what we're making.  Same can be done for the shells.  Think you're up to dealing with these people?"

     "A pleasure, gentlemen.  It'll feel good to know I'm being useful, and working in something like my old job, even if I'm not dickering on obtaining the best price for the makings of Pete's Famous Burpable Breakfasts."

     Gryffyth winced.  "Perhaps even a bit more desirable.  I tried one of those--once."  Gryffyth didn't notice his assistant winking.  Before Pardell could leave, they spent hours working on ways to simplify the howitzer and to bring down its weight, since the model they were using originally weighed 3338 pounds--rather excessive for horses to pull.

     Mrs. Healey initially looked like she would be a trouble maker, but Prof. Shenberg got her interested in providing uniforms for the troops so that Valley Forge would not be such a gruesome experience, in return for a promise to introduce her to any historically important people who might visit NSMA.  (Shenberg, Gryffyth, and Rolandson all devoutly prayed that there would be no visitors, prominent or otherwise.)  Mrs. Healey found a dozen sewing machines and volunteers to work them among the people from 2009, and set a goal of 1200 uniforms by the time fighting began.  This meant trading for buttons, wool, cotton, and leather.  Her group also provided fresh uniforms for NSMA cadets.  Colors were a bit off, but at least the day students (including NSMA's first ever female students) drawn from the families involuntarily brought into the past looked much like the rest of the cadet corps, except for buttons instead of zippers on their flies.

     NSMA would have had a commencement exercise on Sunday, June 5, 2011, except that they now were in 1772.  Classes were considerably enlarged by the academy having taken in as day (non-boarding) students the school children of all the neighbors who came back through time.  And for this reason, NSMA also had its first female students.  This led to some surprises:

     "Sgt. Palmer, you will be in only the second group of female students to graduate.  Your academic record is outstanding.  Your acceptance of the military was one of the best among the students forced to attend NSMA after the time slip.  And you have awards as our best female athlete and wrestler.  What do you see as your role in the approaching war?"  Prof. Shenberg was conducting the exit interview, backed by the Commandant, Headmaster, and Dan Howard.

     Gryffyth frowned.  "You should have learned by now that we don't interfere in areas where the Americans have an easy time of it.  And Vermont will be one of the easiest."

     "I'm not looking at the battles.  I read that Vermont adopted a state constitution in 1777 that  was the first to ban slavery and grant universal suffrage--to men.  I'm hoping that if I can spend the next five years there working on the women, I can get them to demand the right to vote also."

    Rolandson perked up.  "My grandmother was a suffragette.  I believe she got arrested a couple times."

    "Just the sort of thing I hope to avoid, sir.  Look, in our history, Wyoming was the first to give women the right to vote, in 1869, when it was still a territory.  The women's suffrage amendment wasn't added to the Constitution until 1920.  I'm hoping to cut at least a century off that."

     Shenberg said, "I say we let her try.  There's no harm done, and she may be successful."

     Gryffyth said, "Will this have any hopes of influencing the constitutional convention when we get around to that?"

     Shenberg shook her head.  "Vermont wasn't there.  In fact, they won't be allowed into the Continental Congress, because both New York and New Hampshire claimed Vermont belongs to them.  Vermont was the fourteenth state.  Giving women the right to vote, if Miss Palmer is successful, will have only a limited influence, but it's a start."

     Sgt. Mary Louise Palmer got her wish, and left for Windsor, Vermont on August 1.  Shenberg saw her off, and anyone looking closely would have seen a tear in her eye.

     Capt. Green held one of the few walkie talkies in North Carolina.  Sgt. Kean, a 1773 graduate of NSMA, was reporting in.  "The posse chasing your latest group of runaways is anticipating your setting up another ambush."

     "No, no, sir.  Sorry.  They're anticipating somebody, whoever is helping all the runaways, to have an ambush.  Seems like you've pulled off one too many.  Anyhow, the initial posse, intended to spring your ambush, will have only twenty men.  Two additional groups, including at least a hundred soldiers, will be riding to a flank and behind.  They figure they'll squeeze the ambushers and kill or capture most of them."

     "I doubt even they know, since that's sure to be influenced by the local topography."

     "Gotcha.  Make sure you aren't with any of the groups when they arrive at map co-ordinates G17, 28P.  Repeat, G17, 28P."

     Green set up a unique ambush for the groups tracking the latest 117 runaways.  So many people, even with the best of intentions, could not help but leave an easy track to follow, and in any case, by this time the escape route had been used by so many thousands in flight that most of the land route could be travelled by horse drawn vehicles.

     On the western slope of the Great Smokies, not far from where Asheville, NC would some day exist, the track pressed against the side of a four thousand foot mountain, dropping precipitously to a distant stream.  Flankers were impossible.  Below the trail it was impossible to hope to climb up should a battle begin.  Above the trail the ground was so steep a mountain goat would have been intimidated.  Along here Green prepared his ambush, with thirty men climbing fifty to a hundred feet above the trail.  Among them were five modern rifles.  Thick hardwood trees were scattered.  A mile further along the trail a second ambush was set, with another seven rifles.  In the space between, along the trail, Green planted some explosives.

     The ensuing massacre marked the last serious organized effort to halt slave runaways in North Carolina.  Green had two fatalities, neither an NSMA graduate.  The attackers lost 97 dead, along with almost all their supplies, weaponry and horses.

     Green directed his troops to round up the horses and scavenge the supplies and weaponry.  All were turned over to the escaping slaves.  

     In March of 1775, a month before fighting broke out with the Battle of Lexington, Rolandson, Gryffyth and Shenberg were carefully going over the reports all the various detachments had been sending back.  It had been stressed to Felbach that his people were under no circumstances to get involved with the opening skirmishes.  Their first move was to be at the start of the third British attempt to take Bunker Hill.  Gryffyth said, "Here's something very odd.  Generally reports are made by the local commander, but in North Carolina we haven't heard from Capt. Green personally since last summer."

     "Yes, and very carefully trained on how to handle himself.  I'm going to send an immediate message to him."  Gryffyth led the way to the radio room, and got the duty operator in Hillsborough.  "This is Col. Gryffyth.  I want to speak to Capt. Green immediately."

     "Captain Green, we haven't heard from you in so long we were getting concerned.  Are you aware the war starts next month?"

     "Yes, sir.  I've been around, I guess I've just been so busy going back and forth to New Bern that I let other people make the reports."

     "We have seventeen detachments out.  I'm certain all their commanders are busy, but you're the only one too busy to report for eight months."

    "Ouch, has it been that long?  I'm truly sorry sir.  I'll try to do better.  I promise, I checked all the reports you got, and had no changes to make."

     "See that you do call in personally.  Gryffyth out."  He clicked off the radio and turned to Rolandson and Shenberg.  "He's up to something.  We should have created a Inspector Corps to travel around checking on these kids."

     "A bit late now," replied Rolandson.  "Anyone we put into it now would be so junior to the ones in the field that they would carry no weight."

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

     Green heard Gryffyth end with "Gryffyth out," and a click.  He clicked off himself, and turned to the radio operator.  "Did you tell him anything?"

    "They're getting suspicious.  I should have worked out a way of reporting in while I was leading those groups to Arkansas.  Well, too late now.  With the war starting, they'll be too busy to worry about why I was silent so long.  At least I'm no longer involved with those treks to Arkansas.  We practically have a road for the land part of the trip, and plenty of people to act as guides."

     The battle of Lexington was past.  The drums of war were summing participants.  Colonists were being forced to decide:  fight for king or fight for country.  Boston harbor was ordered closed to all ships.  Washington, Sam Adams, Hancock were a few of the names on a long list ordered arrested and transported to London to face trial on suspicion of treason.  Governor Hutchinson of Massachusetts, who had been promoted from Lt. Governor in recognition of his handling of the aftermath of the Boston Massacre in 1770, was replaced by General Gage as Governor, and Gage was additionally named commander of all British troops in America.  The Continental Congress named Washington as Commander of all American troops.  Revolutionary troops began to gather outside Boston.

June 17, 1775:  Americans besieged Boston from Breed's Hill, while the British sloop Lively tried to shell them.  It succeeded in setting fire to much of the suburb of Charles Town.  Col. William Prescott ordered his troops not to fire on the advancing Brits "until you can see the whites of their eyes."  Brigadier General Robert Pigot commanded two British regiments which advanced up the hill towards the trench and breastworks the Americans had built, while General William Howe advanced along the shore until blocked by New Hampshiremen under Col. John Stark.  Beyond Breed's Hill, near the foot of Bunker Hill, fifteen NSMA graduates under the command of Major Felbach fretted in frustration as they could hear the sounds of battle.

     "Listen closely and understand this.  The muskets these people are using are accurate up to no more than 35 yards.  The American tactic is to wait until the enemy is just within that range before firing.  The British tactic traditionally has been to advance from that point as quickly as possible, first firing their single shot, and then using bayonets.  You should be able to fire off full clips of eight rounds with your M1s so fast that in the time they take to fire one shot, and then reload, you get off 20 to 24 shots.  Obviously we have a greater range than they do, so our small number should be the equal of a couple companies of their soldiers in terms of firepower."

    Pvt. Walsh, one of three former cadets to have been sent to join Felbach in just the past year, said, "So Major, why aren't we in there now if we're such hotshots?"

     "The brains back at NSMA feel it's better for the Americans to build up their confidence by creaming the first two British assaults.  Historically the third assault was a success because the Americans ran out of ammo, but the cost to the Brits was so lopsided, that they never again  tried to move against the Americans from Boston, and in fact, will evacuate Boston next March.  What we'll do is block that last advance.  It's led by General Sir Howard Clinton, and because it was successful, he was later promoted to command all the British troops in America.  So by stopping him today, we'll be doing a lot of good further down the line."

     With those words of encouragement, he called, "Detail, fall in.  Dress right, dress.  Left face.  Forward march."  NSMA was on its way to meet the forces of the British empire.

     The area around them was littered with other groups of American soldiers, from squads up to company size.  All were arguing whether or not to march up Breed's Hill and join the fight.  It was a rare group which had as many as two men in a complete uniform, and many wore nothing that resembled a uniform.  By contrast, the NSMA group wore battle fatigues--not something the Eighteenth Century had ever seen before, but with their odd rifles, garb, and loud cadence count, they attracted plenty of attention.  Several groups seeing the NSMA detail marching so smartly made up their minds and followed.

     Upon reaching the redoubt, Felbach scattered seven men to his left, eight to the right, at intervals of about six yards.  Below them they could see a hill with scores of dead bodies, all in the red uniforms of the British army.  Just beyond the foot of the hill the remnants of Howe's and Pigot's forces were being joined by a fresh regiment under Clinton's command, along with two companies of marines.  The men who had faced the first two advances expressed dismay.  Many who were out of ammunition began to withdraw.  Some of those who had just come up the hill joined them.

     Orders being called to the British soldiers could be heard clearly.  They formed their lines and began their third advance up the hill.  When still a good eighty yards away Felbach pulled out a whistle and blew it.  The colonials turned and stared at him, but this was the signal for NSMA.  They began their fire.  Sixteen rifles pouring out 20 to 24 rounds a minute at 2500 men massed together and marching up hill towards them.

     The third British advance was broken within minutes, and broken far more thoroughly than the first two.  Pigot and Clinton were both injured.  Eight hundred men, including General Howe, lay dead.  A group of about 400 were still standing.  Col. Prescott called to them, "I wish to kill no more.  Will you surrender now?"  

     "We will treat the wounded, and disarm the rest.  You will be given all the courtesies."

     Pigot cried, "Men, they have the better of us this day.  I would not see any more such brave fellows go to their deaths.  These colonials were once as British as we.  Perhaps they will be as honourable.  Lay down your arms."  He sagged back, bleeding from his left thigh and shoulder.

      Prescott waved his men forward, and strode over to where Felbach stood.  "Who the devil are you, and where did you get those demonic weapons?"