The late afternoon sun cast slanting shadows through the thick forest, illuminating the knot of tired and travel-stained refugees. The man in the lead suddenly stopped and threw up his hand, signaling an urgent warning to the others. They halted in their tracks, as fearful and skittish as a bunch of squirrels in the shadow of a passing hawk. Two men detached themselves from the main group and moved forward, slowly and cautiously, their every sense awakened by the hint of some unseen peril. Fifty yards ahead, they paused to listen. Other than the faint, watery rippling of the nearby river, the only sound was the wind, but when it shifted and came from the south, it carried with it the smell of wood smoke and horse dung.

The younger of the two men handed his well-used doglock musket to his companion, motioned for him to remain hidden, and then moved cautiously forward. Once he had approached to within a musket shot of his objective, he stepped out of his scuffed and cracked and buckled shoes, exposing grimy toes thrust forlornly through the broken seams of worn and filthy stockings. He crept ahead silently, bent at the waist like an aged man, shifting his foot whenever a leaf or stick threatened to snap and betray his presence.

After closing to within pistol shot of the strange camp, he sank to the ground and slithered forward. He halted behind the remains of a once stately oak, where he paused, listening for sounds, or sights, or smells that warned of danger.

Satisfied that his approach had remained undetected, he rose to his elbows and peered across the decaying remains of the ancient tree. He found that he could look directly into the camp of strangers that now lay no more than a stone's throw away. There were three white men in the camp. Dressed in buckskin trousers and dark green jackets, they moved indolently about the campsite, preparing it for the night. The jackets were cut short and sported light green lapels along with red collars and cuffs. He smiled. These were Provincial Troops, King's men, like himself.

The wind shifted, carrying the sounds and smells of civilization to him; the ring of metal striking metal sounded unnaturally loud and out of place in this wooded wilderness. He could smell the sweet scent of gun oil, the tanginess of sweat.

"Watch that noise, Jacob!" one of the uniformed men in the camp cautioned a tall, giant of a man. The large, boyish-faced individual gave him a penitent smile as his only answer. He moved more carefully as he continued to unwrap the leather padding from a copper pot. The copper caught the sun as he moved and flashed brightly burnished tattoos of reflected sunlight into the surrounding forest. The flashes caught the eye of the other soldier who frowned and shook his head, but said nothing.

On the far side of the camp, two Cherokee warriors, stripped to breechcloths, stood at the edge of the Savannah River with their backs to him. As he watched, the right arm of one drew back and shot forward in a single, smoothly flowing movement, driving a sharpened shaft into the river. Both men laughed as he drew a struggling fish out of the water and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it from the end of his makeshift spear onto the river's bank where it plopped onto the ground alongside three previous catches.

Handing the spear to his companion, the fisherman spoke quickly in his own language and smiled. The words were foreign, but their inflection contained the unmistakable sounds of challenge. The second man took the weapon and waded knee-deep into the river, searching for a target.

The erstwhile spy rose cautiously to his knees. Being careful to remain behind the protective cover of the fallen tree, he hailed the camp through cupped hands.

"God save the King!" he shouted. "And God bless Loyal Americans!"

His words spurred the camp into a flurry of activity. With silent, disciplined grace, the men melted into the foliage of the surrounding forest. The sharp Click! Click! of muskets being drawn to the full-cock position were the only sounds that their movements produced. Half a minute passed in eerie silence as both sides appraised the situation.

"Advance and be recognized!" one of the soldiers called from his hiding place near the bank of the river.

Cautiously, the intruder stepped from behind the fallen oak. He held his hands out, well away from his sides.

"Who are you?" the soldier shouted.

"My name is John Stokes, late of Ninety-Six, in South Carolina," he called back.

"Are you alone?"

"No. I've eight others with me, refugees. Driven from the colony by a bunch of damned rebels over a week ago!"

John heard the men conferring quietly, deciding what to do with this unexpected guest.

A decision was made. One of the men rose and advanced in his direction. He held a shortened Brown Bess musket at an angle in front of him, the muzzle pointed upward, but it could be lowered quickly and discharged if necessary. The man moved with deliberate purpose, alert for any sign of treachery. He stopped at arm's length from John and studied him for a moment before lowering the weapon and motioning for him to move towards the camp. The other men rose in response to some silent signal, sprouting from the forest floor like giant, green-coated mushrooms. They moved back in the direction of their fire, eyes wary, nervous at having been caught off guard by this intruder. The two Cherokees shrugged their shoulders and resumed fishing, unconcerned with the business of this strange Englishman.

"Have a seat," one of the men offered. John sat cross-legged on the ground next to the fire.

"Well," the man drawled, "what's your story?"

John looked across at the other man, silently appraising him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other two green-coated soldiers fade into the forest, moving cautiously in the direction from which he had come. He took a deep breath before beginning.

"As I said, my name is John Stokes. Until two weeks ago I ran a gristmill in Ninety-Six, for Mr. Thomas Fletchall. You know of him?"

The other man nodded soberly. "A good King's man."

"Yes, he is. I served under him back in '75 during the battle at Ninety-Six. Since the truce, I have been an honest, law-abiding citizen, ready to aid King and country if needs be. Last month, Zachariah Gibbs and Colonel Boyd let out a call for the Loyalist Militia. Raised six hundred men, they did. They owned that they didn't need me, so I stayed behind to tend the mill with the wife and young'uns." John stopped and looked seriously at the other man before continuing. "I suppose you know about Kettle Creek?"

The soldier nodded. "Aye, we heard about it. Bad tidings, sure enough. Some of the Rangers was there, but not us."

John nodded in agreement before continuing. "After Augusta was occupied, I renewed my oath of allegiance to the King. Then, directly after the damned rebels brought the prisoners from Kettle Creek to the gaol at Ninety-Six, they started howling to high heaven, blowing like a bunch of bleeding heroes about how they were going to clean the Loyalists and British out of the country. A few nights later, I woke in the middle of the night to find my house on fire. Outside was a mob of rebels, scum and lowlifes, you know the type. They came on like animals after a wounded beast! My own wife's family among them!" John spit into the fire and let out a short, humorless laugh. The soldier raised his eyebrow, a silent question. John laughed again.

"I don't know that I could laugh at that myself," the soldier observed quietly.

"You could, had you been there. You see, Andrew DeLoach was one of the ringleaders. I could see in his little pig eyes what he was wantin'. He was thinking that he could get my house cheap, once it was confiscated and sold at auction. But he made one mistake; he had given his brave and loyal Patriots too much rum to get their loyalty. To make a long story short, some of his brave lads set my house afire. You should have seen the face of that fat bastard drop, knowing he could do nothing about it but pat them on the back for their bravery, all the while watching seven-hundred-pounds worth of property go up in smoke."

John's story was interrupted by the arrival of the remaining members of his party. Escorted by the two soldiers, his wife, Egrain, stumbled into his arms, exhausted.

"Sit here love," John said, his voice heavy with concern. He held her arm to steady her as she sank to the ground. She sat with legs drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around her knees. Slowly, she lowered her head into her arms. Her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. Faintly at first, then growing more pronounced as the enormity of her loss crept over her.

John placed his hand on the back of her neck and kissed her lightly on top of the head. "It's all right now Grainy," he said softly. "We've found friends, our nightmare is almost over."

As the pent up anger and frustration of her ordeal burst forth, Egrain continued to sob. The other three women of the party began to wail also. Ruth Weatherford, the eldest of the women at age forty-two, stepped forward and grabbed the soldier's hand.

"God bless you, sir!" she cried, looking up to him with eyes that seemed to worship him as a savior. Her eyes overflowed with tears. "May we at least know the names of out deliverers?"

The soldier smiled down at her. "Certainly, ma'am. I am Sergeant William Hopkins, Captain Johnston's Company, King's Carolina Rangers. These two men are James Dobbins and Jacob Fenton, also of that worthy regiment."

Ruth eyed the men with curiosity. "What, pray tell, brings you three fine gentlemen to this wilderness?" From sheer habit she suddenly gave the men a quick curtsey.

Sergeant Hopkins presented her with a slight bow in return. "We have been sent by Colonel Brown, bearing dispatches to the Cherokee towns. Up north of here." He waved his arm, vaguely indicating a direction of travel.

"Colonel Brown?" Ruth's husband, Roger, chimed in. "The one what was tarred and feathered over around Augusta?"

"One and the same. And I'm bound to say that those so-called Patriots have rued the day they did that dirty deed! I almost ended up the same way." Loosening his stock, Sgt. Hopkins pulled it away from his neck, exposing a puffy red scar running from just below his cheekbone, down his neck, and out onto his right shoulder. "The dirty buggers almost did me in a few years back, but Dobbins here put a musket ball through one of 'em's head just as they started pourin' the tar." He jerked his head to indicate one of the other soldiers standing off to one side. "I pulled free and made my escape. They nigh chased the two of us all the way to Florida before we gave them the slip. Hey, what? James?" he directed his question at the soldier, Dobbins.

"That's the God's truth, ma'am," Dobbins assured her solemnly. "I've never seen such a fuss as the one those fellas made about that one damn rebel! A body would think that the buggers was growing scarce the way they carried on about him!"

"They're no way scarce enough for me," Ruth assured them. "God bless you boys, we were nigh on tuckered out." With a sigh she sank to the ground and blew out a long breath. "I'm a mite hungry, too. If you fine gents have any food, tired as we be, the three of us women will gladly fix up a meal for the whole company."

Hopkins presented her with a huge smile. "We've not been on the trail very long, so we're still well-stocked. We would all be mighty pleased if you would see to our meal." Turning his head, he called over his shoulder to one of the Cherokees who was still spearing fish in the river. The warrior answered back in his own language and leisurely forked another fish onto the bank.

"Thunder's Child says we'll have plenty of fish. I'll go get some corn meal and tea from the saddle bags."

While the women worked, the three Rangers, along with their four male guests, retreated to the edge of the camp and took seats on the trunk of the fallen oak that had only recently sheltered John. Playing the good hosts, they produced several short-stemmed clay pipes and a bag of tobacco. The travel-stained refugees eagerly accepted the hospitality.

"You say that you're heading into the Cherokee country?" John asked through the pungent cloud of tobacco smoke he had just exhaled. "We were hoping that you were heading towards some settled area still controlled by the Crown."

"Not any time soon. But we'll be happy to take you along with us to either Little Chota or Long Swamp. There are several families of Loyalists there already. That might be the safest place to go for now. With the way things are shaping up around these parts, there's going to be a sight of fightin' in the next few months."

"Oh?" John waited for someone to voice an opinion. When no one else spoke up, he asked, "What about the Indians?"

Hopkins said, "They're lukewarm. Some will help, some won't. Of course this fiasco at Kettle Creek and Augusta won't give them any faith in us. They don't want to get caught in the middle of a war that's none of their concern. But the families at Long Swamp have gotten along well. As a matter of fact, Dobbins and I have our families there right now. 'Course, we were already licensed traders when all this nonsense started." Indicating the third member of their group, he added, "Jacob here doesn't have a family yet, but Dobbins and me are on the lookout for some likely wench for him. I expect that he'll be starting one soon as we locate a strong, buxom lass for him. Ain't that right Jacob?"

Jacob's ears turned bright red. John realized that he had not heard the young man, no more than seventeen, say a word since he had come into the camp.

"Jacob's a good Ranger and stronger than an ox, but he's a might shy." Hopkins emphasized his statement with a hearty slap to the young man's muscular back. It sounded like he had slapped a side of beef.

Jacob grinned at the ground, embarrassed by the public praise.

"If you're interested in joining up with the Rangers," Hopkins said, "we'll be glad to have you. Your family will be safer at Long Swamp than anywhere else while you're out soldierin'." With a smile, he gave the young soldier's massive shoulder an affectionate shake. "How 'bout getting these women some more firewood, Jacob?"

With only a simple nod, the young giant jumped to the task.

Hopkins waited until he had disappeared into the underbrush before turning back to his guests. "Jacob's family was all hung by the rebels back in '77. He weren't but about fourteen, watched from the underbrush while they murdered his mother and father along with his eight-year-old sister. Hung 'em all." He shook his head in distaste. "What bastards! Me and Dobbins was leading a patrol of Florida Rangers up from St. John's when we found him, sittin' under a cedar tree, no more'n an hour after it happened. He's never talked much since we found him. I don't think he talked that much before."

"They hung an eight-year-old girl?" John's face mirrored the shock he felt.

"Yep, our company made good Patriots out of them. Lucky for us, we came along before they had a chance to get away." He shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately, that type of deviltry is getting more and more common. I'm surprised you folks got off with no more hurt than you did." He nodded towards the musket the tired group had dragged along with them. It lay canted against the tree trunk alongside John. "At least you weren't put out without some means of getting game every now and again."

John reached around and retrieved the musket. Laying it across his lap, he rubbed it affectionately. "This belonged to my great-uncle, Morgan Stokes. He carried it at Bloody Marsh against the Spaniards, and my father-in-law carried it against the Cherokees at Montgomery's defeat back in the French wars. Now, I guess, I'll be carrying it against our own people." John rubbed his hand plaintively across the stock of the musket.

"They're not your people anymore; you better get that out of your head right now!" Hopkins warned him. "Those Patriots would just a soon shoot you as look at you. That goes for your wife, too. Didn't you say that you had young'uns?"

"We do." John's lips compressed into a thin line. "Grainy's father grabbed them, wouldn't let 'em come with us. Said they was to be raised as good Patriots." John gave a short, bitter laugh. "Patriots? The rebels have some nerve calling themselves that. Aren't we the Patriots?"

"That's how we see it," Dobbins said earnestly.

Hopkins nodded his agreement. "I reckon they'd argue that we who honor the King serve a lesser form of patriotism, but if them damned rebels think they are Patriots, then what are we loyal folks? They're the traitors, not us. I'll be happy to see them all swing when we win this war."

The party arose well before dawn the next morning. While John sat up in his blanket, savoring the last of its warmth and watching the three Rangers scout the perimeter of the camp, the two Cherokees disappeared into the darkness, searching farther out for any signs of the enemy. They were gone for at least half an hour before they returned and nodded to Sergeant Hopkins that all was clear. Satisfied, the three Rangers moved about the camp, shaking the men awake and instructing them to be ready to move out immediately.

"Aren't we going to have a bite of breakfast first?" Ruth asked the busy soldiers.

"No, ma'am," Dobbins told her. "We'll eat later on, after we put some distance between us and this here campsite. It's not safe to stay put at dawn, just in case some enemy scout happened on us during the night. If so, they'll be howling down on a small party like this come first light." He smiled when he saw concern on Ruth's face. "Don't worry none, ma'am, it's just a precaution. If Thunder's Child and Robin say there's no one about, you can be fairly sure that there ain't."

Sergeant Hopkins knelt next to John and inclined his head to indicate the ancient doglock. "That musket primed and loaded?" he asked.

John frowned. "It is, but my younger brother smuggled it to us on the road out of Ninety-Six. All he could get from the house before it burned was a half a horn of power and a bag of birdshot. It won't stop anything bigger than a rabbit."

Hopkins, holding the musket by the barrel, studied the bore. "Sixty-nine caliber," he observed. Reaching into his cartridge box, he pulled out three paper cartridges and handed them to John. "These may be a tight fit, but you should be able to ram them down in a pinch. They're buck and ball loaded. Use the buck shot out of them if nothing else." He gave John a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "We'll be at Colonel Waters's Fort on the Broad River the day after tomorrow. He may have a mould for that musket of yours lying around in his store. Now, if you're willing to join up with us, he'll issue you a new musket, along with powder and lead from the supplies of our good King George III." He smiled good-naturedly and proudly blew out his chest. "Of course, you're not getting a fine uniform like this one 'til after you get to the regiment down in Savannah."

John nodded his head. "I'm leaning that way for the moment, but not 'til I get my wife and these other women set up safe, somewheres." He thought for a moment, then added, "This Colonel Waters, would that be Thomas Waters from Ninety-Six?"

"One and the same. He was appointed Deputy Superintendent to the Cherokees when Stuart died. He has a fort up on the Broad River and his own detachment of militia with him. You know him well?"

"Yes, and no. I met him back in '75 when the loyal folks met at Mr. Fletchell's home, just before the battle at Ninety-Six. He was about the only one that knew what he was doing. He served as a Lieutenant with the Georgia Rangers back before the rebellion, alongside my father and uncle. We could use a hundred more like him."

In response to Sergeant Hopkins's silent signal, the small party started north in the still darkness of early morning. Skirting the Savannah River, they moved ahead slowly, cautiously following seldom-traveled and ill-defined trails; signs of rebel activity were common. The refugees followed behind the mounted Rangers on foot. Leading the packhorses, they cast anxious eyes at the surrounding underbrush.

Late in the morning, the small column emerged from the onerous shade of the seemingly never-ending forest and into a small, sunlit clearing that contained a partially burned cabin. The smell of wet, charred wood hung heavily in the air. The three Rangers seemed shaken by the discovery, Jacob more so than the others. He appeared almost physically sick, his face paled noticeably, and he swayed slightly as if he would slide from his saddle at any moment.

Pausing just beyond the tree line, Sergeant Hopkins surveyed the scene, pointing out the signs as he unraveled the story of this small tragedy. He guessed that the cabin had been burned no more than four days before. It had rained heavily that day, probably the reason why the cabin had not burned to the ground.

"Were these some of our people?" John asked.

"The McDougals," Hopkins replied soberly. "There was five of them." He pointed to four fresh graves at the rear of the cabin. "I wonder who survived?" He spit and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Hope they weren't taken prisoner." Rebel treatment of their prisoners was notoriously unpleasant.

They halted in the clearing to kindle a small, smokeless fire and boil water to which they added ground corn meal and salt. The resulting Hasty Pudding would barely satisfy their hunger.

John ate without tasting his food. As he sat quietly, resting his back against a fire-scarred tree that stood at one corner of the cabin, a slight movement in the underbrush caught his eye. He jumped to his feet and assumed a defensive posture. The lock of his musket clicked ominously as he pulled the hammer back off the doglock, releasing the safety.

Alerted by his movement, the Rangers sprang into action. Taking cover, they readied their own weapons and peered across the clearing, muscles taunt, eyes alert, ready for a fight. The two Cherokees faded off, one to each flank, where they merged easily into the underbrush and began to work their way stealthily through the trees. Silently, they glided forward, all but invisible against the heavy brush that lined the edges of the small clearing.

Everyone waited expectantly; an uneasy hush settled over the clearing. A slight whisper of wind wafting through the leaves of nearby trees produced the only sound.

Jacob, who had taken cover just inside the empty doorway of the deserted cabin, suddenly grounded his musket and walked out into the sunlight. "Hold on just a minute," he said, shading his eyes with his hand. "I think that's Miss Judith out there." He cupped his hands and called across the clearing. "Judith! It's Jacob and Sergeant Hopkins, girl, come on out!"

Leaving his weapon behind, he moved towards her, halting about ten yards short of the wood line. Ever so slowly, a thin, young girl, covered in freckles and with flaming red hair, no more than seventeen years of age, emerged from behind a holly bush. She clutched a wicked-looking Scottish Claymore tightly in both hands, straining mightily to keep the point of the heavy sword turned upward in a defensive posture as Jacob closed on her.

The instant Judith recognized her deliverer, she exhaled a sigh of relief and sank to the ground, the sword dropping alongside her with a dull thump. Jacob moved forward and helped her to her feet.

He escorted her to the cabin where she leaned heavily against his muscular frame while Hopkins rifled through the pack saddles in search of food.

After gobbling down dried venison like a hungry wolf, Judith, speaking with a heavy Scots accent, told her story. A group of five men, taking shelter from a storm, had invaded the cabin four days earlier. Her family had let them bed down in front of their fire and fed them from their scant supplies. The next morning, as the strangers were preparing to ride away, a second group arrived. The new comers were hard-looking, angry men, driven north by the British advance on Augusta. They halted in front of the cabin, dismounted, and immediately began to ransack the cabin and corncrib, taking whatever they wanted and knocking her father to the ground when he complained. When her mother ran to kneel next to her downed husband, one of the men pulled a tomahawk from his belt, called her a "Damn Tory bitch!" and sank it into the back of her head. As if on signal, the other three men pulled pistols and murdered Judith's father and younger brother in cold blood. She bolted for the trees. They tried to grab her as she ran past them, but the first group of riders, who had sat as silent witnesses to the banditry, suddenly leveled their muskets and threatened to shoot the scoundrels if they harmed the orphaned girl. Without looking back, Judith had disappeared into the safety of the woods. She didn't return until that evening, long after darkness had set in.

As she ended her sad tale, she began to shiver uncontrollably. When the fit passed, she sank to one knee and held a pale, freckled hand to her chest as she panted laboriously, trying to regain her breath. Lightheaded, she swayed slightly from side to side.

"Here Judith." Grainy brought a blanket and pulled it around the girl's trembling shoulders. She beckoned for John to help Judith to her feet, and together they guided her to the bed inside the half-burned cabin.

Jacob followed them inside, his long, troubled face giving him the appearance of a loyal hound.

"Feels like you've come down with a fever, young lady," Grainy said, placing her hand on the girl's sweat-beaded forehead.

Jacob disappeared through the door and returned a few moments later with his own blanket. "Here," he said, shyly holding it out. "Use mine too, it's a might warm for me tonight. I'll be all right."

Grainy smiled at the young man. "So you can talk! Can you also fetch water?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jacob stammered. He continued to stand there, looking with deep concern at Judith's flushed face.

"Then don't just stand there blushing like a timid schoolboy! Go get us a bucket of cold water." Grainy grinned playfully at the hesitant giant. Jacob grabbed the bucket and bolted outside.

Grainy winked at John and laughed at the big Ranger's bashfulness. Her laugh contained that lilting, feminine quality so often found in a woman's laughter. John had always loved to hear it. He beamed down at her, happy to have heard it once again.

Judith awoke the next morning, drenched in sweat.

"You're fever's broken," Grainy announced, "but I don't think you should travel just yet. It'll be a few days 'fore you get your strength back."

"She'll need to travel today, strength or no strength," Sergeant Hopkins corrected her from the doorway. "With all these rebels being pushed northward into the Ceded Lands, this is no place for decent folks. It's not safe." He inclined his head in Judith's direction to emphasize his point.

"But she can't walk!" Grainy protested. "She's much too weak."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the sergeant said apologetically, "but it's simply too dangerous to stay here. The banditti will be thick as fleas around here now that the sun's up."

A quiet, "Excuse me," drew their attention, as Jacob stepped through the door. Hat in hand, he mumbled an apology for intruding on the women's domain. He cleared his throat. "Miss Judith could ride behind me." He cut a quick glance in Sergeant Hopkins's direction and added hastily, "She don't weigh enough to tire the horse."

"But you do, you side of beef!" Hopkins corrected him. "You alone weigh almost enough to break the poor animal's back." He studied the young man's features for a few moments before laughing heartily and adding, "Oh, go ahead and put her on your horse. Let Mrs. Stokes ride behind to support her while you lead the bloody nag. With us already having to nursemaid these civilians, we won't travel any slower with you slogging along on foot. But..." he wagged his finger to emphasize his next point, "...if I see trouble and signal you to mount up, they come right off. No dilly-dallying around. Understand, Private?"

Smiling broadly, Jacob bobbed his head in agreement. "Yes, sir! I'll have my musket loaded and ready the whole time. I wouldn't let no rebels harm Miss Judith!"

They trudged ahead, relying on the morning mist to conceal them from unfriendly eyes. Wary, on the lookout for any sign of trouble, the Cherokees and Rangers rotated to the front and rear of the little column, always alert for any sign of approaching danger.

Grainy sat behind Judith, who rocked lethargically in the saddle, clutching her father's Claymore as if she expected to have some bandit snatch it from her at any moment. A single blanket covered both women. Judith's protector plodded heavily alongside the mare's head, holding the reins and looking back often to check on his two charges.

It was obvious to Grainy that Jacob thought very highly of the recently orphaned Miss Judith McDougal. She smiled down at him and asked quietly, "You seem to set quite a store by Miss Judith. Did you know her before ... well, before yesterday?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jacob responded. "I've known Miss Judith for quite a spell. Her Ma and Pa often fed us and gave us a place to sleep whenever we were passing through." A quick frown screwed up his face. "They was mighty fine folks. King's People, like us."

"Do you think their murderers will ever be brought to justice?"

"Yes, 'am, I do. If me and the Sergeant don't get them, the Sheriff will find them after we win this war and make sure that they pay."

"I'm quite sure of that." Grainy smiled down at him. She, like Jacob, had no doubt the lawless rabble of low-classed rebels would be no match for the King's forces. Once they moved inland from Savannah, they would make short work of these petulant people who used patriotism as an excuse to prey on innocent victims. On sudden impulse she added, "What makes the rebels so cruel, Jacob? The King's people don't act like that."

"I can tell you the answer to that." The Sergeant's voice startled Grainy. She flinched, and then smiled over her shoulder as the soldier laid his hand casually on the horse's rump.

"The fact is, ma'am, they do it because they're scared. They're not sure they've backed the right dog in this fight. Most of 'em have been talked into it by someone hoping to make a profit out of selling our property if they win."

"But they won't win, surely!" Grainy asserted

"I don't see how they can. And they don't either, that's the problem. The Yankees up north have been driven from pillar to post. They've only won one battle when General Burgoyne blundered into a trap. Now, the same King's troops that have given Mr. Washington such a trouncing are heading this way. The rebels are scared. They should be. Why, I would wager that by this time next year, the war down here in the South will be won." He waved his arm in a sweeping motion to emphasize his next point. "Just look at this fix we're in. The rebels are thick as thieves around here simply because the army marched towards Augusta. There's been no fighting to speak of, and there won't be. They know they can't win, so they skedaddle up here into the forest, picking on those they know can't hurt them. Had there been a Corporal's Guard wearing the red coat in Ninety-Six when your home was burned, they would have prevented that mob from ever having formed in the first place."

Grainy shook her head. "If only that Corporal's Guard had been there!" Arching her back to loosen her stiffening muscles, she added. "Are we stopping soon? My back could use a rest."

"No, ma'am." The Sergeant smiled. "We won't stop 'til we get to Waters's Fort. That should be no more that four or five more hours.

Sometime around three o'clock that afternoon, the small group halted beside the trail. Sergeant Hopkins spoke a few quick words to the two Cherokees, who hurried ahead. He helped the two women dismount. "We'll wait here for a bit while our scouts check the road ahead. We're mighty near the fort and the chance of running into a group of rebels scouting around here is fairly good. No sense in getting careless this near to safety."

Twenty minutes later, a group of mounted Loyalists thundered into view. They didn't slow their charge until they were almost abreast of the waiting group of refugees. Reining in their mounts, they slid to a halt alongside the elated travelers.

"Welcome!" the leader of the group called out as he looked down on the exhausted refugees. He swept a gold-laced tricorn off of his head and bowed gracefully from the saddle. "Lieutenant Daniel Ellis of the East Florida Rangers. At your service!" he announced. With a mischievous smile he peered down at Sergeant Hopkins. "That's a mighty fancy outfit you have on Sergeant. Did you transfer to another regiment?"

"No, sir!" the sergeant answered. Quickly coming to attention, he explained, "This, sir, is the uniform of the King's Carolina Rangers, lately known as the East Florida Rangers. We've been renamed, and the good King George has uniformed us in the finest style. I also have a mighty fancy uniform that Colonel Brown has sent to Colonel Waters, along with his new orders."

The Lieutenant sat his horse, silently eyeing Sergeant Hopkins, obviously waiting for some further response.

Smiling, Hopkins cleared his throat and added, "Sorry, sir, he only sent the one. Said that even though Colonel Waters isn't technically a Carolina Ranger, he is the Deputy Superintendent of Indian Affairs, and the uniform may impress the Cherokees when they meet with him. You'll have to get yours in Savannah."

"I see," the Lieutenant said with good-natured grin. He reined his mount about, facing it in the direction of the fort. "Come along now, ladies and gentlemen, if you please," he said. "I'll lead the way."