“Like a muskrat.”
The man grinned. “What’s your trade?”
“I’m a timber man. Floating logs downstream out of the Hampshire woods is my trade.”
“Good! Come along then. Down by the water. Ike Baldwin has charge o’ the action, and he’s gathered his men there.”
Tom followed as he was bidden, down a rough path to the border of Chelsea Creek. Looking over his shoulder once, he saw in the sky a long streak of sunrise, salmon and silver-gray.
The Neck ended in a narrow strip of shaly beach, and as Tom moved out of the protecting reeds he drew his head down turtle-fashion. A British ball whined past him, and then another. Half an hour now, and it would be broad daylight. Whatever this seafaring operation was, they’d better get it over, and soon. Then a little group of men loomed up in the thinning mist ahead of him. Eight, nine, he counted, most of them no older than he. They were stripped to the waist and unarmed, save for their leader, a stalwart man in a blue coat and knee breeches who leaned on a musket. Tom and his guide approached the group.
“Here’s your twelfth, Ike,” said the brown-coated man. “Swims like a muskrat, tougher’n a biled owl, and is used to riding log rafts down the Merrimack. Think he’ll do.”
Ike cleared his throat and spat into the water lapping gently along the beach. “Have to, now,” he said. “We’ll be sitting ducks in fifteen minutes more. Cal and ’Lisha’s gone for a keg of pitch.” He turned to Tom. “You one o’ Stark’s men?”
“Aye. Tom Trask of Derryfield.”
“Good. Get rid of your gun and strip down.”