He shivered with the cold that goes before sunrise and tried to peer through the blackness and mist around him to see if the others were getting as restless as he. There were three hundred or more of them, New Hampshire and Massachusetts men, here where the Neck narrowed down. Not a torch, not a lantern, General Putnam had warned, and if any man felt the need of tobacco, let him cut plug and chew, like an old cow with cud. It was worse than being lost in the devil’s pocket, but even at that, it was better than sitting around camp playing cat’s-cradle, like they’d been doing for the past month. A man could get gray whiskers before his time, that way. Some of the lads who came a-running so quick after Concord Fight had got tired of the game and put for home already, but Tom hadn’t quite been able to convince himself he ought to go along. No, so long as Colonel Stark saw a reason to sit around waiting for the British to jump, he guessed he, Tom Trask, could wait too. He himself hadn’t been far from the camp at Medford, but he’d heard Boston was all ringed round with Massachusetts and Connecticut men keeping the redcoats shut up tight. “Can you hear me, lads?” bellowed a gruff voice up ahead. “Aye,” came a dozen shouts from the tall reeds around him, and an equally gruff voice added, “Aye! We be listening all.” “Volunteers! Old Put wants volunteers!” roared the first speaker. “There’ll be an officer come amongst you. There’ll be....” His voice grew fainter as he turned to deliver his message in another direction, but the words still sounded plain. Tom put his blunderbuss down and leaned on it. He spoke to the man who stood in the marsh grass just ahead of him. “Got any idea what this is about?” he asked. The other man took his time in answering. He was older, Tom sensed, and more heavily built. In the silence they heard shouting and the rattle of musket fire. A ship’s gun flashed on the dark waters of Chelsea Creek. “Yea--a,” said the man slowly. “I was down by the ferry stage awhile back.” “Was there fighting there?” “Fighting there was. The British ships firing at us, and our men waist-deep in water shooting back--even the General himself, Old Put.” “Did you hear what the volunteers be for?” “Maybe. You haven’t been here all along? You’re one o’ the reserves who come in late last night? One o’ Stark’s men?” “Aye. One o’ Stark’s men, and proud of it.” The man was chewing tobacco, Tom’s keen nose told him. He spat suddenly into the reeds, his own mouth tasting rancid. “Likely some day you may have something to be proud of. You done no more yet than anyone else, as I can see.” Tom ignored the rebuke. “Volunteers now,” he murmured. “If I knew what ’twas about, likely I might take a notion to go.” “Likely they wouldn’t want you,” sneered the older man. “If I was Putnam--which I ain’t--I’d give the job to one o’ the Essex County boys.” “Why?”