At length, Cross Harbor received word to furnish our quota of soldiers to send north to strengthen Albany, and I reported to the town’s officials.

Our colonial militias operated very much like the trained bands in Scotland—able-bodied men above the age of sixteen were required to meet for training every year, and muster when their officers did call them to, and make themselves available to watch and ward and guard the town and countryside if enemies did threaten.

Some people were exempt. Enslaved men did not serve in the militias, nor did servants, and there were certain professions, such as schoolmasters, who also were not obligated, but most other men in the community stood with me on the field that day.

Among them was a barrel-chested, fair-haired man who stood at least a head above the rest of us, and stepped up to be counted when the captain called out, “Wilde?”

The captain had not been long in Cross Harbor, and knew few of us. In fact, there’d been a change all through our town the past few months. We’d not escaped the revolution—when the word had reached us that King James was overthrown, there’d been rebellion here as well. The governor was seized at Boston and imprisoned, and in New York City the mob rioted and took the fort and overturned the government, while all across the province countless ministers and magistrates and military officers were turned out and replaced with those whose loyalty lay firmly with King William and Queen Mary.

Our new captain, from his Dutch last name, was likely to be overjoyed to see a Dutch prince crowned the king of England, which would safeguard the religion and prestige of all his countrymen still living in this province they’d once held as their own colony, before the English took it from them.

The captain, seated at a campaign table that was set upon the field with a full list of all our names upon it, looked a long way up at Jacob Wilde, who with the broad strap of his bandolier slung over his broad chest and shoulder looked more like a pirate than a soldier.

“That’s an ancient-looking musket,” said the captain.

“It did serve my father well enough at Braddock Down. I reckon it will serve me now.”

The captain looked at him more narrowly. “At Braddock Down? I’ve read about that battle. Tell me, did your father fight for Cromwell’s parliament, or for the Stewart king who lost his head?”

Wilde was too clever to be led into revealing his own family’s leanings in these troubled times. He only said, “My father fought for what was right.”

The captain had to be content with that, and having run through the remainder of the questions, made a mark beside Wilde’s name and let him pass, and called me. “Williamson?” As I stepped up, he looked down at his list and frowned. “Would you be Adam Williamson, or Peter?”

Before I could answer, his lieutenant leaned in with a look of quick apology at me. “That’s Adam, sir. You see this note here, in the margin? Peter Williamson, the father, he donated a new flag to our militia company and earned himself the right to be exempt from service.”