Sickened, and flinching as though the blade had penetrated his own bowels, Ethan dropped his head to the ground. He felt physically unable to move. Then he heard orders being issued: “Search all around here. Look in every hiding place. If you find rebels or see any swimming, shoot them.” Still at least partially concealed, he wiggled around to the other side of the huge tree, out of sight of the British. There, he found a hole at ground level, about three feet high and half as wide, through which he was able to squeeze his body.

•  •  •

Ethan Pratt could still see the British bayonet penetrating the back of his helpless friend, who had been lying on the ground, his hands tied together. Now Ethan lay shivering uncontrollably, his long and muscular body curled up in a hollow black oak tree, fearful of his own life and wondering how he could have left Kindred behind, wounded and defenseless under the magnolia leaves. Had he not known that he was trusting and naive, with confused loyalties that might cause him to reveal himself and surrender?

Despite his grief and guilt about what had happened and how it might have been prevented, he could not forget his own danger, and how easy it would be for him to face the same fate within the next few minutes. He had no rifle or pistol, only a knife that he always carried at his belt—an insignificant weapon if he was forced out of his uncomfortable sanctuary to face the well-armed dragoons who seemed to be motivated, even obsessed, with hatred and a desire to obey their commander’s orders without mercy.

He knew that his trail to the water’s edge was clear enough to be followed by a Savannah barrister, never mind men who had spent months in the Georgia woods and swamps when every day their lives depended on vigilance and the interpretation of sights and sounds. From their vantage point, where his tracks had entered the slowly swirling swamp water, they would soon know that he would be either on the hummock or still swimming downstream. If he, himself, were tracking a wounded animal, he would almost surely pinpoint its destination as the small island he had reached.

Water ran from his long hair down the back of his plain buckskin coat. He had lost his hat but was thankful that the leather thongs had kept his moccasins on his feet even during his escape through the water. The rough, homespun shirt provided no warmth but now seemed to wrap an icy blanket around his body. His right hand rested on a small pouch, attached with a loop around his neck, which contained his flint and steel and some now worthless black powder and balls for the rifle he had left behind.