Amidst the Enemy (historical fiction)

Being a big fan of the American Revolution, I tend to write stories set in the period. I was influenced by images from the movies: Last of the Mohicans and The Patriot. Of course, I also love the influence of David Liss and other historical fiction authors. This story is three pages, double spaced.

Amidst the Enemy

The chill, evening waters of the Hudson shimmered under the summer moon. Nightbirds’ haunting calls echoed throughout the woods surrounding the shores, while crickets and their distant cousins projected a counter-melody of their own. A closer sound was heard with an equal calming effect—the rippling of water disrupted by the careful rowing of oars. Good, nice and quiet. We cannot afford for this to go awry. Dalton Connor was not nervous. But he was more aware of he and his partner’s situation, for they had never been this far into the British lines before—and General Burgoyne’s army would soon surround them on all sides, albeit sleeping in their tents.

Dalton nodded to the man rowing the oars. “We’re getting close to the landing, Watkins,” he said in a low whisper.

“Closer to bedtime, I’d say,” came the reply. Dalton could see the feint grin on his partner’s face.

They were both wearing tricorn caps and crimson coats, borrowed from their enemies. Their weapons remained concealed under their clothes—they were much quieter than the Brown Bess musket carried by a regular foot soldier.

The small boat made its way closer to the embankment. The ethereal glow of campfires could be seen reflecting on the tall pines. Watkins handed the rope to Dalton, who tied the boat off to a nearby tree branch overhanging the calm river.

Feint voices were heard as the two made their way around the edge of the line of soldiers’ tents. They were making their way towards the center of camp where, adjacent to headquarters, the prisoner was being held.

Yet another delegate to save, Dalton had thought. If Congress could keep itself from being kidnapped, I could find decent work.

The low hum of crackling fires and trees swaying in the evening breeze was disrupted by a breaking of twigs behind them. Then came a voice. “You there, what are you two doing—wandering about?”

Damn it. Dalton sighed, faced the colonel and said, “We had too much to drink before bed, sir.”

The British officer scowled. “Wait, what regiment are…” Before he could finish, a tomahawk flew threw the air—the butt end breaking the nose of the poor colonel who grunted in pain. Before he could make another sound, Dalton retrieved his weapon and delivered a blow to the back of his head, using the blunt side of the hatchet. The officer slumped forward unconscious.

Watkins helped Dalton carry the colonel outside of camp, hiding him behind dense bushes. They soon approached the prisoner’s tent. The entrance was guarded by two broad shouldered grenadiers—that looked to be the largest specimens of their regiment—wearing their black bearskin caps.

Slipping around opposite sides of the tent, the two covert colonists knocked out each guard without hindrance—Dalton using the back of his native axe and Watkins his small wood club.

Inside the Congressman lay awake with his eyes open and a hand on his head, rubbing a fresh bump. He looked startled to see two redcoats walk in and speak with New England accents. “Mr. Hancock,” Dalton said. “Washington sent us to deliver you back to Pennsylvania.”

“My dear sirs,” said Hancock. “I am in your debt.”


By the time the three reached the boat, the unconscious guards and missing prisoner had been discovered. Soldiers were awakened and the shouts of officers disrupted the nightbirds’ song.

Watkins rowed faster than before, never minding the volume of the oar splashes.
Heading southward, Dalton made out a British patrol boat of four guards blocking their path. “Keep rowing Watkins. I’ll give them some volleys. Keep your head down Mr. Hancock,” Dalton said.

Little splashes rippled some feet before their boat as the patrol guards fired their muskets harmlessly toward them. Dalton picked up a musket kept inside the boat. Aiming carefully, he fired. The shot was followed by a grunt and splash from the patrol boat, which was making headway in their direction. As the enemy boat inched forward, Dalton struck a match and lit the wick attached to a round, weighted ball. He let it burn for a few seconds and tossed it directly at the approaching boat. In the next instant, there was a flash and loud crack similar to that of a small cannon. The remaining soldiers screamed in pain caused by such a close range explosion, and the three escapees left the wounded soldiers in their wake.

Further down river, the feint light of early morning began to show. As the boat approached the American lines, John Hancock said “I am in quite need of a long nap.”

“Indeed,” Watkins said and looking to Dalton, “Pray, sir. Is it bedtime yet?”