I nodded, and he took my beer away from me and drank it down. I followed him out the back door, down toward the muddy docks and then in and out of old, brick streets, marshy areas, tumbled shacks, rocky ledges, and other places I doubt many Bostonians knew existed. When we finally came in sight of the place we had concealed our rowboat, we saw there were guards along the shore, about one every fifty yards or so. Across the black water I could see General Washington's flickering campfires.
"You have a weapon?" he whispered, gripping my arm tightly.
I shook my head. He had ordered me not to bring any. "Just a small knife in my boot," I said.
"Have to do," he whispered. "Get rid of that Redcoat, and do it quietly."
I took me perhaps five minute to creep through the sawgrass and nettles until I was crouched behind the sentry. It seemed more like five hours, and I was sure he would turn and see me at any moment. Then I rose, coughed and stumbled over a rock at the same time. The man whirled, leveled his bayonet tipped musket at me, and yelled, "Halt right there, y'beggar!"
I decided to play drunk rather than dumb since it was closer to the truth, but the hair rose on the back of my neck as I stumbled on toward the soldier.
"`Alt, I said," he demanded, jabbing his spike in my general direction. I wove a bit, scratched my head, said, "Got to puke," and reached out a hand toward him. He raised his musket across his body to block me, and I bent as if I was going to fall and gulped, drew my little blade and drove it up into his belly, grabbing his face with my other hand to cover his mouth as best I could. I felt his warm blood on my hand, withdrew my knife and stuck him again, higher, just under his crossbelts, bending his back across my knee. He dropped his musket with a clatter on the shale and fell to one knee, trying to pull my hand from his jaw. I pushed his chin back and sliced across his throat. A torrent of blood splashed out, drenching my right leg, and I let the dead man fall, rolling down toward the lapping water as I felt the urge to vomit. I shuddered and spat; the feeling passed.
The colonel was beside me at once, handed me the musket, and we ran to the boat and dragged it toward the water, bending low. I was about knee deep in the swirling stream when someone yelled, "What's goin' on there?" I drew back the flint and cocked my musket.
"Don't fire," the colonel hissed. "Go get him."
I did not hesitate but ran directly at the man silhouetted against the starshine. The beach was wet, rock covered, and I slipped several times as I charged ahead, covering the ten or twelve yards in just a few steps. I faked a jab high, just as I had been taught back in Frederick, and when he blocked it, I swung the gun's butt into his groin. The man grunted, slashed at me, his spike cutting my cheek, and I speared him through the chest and drove him back to the hillside. He dropped his weapon and grabbed mine, gasping, "No, no, no," as I pulled out my bayonet and stuck him again. Black blood poured from his mouth, and I let go of the musket and ran, falling twice, back down the beach and into the icy water.
Col. Backus helped me climb aboard, and he rowed us back to the other shore, wordlessly while I tried to forget the torrent of blood the man had spewed at me.
