“Because ’tis a seafaring operation, of a sort, and there be none like the Essex men for maneuvers at sea.” The firing from the river was steady now. “Maybe,” said Tom. “What is this operation that takes such a picked crew? I never see salt water yet will fight a man as hard as old Merrimack when the freshets come down.” “Volunteers!” sang out a voice nearby. A man, bareheaded, wearing a torn brown coat, stood before them holding a carefully shielded lantern in his hand. “Eleven picked men I got. I need one more.” “Twelve men, you got,” said Tom, shouldering his blunderbuss. “Where do I go?” The man held up his lantern so that the dim light shone on his new recruit. “Built for it, you be,” he said after a moment. “Long, and lean, and tough, by the look of you. Are you tough, lad?” “Tougher’n a biled owl,” said Tom imperturbably. “Can you swim?” “Like a muskrat.” The man grinned. “What’s your trade?” “I’m a timber man. Floating logs downstream out of the Hampshire woods is my trade.” “Good! Come along then. Down by the water. Ike Baldwin has charge o’ the action, and he’s gathered his men there.” Tom followed as he was bidden, down a rough path to the border of Chelsea Creek. Looking over his shoulder once, he saw in the sky a long streak of sunrise, salmon and silver-gray. The Neck ended in a narrow strip of shaly beach, and as Tom moved out of the protecting reeds he drew his head down turtle-fashion. A British ball whined past him, and then another. Half an hour now, and it would be broad daylight. Whatever this seafaring operation was, they’d better get it over, and soon. Then a little group of men loomed up in the thinning mist ahead of him. Eight, nine, he counted, most of them no older than he. They were stripped to the waist and unarmed, save for their leader, a stalwart man in a blue coat and knee breeches who leaned on a musket. Tom and his guide approached the group. “Here’s your twelfth, Ike,” said the brown-coated man. “Swims like a muskrat, tougher’n a biled owl, and is used to riding log rafts down the Merrimack. Think he’ll do.” Ike cleared his throat and spat into the water lapping gently along the beach. “Have to, now,” he said. “We’ll be sitting ducks in fifteen minutes more. Cal and ’Lisha’s gone for a keg of pitch.” He turned to Tom. “You one o’ Stark’s men?” “Aye. Tom Trask of Derryfield.” “Good. Get rid of your gun and strip down.” Tom looked around and found an outcrop of ledge where he thought he could probably leave the blunderbuss in safety. Then he peeled off his hunting shirt. British mortar fire still droned overhead--too high; he had heard back in camp that the British usually shot that way. As he shook his hands free from the loose sleeves and flung the garment down, he lifted his head and looked at the man nearest to him. Then a wry smile twisted his mouth. “I think I seen you before,” he said.