“Sir Henry Clinton cannot presume to give any orders to General Burgoyne.” Sir Henry’s dark brows drew together in a frown as he wrote. Did the young popinjay think he would leave the city of New York exposed to t he rebels just to rescue Johnny from a situation he contrived by himself? Let the boy go back to writing his little plays and eloping with Earls’ daughters. Sir Henry ran fingers over thinning white hair. He dipped his pen in ink and wrote with a spidery hand. He would take a party of men up to the Highlands and capture Fort Montgomery, it was the best help he could offer. (Sir Henry knew the fort was poorly fortified.) That might take the pressure off the poor sod stuck in – where was it? Sarah-something. Saratoga, that was it. Sir Henry blotted the ink and motioned to his secretary with two fingers uplifted. The secretary would make two copies and send it out by three different messengers. Surely one would make it through the rebel lines.

Squint-eyed Harmon stabled his horse in Albany and walked the rest of the way on foot. He knew the country; knew the trails through the dense patches of pine, the fields of tall grains waiting for the harvest, the rolling hills, the shimmering silver river he still called by its old name, the North River. He knew the land and he didn’t care who paid him. He wasn’t English, he wasn’t a Yankee and he surely wasn’t one of them savages. Harmon was Dutch; his family had been tenants of the old Albany Patroon.

An arch of tree limbs covered his head, the leaves in patches of soft oranges and yellows. In another week they would be so aflame with color that even with his bad eye he could witness the glory. Here and there a white birch peeked like a thin skeleton amidst the sturdy brown tree trunks. His boots made little sound on the path. In a few weeks they would have crackled on a carpet of dry, fallen leaves, giving his presence away. It was a good time of the year to travel if you did not wish to call attention to yourself.

His long ears strained at the rattle of distant drums. Thin nostrils caught the faintest whiff of smoke, but it was of wood fire and not the acrid smell of musket powder. No battle yet, he thought. Too bad. The thick smoke of battle would conceal him as he passed through the rebel lines. Of course, he could also be s hot with all the bullets flying, he reasoned. Well, if he didn’t make it past, there were two others out to deliver the same message. Surely one of ‘em would get through the lines.

Harmon reached inside his shirt, fingering the leather bag that hung from his thin neck. He felt a round, hard shape there. For General Burgoyne’s hands alone, he’d been told. His instructions were brief but clear.

A brown turkey hen sauntered across his path as unconcerned as an Albany merchant crossing State Street. She kept him company for a short distance until he outstrode her with his long legs. She’d be a nice meal for a forager if she weren’t more careful. Good thing for her he’d stuffed his gut in Albany, not knowing what rations he’d find in camp. General Burgoyne was far from his supply lines. Harmon bet there were some thin ribs in camp by now, but he wasn’t going to be one of them.

The smell of wood smoke grew heavier in his nostrils. The drum rattles receded. He kept on the path until a faint crack reached his ears, like the sound of a stick being trod upon. He stepped into the woods, moving with caution. Instinct bade him kneel and place his ear to the g.round. He lowered himself prone and lay as still as a partridge.

Two tall men strolled down the path towards where he’d just walked. One of the men was in full buckskin dress – a Virginian, he guessed, tilting his head so that he could see with his one good eye. The other man wore a hunting shirt and leggings. Both men carried long—barreled rifles in their large hands. These were the frontiersmen, seasoned Indian fighters that were the talk of Albany. The two men passed on in silence. Only t hen did Harmon’s body begin to shake. Every muscle twitched; he felt the urge to vomit but he knew the smell would give him away. He fought the urge, repeating to himself ‘I’m safe! I’m safe!’ Harmon never claimed to be a brave man.

He rose to his feet with care, wanting to run, as fast as his legs could move, but he fought that compulsion, too, It was the woods, he thought. The tree branches kept shifting, the limbs cracked, the wind whistled through the leaves and he was oh so close to the rebel lines. All he wanted was to give the pouch to General Burgoyne and get paid. The leather bag hung like an anvil around his neck. His Albany kin had informed him that the rebel forces were massed above Bemis’ tavern, so the river route was closed to him. The east bank of the North River – Harmon kept to the old Dutch name – was full of rebel militia coming in from New England like wasps from the hive. He’d slunk into the woods, hoping to outflank their lines, which it seemed he had. He could no longer hear the drums or the horses or the clank of arms.

Harmon figured he’d give the General the message, get his pay, and then keep on heading north. He had kin in Fort Edward who’d take him in until whichever side won the war. This plan had been in his mind since he’d left Albany. He’d no wish to try his luck slipping through the rebel lines a second time – not unless he was paid a whole bag of gold coin for it.

Harmon peeped around a huge oak tree trunk to make sure the path was safe. From here on in he’d travel in open sight. The country was all rolling hills with small farms and bordering forests. From the fields you could see all the way to the blue mountains of Vermont. He felt a degree of safety now; From this point on, any rebel scouting parties would be out in force. He’d hear them and see them long before they could spot him. He pulled his slouch hat down over his face and began to trot down the path. It felt better to move.

This was good farm country. Wheat waved golden and tall-tasseled just waiting for t he scythe. Harmon knew he looked like a farmer in his old shirt and patched breeches. That’s what he was. Except for the hollowed out shell in this leather bag around his neck. He thought he heard the rattle of distant drums, a welcome sign from the British lines. He poked up his long neck hoping to catch a sight of smoke from the campfires.

Harmon jumped when the boy materialized out of the wheat field before him. The boy held an old musket pointed straight at him. Harmon relaxed. It was only a boy – maybe twelve, thirteen years. He could handle a boy.

“Git.” The boy waved the musket to the right. The boy’s voice was calm and low.

Harmon did as he was told. They walked between rows of grain until they came to a clearing with a tiny house gray with aged shakes. There were two equally ancient outbuildings. The boy pointed with his musket barrel to one of the huts.

“In there.”

Harmon stepped into the building. He heard the bolt drop behind him, locking him in. The smell of chicken manure and grain dust filed his nostrils. He sneezed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light With one arm he reached upwards. Dry corn husks crackled at his touch. He sneezed again. ‘Twas a grain storage barn, as he’d thought.

How long he dozed leaning upright against the wall he did not know. The creak of the door hinges made him jump. A flood of light caused both his eyes to squint. The light flashed off the barrel of an old musket. The musket moved, beckoning him forth. He shuffled outside, glad for a breath of fresh, crisp air. The boy stood waiting, a stout woman behind him. Maybe he could talk his way past her – maybe she’d make the boy behave and stop threatening people with that old gun. Youngsters today got too big for their britches.

“I tole you I catched him skulkin’ aroun’,” the boy said. “He’s a spy, I tell ya, a spy.”

Before Harmon could proclaim his innocence the woman turned around. Two men in the uniform of the rebel militia stood behind her, long rifles at the ready.

Harmon raised both hands shoulder high, palm outwards. “A farmer – I’m a farmer. I got kin in Fort Edward. That’s where I’m headin’,” So much was true.

“Explain it to the General.” One of the men stepped forward.

Harmon twisted his lanky frame to appeal to the woman. His fingers were quick, squeezing the leather bag so the ball popped out and into his mouth. He swallowed in a one gulp.

“He’s got something’ in his mouth,” the boy cried. “I see somethin’ silver. He swallowed it, he did.” The boy jumped up and down in excitement.

Harmon kept his mouth tight shut and his hands held high, although he longed to take the boy over his knee and give him a right good spank.

The man thrust his rifle at his companion and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. “I’ll beat it out of him,” he said. He raised a large hairy fist as he advanced upon Harmon.

The woman reached out, touching the man’s arm. “No, Davie. I can fix it. Just you wait a minute.” She grabbed up her skirts and ran into the little house. She moved fast for a stout woman.

She reappeared holding a small amber-colored glass bottle. “Here,” she said. “Make him drink t his.”

Were they going to poison him? Harmon shook his head in astonishment. “Poison?” His voice croaked as he spoke in protest. It wasn’t right, he thought, indignant. Shoot him, he could understand that because it was war. But not poison – even the savages didn’t do that. He backed away but two strong arms held him fast. The bottle was tipped up into his mouth and he was forced to drink. The foul liquid smelled of the swamp. It had a bitter taste. His insides squeezed together and his gorge rose.

The woman held out a basin and Harmon vomited into it, helpless as a baby. His throat burned raw and his nose dripped a fiery liquid.

“Poison,” he repeated, gagging as he spoke.

“Not poison,” the woman said, her eyes kindly. “Bryony – it’s an herb. An emetic.”

“There it is,” the boy crowed. He pointed at the basin. “See that silver ball? He swallowed it, he did. I tole’ ya’.”

General Arnold was short, stout and stubby but with his piercing gray eyes and bold hooked nose he carried a presence of command. His bravery was legend to his men, who would follow him gladly through the thorniest of situations. He bent his dark head to the ball of silver in his rather delicate hand, twisted open the round shot and pulled out the folded paper concealed within. Arnold gave a brief snort as he read the message.

“Burgoyne’s done. He’s desperate.” He handed the paper to an aide. “Get this over to Granny Gates.” There was no love lost between General Benedict Arnold and Horatio Gates, Commander of the Northern Army. Gates with his big head and ponderous frame was as cautious as Arnold was impetuous. While Arnold had to admit that the New Englander was a good organizer, the man never knew when to move forward and attack. Faint heart never won fair lady, as Arnold knew from a certain sweet woman in the city of Philadelphia.

He turned and pointed to the scarecrow held captive by his men. “This man’s a spy. Hang him. Oh....see that he gets a trial, first.”

It took two men to drag Squint-eyed Harmon up the ladder to the stout tree limb where the noose dangled in the air. Harmon’s legs were paralyzed. He moaned. This was a nightmare and he knew that when he woke it would be to another world. He did not want to leave this one.

He head bumped the hard limb as the men fastened a blindfold over his eyes. Why did they have to tie the knot so tight, he wondered. His head ached. His nose itched but his arms were pinioned to his sides so that he could not scratch. He felt the noose slip over his head and snuggle around his throat. The beat of a single drum sounded in his ears like a nest of hornets swarming around his head, buzzing louder and louder.

Two strong arms lifted him into the air, pushing him off into space.

“Mama!” he screamed.

# # #

* Based upon a true incident

Writing the short story has many benefits -- it's quick -- you get an instant result, there are less characters to create, only one plot to deal with, and more important to the writer, it's fun! That doesn't make it any easier to write than a novel -- you've got to be far more precise -- but it's like a writing exercise that will help you when you decide to tackle a full length, 80,000 word book. I usually create my short out of a character rather than a plot. I put my character in a situation and then let him or her figure out how to resolve the problem. How do I find my characters? I can take them from my novels, like Hetty Henry or her pet pig Priscilla, who was featured in her own award-winning story, or I can open an old history book (since I write historical mysteries) and find a name or a situation that intrigues me. As for markets, there are few magazines that carry shorts any more, outside of ELLERY QUEEN and ALFRED HITCHCOCK where the competition is fierce, but there are many anthologies looking for material. Check the writers' magazines and writers' organizations like Sisters in Crime, whose chapters may decide to do an anthology, and go submit!

Best of luck. M. E. KEMP

You could set your watch by Charles P. Hemburger as he marched down Central Avenue to the train station. The train into the City left Plainfield, New Jersey at precisely seven-fifteen in the morning. The precise timing was the result of complaints by Charles P. Hemburger to the owner of the Metropolitan Railway. Time is money, after all. Hemburger left his Victorian house in the pleasurable anticipation of accumulating more thousands of dollars, with the added incentive of escaping the noise and confusion of the renovation work going on at that same house. A new roof, a turret, a tower and a large porch were the additions under construction. The additions would make Hemburger’s house the largest on the street.

Hemburger nodded to the young man who slid into the seat next to him. The train started off with a jolt and settled into a comfortable click-clack of wheels. Hemburger shook out his newspaper. The young man next to him also shook out his newspaper. The two men read on in silence for several minutes.

“I see Hemboldt Corporation has gone up another point today.” The young man rattled his paper slightly to gain Hemburger’s attention.

“Has it?” Charles P. Hemburger turned his head, regarding the young man. A clerk, he judged, noting the dark blue suit, its cloth shot through with thin stripes of a pinkish color. Charles P. Hemburger was a founding partner of Hemboldt Corporation, with his partner, John T. Boldstetter...

M. E. Kemp took fifth place in the Deadly Ink short story contest at the Deadly Ink Writer's Conference in Parsippany, NJ. Her short story, "A Pillar of the Community," is published in DEADLY INK 2008 anthology. The twist in her story: the body is buried inside a pillar!