Fortunate ones had entire buff and blue Continental uniforms, inherited from father or grandfather or once worn by themselves--which was a proud boast--some were stained darkly, telling the tale of another war. Others had brass buttons hastily sewn on their everyday coats. Still others had but one button--a sort of badge--but these were great treasures, for did they not bear the inscription, “Long live our President,” and did they not have his initials--G. W.--on them? Their arms, when they started out, were as varied as their coats. Hunting knives, long muskets, spears made at the forge, of scraps of iron tied to oak staffs with raw hide, Indian arrow heads stuck into short hickory handles, and such like. But after all, the wonder was that they could get together any sort of suggestive garb, or cared to--New England being in such a fever of dissatisfaction over the war. Their mission completed, Lieut. Van Sicklen and Morgan returned to Burlington, and the day following this, Captain Dulaney rode his horse down to the wharf and, with many other officers, boarded the boat for Plattsburg. The leaky old sloop, used to convey Captain Lebbins’ “heroes” across, was washed up on Juniper Island in a storm of rain, and great was the anxiety concerning the brave fellows. A life boat was hurriedly manned and sent to their rescue--instead of finding the soldiers _perishing properly_, in true shipwreck fashion, the life-saving party found them celebrating their patriotism with Medford rum, high and dry on the island! “The wreck of Juniper Island” was the subject of many a song and story for long years in Randolph. Commodore Macdonough’s fleet was anchored off Plattsburg with fourteen vessels and eighty-six guns. On shore could be heard from the deck of his flagship, “Saratoga,” the Commodore giving orders, in that cool, calm voice--so loved by Decatur and Bainbridge--the voice that indicated at once courage, humanity and confidence. Nor were these qualities at all disturbed by the rumor that a “host was advancing down the lake to crush the Yankees!” The “host” was Captain George Downie, on his flagship, “Confiance,” with a flotilla of sixteen vessels carrying ninety-two guns. It was now the eve of a great naval engagement--the tenth of September, eighteen hundred and fourteen--the story of which has been told over and over for generations. Near Captain Dulaney’s headquarters, Morgan slept little that night; across the lake Burlington throbbed with flaring lights, and the town about him was wide awake. He dreamed waking dreams of his ancestor, the Turk, ridden by Captain Byerly, in King William’s wars, one hundred and twenty-five years before--the Byerly Turk, he was called--who had seen the glories of Londonderry and Enniskillan.