Andrew jumped up from his leisurely floating at the sound of the nearby gunshot.

“I don’t know what your reverie concerns, Andrew, but it doesn’t seem to involve your mission.” Benjamin Tallmadge stood on the shore, a rifle resting on his shoulder. “Despite your impetuous nature, you’re obviously dedicated to the cause. Just keep your head about you.” He turned toward the house and motioned for Andrew to follow.

He did so, hopping into his breeches as he went. Once inside, he sat on a chair in the dining room to don his stockings and boots. His shirt had dried a bit and no longer stuck to his body, and he welcomed the coolness of the shuttered room.

Tallmadge held up a parcel of parchment tied in a leather strap. “Listen carefully.” He riffled the edges of the blank papers. “The only sheet that has vital information is the fifth sheet in the bundle. Do you understand that?” He counted from the top of the pile and uncovered the fifth sheet. “The strap is tied in a bow on the top of the pile. You must count down to the fifth sheet. All the others are blank.”

Andrew looked at him as if he were daft. “Sir, they’re all blank.”

Tallmadge patted his shoulder. “They’re all blank for those who should not see them.” He winked. “Montclair will know what to do. But in the event that you are stopped, all you carry are blank sheets of paper, perhaps to write love letters to that beauty who haunts your mind.”

He nodded, still not convinced. “Yes, sir.”

“Speed is of the utmost importance. I cannot stress the urgency in this missive. Do you understand? No stopping along the way to visit your lass. What is her name, son?”

He swallowed. Should he reveal her name? Tallmadge’s clear eyes met his. There was no subterfuge there; he was actually interested. If Mr. Montclair trusted him, he could. “Jenny Sutton.”

Tallmadge sat back. “Edward Sutton’s daughter?” He toyed with the tankard before him. “I’ve heard he died from his wounds.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tallmadge looked at the bundle of paper. “What we are about is a rebellion. Valor is required. If you love her, and I believe you do, you must protect her. She and her mother are probably being watched.”

“They are, sir.” He related the conversation he’d heard between Lieutenant Ashby and his superior.

“Then you must return at once. I will get you on a safe boat so you can return by Long Island Sound."

Benjamin Tallmadge carried an unlit lantern as he led Andrew through a forest of maples where the air was cool and the lowering sun was less severe. Dried leaves crunched beneath their feet as they walked in silence. While the leather pouch slung over his shoulder carried only the sheaf of parchment, Andrew felt its weight in consequence. He shifted it to lie diagonally across his chest.

They broke out of the trees and walked to the edge of the water where a rowboat was perched on the shore. Seagulls swooped above them and waves gently lapped the sand. The evening sun shot fiery fingers of orange and magenta into the wispy clouds to the west. Andrew shaded his eyes as he studied the water, wishing his insides were as calm. The two men doffed their boots and rolled down their stockings, stuffing them inside.

“Some call these waters Long Island Sound, some The Devil’s Belt. To use the current, you’ll want to stay toward the middle of the sound, but it could put you in the path of British ships and Tory whaleboats. They patrol for Patriots who sneak across from Connecticut or up from New York City.” Benjamin hefted the bow off the sand. “If you see or hear any approaching boats, row hard for the shore.” He pushed the rowboat into the water, Andrew hurrying to help.

The water on Andrew’s feet and legs sent shivers up his body. He welcomed the relief from the damp, warm air. Once the boat was fully in the water, he tossed in his boots and hopped aboard, spraying water inside. He adjusted the leather pouch over his shoulders, tapping the parchment within.

Benjamin lit the lantern, placing it on the seat and shook his hand. “Godspeed, Andrew.”

He nodded his thanks and rowed out into the sound. As he floated away, Benjamin waved a final farewell, turned, and disappeared into the woods. The hollow night sound of the surrounding water engulfed him in loneliness as the sun sank into the horizon. He had been lonely before, but his determination to find Jenny had pushed from his mind the luxury of dwelling on it. Now, knowing where she was, knowing he’d be near her again soon, gave him too much time to think. He swallowed and rowed harder.

In the ebony night, lit only by the rising half-moon, Andrew fought against the current. His shoulders ached and blisters sprouted on his palms. Every so often, he rested a bit, but the rowboat floated too close to the shore.

He took a hunk of bread and slice of cheese that Benjamin had provided, and sculled with one oar while he munched the food. He slaked his thirst from an oak canteen filled with cider. Refreshed, he resumed his rowing, though the muscles in his back protested. His hands burned as the blisters were rubbed raw.

He stopped, listening. A boat was approaching him from behind. As he turned, the lanterns at the bow of a small whaler flickered in the dark. In panic, he redoubled his efforts, but to no avail. The boat was closing in. The faster he rowed, the closer it came. His arms trembled with the effort.

“Stop. In the name of King George, stop.”

A rifle shot cracked, the bullet stinging the water just off the side of his rowboat.

The whaler caught up to his boat and pulled astern. A man balancing on the gunwale pointed his rifle at him. “Ship your oars.”

He did as he was told, and another man reached for one of them. Now his entire body quavered. Were these men Tories or Patriots? What could he say to discover their loyalty? Tallmadge had warned about Tories defending these waters against anyone opposing the Crown. But perhaps there were also men sympathetic to the cause …

“Gi’ it here.”

He lifted one oar so the man could reach it. They hauled his rowboat in, secured it, and pulled him on board. The captain, in dark clothes and a woolen cap, thrust the lantern toward his face.

“Who are ya’? And why are ya’ skulking through the waters of the sound at night?” His putrid breath forced Andrew back a step. The captain closed the space. “Speak, boy.”

“My name is Andrew Wentworth. I’m returning to Manhattan.”

“Ya’ look like a rebel to me.” He spat on the deck. Other crew members nodded, mumbling in agreement.

They were Tories.

“Let’s see what ya’ carry, boy.” He seized the leather pouch, yanking it over Andrew’s head, twisting his neck. Untying the strap, he opened the pouch and withdrew the sheets. “What have we here? Carrying messages to the Sons, are we?” He guffawed, and again Andrew recoiled at his rank breath.

“No, sir,” Andrew said, trying not to inhale the cloud of foul air.

The captain pawed through the sheets, turning them over, searching for a message. He squinted at Andrew. He stuffed the sheets back into the pouch and threw it at him. Andrew caught it before it went over the side of the boat.

“Gaw. What’re ya’ about, boy?” The captain shoved his shoulders.

Grimacing against the pain in his aching muscles, Andrew clutched his shoulder, opening a blister on his hand. He fought light-headedness, regained his composure, and straightened. “I am returning home from Setauket.” He saw no reason to lie. They did not know his reason for the journey, and since Setauket was under British rule—as was New York—he would let them assume he was a Tory.

“Setauket? Why were ya’ there?”

Thoughts—no, lies—ran through Andrew’s mind. Which would be the most convincing? Why hadn’t he and Major Tallmadge planned on his being stopped and questioned?

“My uncle owns a farm. He was in need of help with his crop.”

A man piped up from the back of the crew. “I’m from Setauket. Who’s yer uncle?”

Sweat prickled along Andrew’s spine. Damnation. What am I to do?

The captain swung the lantern toward the speaker. “Quiet. This isn’t a social call.” He turned back to Andrew, holding the lantern near his face. Closing the space between them, his foul breath whispered Andrew’s fate. “We could turn ya’ in to the British, but what fun would that be?” He looked back at his crew.

At that signal, they laughed, nudging each other and exchanging crude remarks.

He turned back to Andrew. “I think tomorrow will be a fine day for a swim.”

A roar went up from the crew. Shouts of agreement rang through the air.

“Yes, a fine day for a keelhaulin’.”

Andrew’s knees turned to rubber. It took all his strength to remain standing. He would not show the captain his fear. He stood taller and glared into the man’s steely gaze.

He’d never heard of anyone surviving being keelhauled.