As I was helping Lt. Steele down the gangway to the dock, I asked him, “Is the hardest part your wounded hand?”

“No, the hardest part of this whole affair for me was lying in the snow at the second barricade on Sault-au-Matelot watching Captain Morgan being forced to surrender. Did you see that?”

“No, I was wounded and pulled from the street before that.”

“We were completely overrun. His back was against the wall with nothing more than a short sword to wield. With twenty British muskets pointed at his chest, a Redcoat officer repeatedly demanded his sword, to which the captain said, “Come and take it if you have the nerve.”

“Did they kill my captain?”

“He saw a priest among those gathered round and said to him, ‘I give my sword to you; but not a scoundrel of these cowards shall take it out of my hands!’ Of all the men I’ve known in this war, none exceed Captain Morgan in my eyes.”

I knew then my adventures with Daniel Morgan were not at an end.

Marie and I accept an offered carriage ride to Wolfe’s Tavern.

Over dinner, we discuss our options. Everyone we have talked to since arriving at Gardinerston has told us there is little point in going on to Cambridge since the entire Continental Army is now in New York. It’s a place where her father’s company has offices.

Marie and I are talking about just that when in walks—or more accurately limps—Sgt. Steven Cady, the dragoon commander with whom I spent so much time here before the Arnold Expedition departed for Canada. He is not in uniform.

I rose, introduced him to Marie, invited him to join us for dinner, and asked him how he was injured.

“After the Arnold Expedition departed Newburyport, my squad of dragoons was assigned to the Life Guards, a new unit, mostly Marylanders, who have the responsibility for protecting His Excellency, General Washington, from harm.”

Two weeks ago, as General Washington’s headquarters staff was preparing to move down the turnpike toward New York City, my squad was ordered to reconnoiter the route, and a group of about fifty Tory bastards ambushed us. I took one of their musket balls in my left leg. Worse though, it passed straight through my calf and killed my great stallion. I’m now on thirty days of leave, waiting for the hole to heal.”

At this I pulled out of my pocket the .75-caliber ball Dr. Foucault cut out of my head, showed it to him and said, “Was it one like this?” and showed it to him, and he nodded.