Patrick Morgan: Son of the Revolution: Chronicles of the Scattering, Vol Iv

By R.G. Brighton

A soldiers story is centered within the heart of the soldier. For those, who have faced the endless days and nights of patrol, fire fights, adverse conditions and the harsh reality that out there other people are trying to kill you strength lies within your spirit. The fire of your belief comes to light in accomplishing a mission. This makes a difference, not only in your life but in the lives of those, whom fight alongside of you.

Patrick Morgan, a Ranger in pre-colonial times and whose travels took him along that which would be called the New York, Massachusetts and New England frontier was at the heart of the struggle for independence. The shots fired in that time, 1745, were, in essence, the first shots of the American Revolution

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546251927

R.G. Brighton

R. G. Brighton (pen name) M.A., M. Div. is a retired Philadelphia, Pa. Police Officer. He served in the United States Marine Corps in Vietnam and in the U. S.M.C. Reserve after returning home from overseas. Since his retirement, he worked within the Security Industry and as a substitute Teacher in San Antonio, Texas focusing on Social Studies grades 8- 12, Texas history and religious literature. Currently, he resides in Kerrville, Texas, and he is a frequent visitor to the shrine at the Alamo. His books are a compilation of stories gathered through oral tradition and known as the Chronicles of the Scattering. However, the reason for the Chronicles is, as they say, Another story

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© 2018 R.G. Brighton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/19/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5193-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5192-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018908501

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Ranger

Epilogue

Dedication

To my father, George J. Brigati

4th Battalion- Darby’s Rangers

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt

Preface

The story of Patrick Morgan, the grandson of an emigrant from Wales to the British Colonies, takes place during the time before the French and Indian Wars in the ‘Americas.’

However, he is the son of the revolution of freedom that started from the moment the first person called the Land their home. He is what is called a Ranger, and he is the forefather of Warriors, who are best fighting force in the world today-The U. S. Rangers.

He is also the son of the revolution because the battles, which led to the Revolutionary War of 1776, were completed long before the first shot was fired or the first act of colonial, political defiance was seen on the continent.

Patrick Morgan fought and bled for the idea that is the United States, which every soldier, fought for in the long centuries since the first Warrior stood to defend that which is called home.

There is only one word to describe the story of this Country- independence; and it is the tenacity of the Rangers throughout history, which embodied this belief and put it into action.

Ranger

The first battlefield for a Soldier is his mind.

There are days when you wished your mother had never given you the gift of life; and there are other days when you thanked her for the breath she gave you.

This day had seen four of us waist deep in a bog, avoidin’ French patrols and steerin’ clear of the Indians, who fought for the French. Each of us knew that silence was our only ally. With the cold and hunger of this expedition, and our being waist deep in swamp water; it was not a grand way of spendin’ the day.

No matter how hard you tried to forget about the cold and your hunger, all that kept comin’ into your mind was a warm fire and some good game on the spit. Either of these was not gonna happen soon; and if we were caught by the Indians, then a hot fire was likely to be our destination.

We had been on this expedition for nearly a month, and, so far, our ‘enemy’ had turned the table on us three times. Given the reputation we had as bein’ raised by Warriors of the Nations, this turn of events didn’t suit our temperament.

We are who the colonists called Rangers.

We left our families and farms to travel the woods, not so much looking for adventure, but to learn the lay of the land in order to hunt and fish to help supply our families with food.

There was one other reason why most of us ranged the woods.

To a man, we believed in being free.

It’s what the French, and the British disliked most about us. We lived and breathed ‘independence,’ as the British officers called our stand against power of any kind. So, in a natural way, we became a part of the defense of the settlements in ‘New England.’

Many of us had made the trip from Virginia or further south to New England over the course of the past forty or more years. Our fathers and grand fathers had taken up this way of life, and we could think of no other way of livin’ except to range along the frontiers of the colonies.

My grandfather left the early settlements of Virginia around 1675, and he headed south away from the growin’ settlements to range through the deep forests of the colonies. He eventually married and settled in the Carolinas only to have my grandmother die of fever. My father was raised by a colonist family, and my grandfather provided the game for them when he returned from scoutin’ the frontier.

My grandfather’s name was Thaddeus Morgaine, and I was led to believe he came to the colonies from Wales, where he had been a farmer. However, while farming, he was arrested for poaching; and, then, consigned to a ship as a convict. His destination was the Americas where many convicts were being sent to add to the numbers of colonists.

At times, it was said that my grandfather wondered why he survived the voyage but after removin’ himself from the servitude of a colonist’s family, who gave him shelter after his escape from his captors, he traveled through the frontier and, at first, he headed north by east.

It was never a case of his aimlessly walking about the woods.

That was the stuff of stories and children’s tales.

No one ‘wandered’ about. The fact about the matter is everyone had a purpose behind their actions. If the stories of his wild livin’ in the woods had been true, I wouldn’t be here to testify otherwise. And, despite the claims of others, if he had been wanderin’ wild in the woods, he would have been dead after his first month in western Virginia.

However, my grandfather was born to be a woodsman, and he found, after procuring a musket and a knife, he could survive, and, sooner than he expected, he became one of the defense forces of the settlements.

For some reason, he never spoke about; he chose to go south instead of following the trails to the Massachusetts colony, and he stayed in the Carolinas for a number of years. It was there my father was born and raised by a colonist family.

By the time my father was born, the family name was changed to Morgan, and it is this name that was passed down to me. It is the name I will give my son, if I managed to survive this minor predicament in which my fellow Rangers and I were now involved.

My father learned to farm and to hunt from the colonist who had taken him in, to be raised as his own. But it was from my grandfather that he learned to range.

The colonist had two boys and a girl, and my father was made welcome because the woman of the house was my grandmother’s sister. It was a sad tale among the colonists that fever would kill many of them more so than fighting the Indians or failed crops. If any one of them did not kill you outright, then the battles between the French and English would accomplish the task just as easily.

However, the years passed and my father could not control his urge to range through the woods. He wanted unknown paths to cut, and he wanted to be away from the presence of the British, who he disliked more than the thought of the farm failing and becoming indentured to a new landowner.

Near my father’s sixteenth birthday, my grandfather failed to return from ranging the woods near the Kentucky border. The men he was with did something unusual for woodsman but sensible for Rangers. They returned my grandfather’s musket and knife to my father.

They told him my grandfather saved their lives, but he had lost his in doing so. They buried him, as best they could, and they returned just to bring back his musket and knife.

My father was a strong man, but he had just lost his only touch with a life he wanted to live. There was not much for him to say except to thank the Rangers for their kindness. However, the colonist asked why they had been so far from the settlement.

One Ranger answered, They had been following the trail of an Indian, who was trying to bring an uprising to the settlements. They believed the French had been involved, and they needed to find and kill the French Officer or the tribal leader of the Indians.

The colonist said, I had not been aware of any trouble because the Rangers kept a good watch on the settlement. The Ranger thanked him for the compliment, but the elected Council in control of their county, in this case, most of this frontier, sent them to join others who were hunting for the French and the warring Indians.

The Ranger told him, Be prepared to fight because the uprising might be headed towards them.

The colonist shook his head and said, We would do the best we could to keep our family alive.

The Ranger then asked my father if he wanted to go with them.

However, the colonist said he needed him on the farm.

The Ranger looked directly into my father’s eyes and said, Your father wanted you to go with us.

The Ranger explained, We were not officially part of the British army. Rangers were a part of the defense for the settlements, and they made their living off of the land. They did not ask for quarter from anyone nor did they expect to receive any.

Your father knew that and he taught it to many of us. He wanted you to carry on in his name, as a Ranger.

The colonist looked at my father, and he asked him, Would you rather stay on the farm or go with the Rangers?

The colonist knew my father would leave the farm soon, in any case, so why prolong the departure.

My father said, I’ll take my leave from the family, and I will go with the Rangers; but I have no way of thanking you for all that had been done for me.

The colonist told him, Don’t give any mind to what had been done for you. You need to think about tomorrow.

After my father said his farewells to the family, the colonist said to him, Richard, be as good a man as your father, ‘Jeremiah’ wanted you to be.

My father nodded, and he left the farm never to return.

After a short distance on the trail, one of the Rangers told my father that Jeremiah was not my grandfather’s real name.

My father looked at him in surprise.

The Ranger said, Your father changed his name because he wanted to make a fresh start in these colonies.

He asked my father, What did you want to be called? And my father simply said, Richard.

Richard Morgan set about the Ranger’s life, which eventually led to my birth in Massachusetts in 1727.

I was named Patrick Morgan and there was no way of life I could travel except to follow in the footsteps of my grandfather and my father.

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The thoughts of my grandfather and father made the misery of being in cold water bearable for the few hours I had recollected my family history.

There were ten Rangers, who we knew of, in this bog. We were in three groups separated by some dense wooded hammocks and the endless water of this swamp. We knew that the other groups had not been taken captive nor had they been in a fight. We would have heard the noise of the fight and the celebration by the Indians that would have followed their capture. The French soldiers were somewhat quieter about a massacre; but under the circumstances, I was sure they would have celebrated.

This is not to say the Indians were noisy.

They were not prone to make any noise when they traveled on their raids or when they attacked other villages. They learned to work with their surroundings; and they made the best use of what had been provided to them, at all costs. The People learned to be strong and fight with the ferocity only a life-and-death struggle can teach you. Therefore, Nature was considered Life among the Clans, Bands and Tribes of the People of the Nations; it was at the heart of the Warrior’s reason for living.

The People learned very early in Life that an individual Warrior can win a fight or change the course of a battle. However, if that single Warrior isn’t in harmony with Nature the fight or the battle may cost a Tribe their homes and, in all likelihoods, their lives.

It becomes a part of who you are to search and find harmony with Nature. If not, you will step off your path and stumble through the darkness striking at any object within reach. It is necessary to regain your harmony, a balance between, right and wrong, understanding and disbelief, with the constant knowledge that All is life and death.

It is the Way of the Warrior and the Life of the People.

And it was in harmony with the Way of All Things that the People shared their Life with others, who they trusted.

It was in a spirit of trust and harmony that most of our Rangers learned to live among the People of the Nations. We had lived as members of a Tribe.

All of the men on this patrol learned to fight by watching the Indians; or, like me were taught by Indians, who considered us one of their own. Many Rangers, like my father and I, had been all but been born to acceptance into the Tribes of those, who we considered friends. More than once, our lives like those of the Indians we called friends, had been in the balance of life and death.

The fact is plainly that many of us had seen battle and lived to celebrate Life.

Being a friend and being closer to the Indians, like an adopted member of the Tribe, meant more to us than life itself. Warriors could not betray each other in any manner and expect to live afterwards.

Unfortunately, this patrol was far from our usual areas of ranging, and we were not with any of the tribal members we called friends. We were familiar with the frontier around our homes, for the single reason of being able to mount a suitable defense through constant patrols. However, we spent months in this locale, while on many patrols.

The main reason why our Ranger Companies had been stretched thin was, simply, this is an ‘independent’ operation ordered by our British ‘commanders.’ We were assigned the mission to find and capture, if possible, a band of Indians, who had killed settlers as far as Eastern Vermont and its frontier border with New Hampshire.

In addition, we were to make contact and work with Rangers from the northern Massachusetts and the ‘New Hampshire and Vermont’ frontiers in order to find these Warriors or the French leaders of these bands of raiders.

Over the past forty years, this frontier area up to Lake Champlain had been the sight of many skirmishes between the French, British and their Indian allies. Because of the standoff in trying to claim this area for the Monarchs of both countries, trouble was plentiful in this location, and it bled over into New York and Massachusetts. Regardless, of the forts or outposts the French and British had in place, the only real peace came through death.

However, our Company was south west of the Vermont frontier, and our patrols had taken us to the western edge of Massachusetts and the border with New York and back towards the lakes of New York. And that was simply a part of being a Ranger, an assignment far from home, moving quickly over long distances. Nevertheless, a Ranger adapts to the place and the mission leaving little or nothing to chance.

Even so, this was a desolate location, but it was one that held paths for hunting and resupply for the French.

It seemed strange that we could find ourselves in a bog with all the mountains surrounding us. Nevertheless, the frontier would provide places where the valleys opened to lowlands because of the height of the mountains; and fortunately, many bitter red and purple berries grew here that were edible. Naturally, it was in one of these places, far from any settlement, where we found ourselves in the middle of a French and Indian raiding party.

It would not take very long for the raiding party to move on towards the southeast and better hunting but they had come across part of our trail and they were trying to find us.

No good would come of bad business; but it was in situations like this that Rangers were experts in finding a way out.

My father had learned this way of life from his father, and I was taught the many ways of surviving hard situations from my family and from the Warriors of my adopted Tribe. Many of the others in this patrol had been raised the same way and, even with all that experience, we had been hemmed in by this large raiding party.

It spoke of our experience that we had not been killed, outright; but after a few miles of backtracking, hard rock climbing and steep animal trails leading downhill, we worked our way into the cover of this bog. Following the orders of our Captain, the leader of our party, Sergeant, Zebadiah Claiborne decided to split our group into three separate units, and he told us to spread out in the bog. We had done so but now we had the Indians, who were friendly to the French on the eastern side of the bog. We did not know why they had stopped at the edge of the bog instead of following our trail into it; however, it was good enough they stopped where they did.

As near as I could figure, they wanted to wait us out.

They knew we couldn’t stay in here forever and the cold of the water and the night’s chill would take its toll on us. No matter how well we used some grass, saplings branches and what passed for reeds, we could not keep dry. So, by the time we could fight our way out, we would be too weakened by bein’ in cold water to make too much of a fight of it and survive.

After thinking about the situation, I believed I knew why they hadn’t attacked us. They were waitin’ for more Warriors to come and help in the fight.

I didn’t know if there was a tribe near to us; but it seemed reasonable that was why they waited.

Just after midnight, Claiborne worked his way to our group, and he told us we would make our way out of the bog one by one. We would separate along a line twenty to forty yards apart, and we would use our knives, only, if we encountered any Indians.

One group had already gone, and the second group was ready to leave. He told us where we could meet, about thirteen miles from our location; and we needed to be there by mid-mornin’.

He would leave with my group; but we would have to make up lost time once we cleared this bog. We spread out as best we could; and we worked our way through the stiffness that had set into our bones by bein’ in water for many hours.

We moved slowly through the water trying to make as little noise as possible.

We had to keep each of our senses sharp because this was not a situation where you could let your mind wander.

Even so, I could hear my father say, You must take small, sure steps leading with the front of your foot and not the heel. You must move as the water moves and not against it.

Once I reached solid land, I must remember that my wet clothes will make noise as the water drains from them. My musket will not work because the powder had gotten wet, so every bit of my strength must be saved to fight with my knife.

I must become one with the forest and the mountains and leave no trail to be followed.

I kept going over what he taught me as I moved through the bog.

Nevertheless, it was difficult to see very far because the night had been moonless; but the stars spilled some light on the water. I had to keep forcing myself to move because the cold water had stiffened my knees, feet and my hands.

I was certain that I would have to fight as soon as I got on dry land; and I had to keep thinking; I must fight for my life, quietly and quickly.

Finally, I reached dry land; and I looked around me to see if anyone was waiting in ambush. And the first steps I took were bent over and close to the ground. Still, I could not see any signs of the Indians in the raiding party.

Something was wrong.

I saw no signs of a fight by any of our groups; and I figured the raiding party had moved back from the bog to find a place where they could ambush us as a group.

The bog would have been too dangerous for a fight, especially at night. Anyway, I had to keep moving, as fast and as cautiously as I could; and I wondered if anyone else had considered we were going to be ambushed or had we just had some good ‘luck’.

Then, I realized we were Rangers and luck had nothing to do with being a good fighter.

It is true that sometimes it may seem you were lucky to come out of a fight alive; but generally, it was not your time to die if that happened.

I thought I heard some movement in the trees to my left, but I couldn’t ‘ease my guard’ on the chance it was another Ranger. I had to keep goin’ until we met at our rendezvous point and reformed into our patrol.

The hills were steep, and the footing was treacherous in places; but speed was important, and I had to make do the best I could. I thought that I must get some distance between me and the raiding party because at first light they would scout the dry land next to the bog, and they would find our trails. Fifteen paths headed in one general direction would tear up the brush given that we could not take the time to cover our trail or backtrack.

This was all about strength and speed because we had to reform as a group and, then, move towards the fort, where we resupplied ten days ago.

If the British still manned it, we could get some food and ammunition.

We may have to strike a trail away from the fort, given our circumstances, but we had a destination. At least, that was the plan if the raiding party allowed such activity by us. In any likelihood, if the Indians let us gather in a group and head in one direction, there would be an ambush or a trap awaiting us.

It was not likely we would see the fort; but we had a location we needed to get to. Still, I suspected plans would be changed once we were together.

Near dawn, it appeared that we were not as yet being followed, but I believed that was not a prudent thought to keep in mind.

The raiding party got some sleep; and even with a cold camp, they had eaten so they had some strength on their part from which to fight. We had the strength of our limbs and hands’ returning to some feeling, but that is all we would have time to gather for a fight.

Nonetheless, there would have to be time taken, as soon as daylight shed some clarity to our vision, to check our muskets and to see if we had any dry powder for a fight, in case we were ambushed. However, that was still an hour or more away, and I needed to keep concentrating on moving as fast as I could without leaving a big trail to follow.

I figured that I must have been a few miles from the bog; and I was working my way around a long finger ridge when I spotted a scout from the raiding party. I stopped and laid flat behind some dead fall. I pulled my knife from its sheath, and I waited for the scout to come in my direction.

But he didn’t come my way; he worked his way across my front about fifty yards from my hiding place. I realized he must be one of the several scouts, who were trying to count how many of us left the bog and where we had gone. I knew we were leaving irregular trails despite the need for time and distance; because we learned how to scout from Indians, and we knew this was a way they hunted.

I figured this scout would double back towards me, while crossing over my trail time and again; and he would pass close to where I was hidden.

I looked around and found some cover in the hollow of a tree nearby. I could barely fit into the opening but I had an idea that taking cover in this tree might even the odds of this fight. Probably, there were several other scouts nearby; and I would have to make quick work of killing him before he could fire his musket.

I set down my musket about two yards from me and it was close to the log I had hidden behind, when I first spotted the scout. Also, I placed one of my moccasins not too far from the musket. I made sure that I left as small a trail as possible away from the log; and I covered my tracks as best as I could. Then, I waited for his return.

The first scout didn’t return, but another scout came from my left front. He spotted my musket, and he put his hand on it. Then, he saw my moccasin, and he cocked the hammer on his musket. I did not have time to attack him, straight forward, so I threw my knife, and it went into his neck. He dropped the musket, and he grabbed his throat. By the time my knife hit its target, I was moving to fight the Warrior. I knocked him over, reached for his knife, and I cut his throat.

It was a brutal and deadly attack; even so, I learned that trick from the Indians. When you decide to fight, you hit your enemy hard, fast and often. You leave no chance for quarter.

I wasn’t sure I would ever use this way of fighting, but when I did, it saved my life.

I had to work, fast; so, I moved his body into some heavy brush, and I threw some leaves and dirt over his pool of blood. I looked around the area of the fight, picked up his musket and his ammunition along with my musket, my moccasin, and my knife. Then, I took off as fast as I could towards the rendezvous. I didn’t think it would be long before another scout would be following me, and I needed to ‘make’ some distance between me and the dead scout.

The extra weight of the Warrior’s musket was troublesome, but I needed dry ammunition and a weapon to fire in case I couldn’t get the ball out of the barrel of my musket.

There was nothing else I could do.

I came across a number of streams, and the water was a genuine relief to my thirst. However, I could not stop to rest nor could I take time to walk in the streams to cover my tracks, because I was ambushed once and lived to talk about it.

A Ranger knew better than to tempt fate by making a mistake.

I kept thinking about what I learned from my father and from the Indians, I had grown up with as a child and a young man. However, I couldn’t take time, right now, to think about fighting Indians, with whom I had sworn to be in ‘harmony’ as a brother. Although, these Warriors were not of the same Tribe I had grown up with, and I knew many Tribes had fought each other, with the strength of killing an enemy; nevertheless, I took my oaths to be faithful, loyal and true as a Ranger and a Warrior seriously, and I was troubled, some, by having to kill.

This undeclared ‘war’ was different than what my grandfather and father had to fight; and the stakes were getting higher as to what the colonies would look like if the British lost. However, for men such as the Rangers, our lives were made on the frontier where enemies of any kind made themselves known, and action was taken against them once and for all.

Here, on the frontier, the reasons why you acted seemed clearer.

However, when it is the lot of a man’s life to become the cannon fodder of Empires or Nations, then the picture gets cloudy. When all that you hold dearly dies with your dreams as the lives around you are shattered, you realize all that is important is duty. And it is because of a Ranger’s duty, he fights onwards despite the odds.

So it was now, and I realized my duty was to get to the rendezvous point and reform. So, we can complete our mission.

The sun moved onwards, and it took no time to slow its progress through the skies.

I was as alert to the danger around me; and even with that caution, I remembered that our group had been tracked and possibly some of us had been discovered. I hoped that if some Rangers had been found they died quickly because there seemed to be little, if no mercy between the French, British and the Tribes allied to each of them.

I began to wonder how many more hills I would have to climb before I got to the rocky outcrop along a small lake where Claiborne told us to meet. Strangely, I gave no thought as to missing the lake because I had orders to rendezvous with the others in our group.

Nevertheless, I would have to find the lake and the outcrop where we would meet.

It seemed to be past mid morning and I wondered if I had gone past the lake. So, I took a chance and I moved to my right, while I moved along the base of the hill I had just climbed. I was trying to move in a large circle that was about a few hundred yards in size, when, I came across the trail of one of our group.

I knew it was one of us because of the way he walked. He had a harder left foot fall than his right. I didn’t know where the trail led but I figured I’d follow it for a while. I remembered to be careful because he might think I’m an Indian scout set out to find us. In about a half hour we stood face to face near a small clearing. He held his knife and I held two muskets. He looked at me and he said, I haven’t seen anyone else, except for you.

I told him, The same was true for me.

He said, I had been cross tracking for about an hour because I thought I missed the lake.

I said, That’s how I came across your trail. His name was George Tyler and he was a few years my junior; but he was good in a fight and a decent tracker. However, this time, he had been so concerned about being followed, he had gone in circles. I said, Most likely I had done the same but now we had to pick a direction and move quickly.

It seemed that due east was our best chance and so we headed out in that direction.

I was thinking, although Rangers were used to fighting alone, it was good to have company.

I remembered something my father had taught me during Prince Philip’s war.

He told me, A Ranger is a man alone; but two Rangers, together, is an army.

I smiled and George asked me, What was it that I found so amusing?

I told him what my father said and he laughed.

He added, Those were good words to live by and remember.

I agreed.

About an hour went by and we made our way around a few clearings. Then, we found ourselves near the shoreline of a lake. Without speaking, we knew the question that had to be answered.

Is this is the lake we were looking for?

I looked at George and said, We needed to stay together.

So, we made our way along a tree line, nearby and we eventually found a large rocky outcrop. We both knew there should be a sentry around here and we did find a Ranger near the ledge. We approached carefully, we were recognized and, then, we met up with nine of our party.

Claiborne was there and he said, You two are late.

I pointed to the two muskets I carried and I said, I was detained for a little bit. Claiborne came close to smiling and he said, Well, we now have a total of at least one musket we can use.

He called us together and he said, We would have to start moving northwest to complete our mission, which was to determine the location and size of the French forces coming in from Canada.

We waited for one more hour and we left the rendezvous point to continue on our mission.

We tried to leave no one behind but we would all be dead if we waited any longer. It was a hard decision, which many of us would not forget for the rest of our lives. At the time, we did not know the raiding party was the advance scout party for part of a French army.

Death would have awaited our return to find our missing Rangers. But that would be no comfort to any of us who pledged to protect one and all.

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We set out, quickly, to make a large loop and backtrack our trail.

This was necessary because the French and the Indians were not to be taken as anything but strong Warriors; and they would not be fooled by the tracks of nearly a dozen Rangers.

I figured, our pace would be a ‘fast march’ like the scouts and light infantry were used to doing. Ever since the Scot 42nd Regiment of Foot had patrolled the colonies, their light infantry used different tactics and they fought as a number of smaller units, rarely larger than a Company, in strength.

They had learned their tactics from the Indians, as we had. But the biggest difference was that many of the Rangers, like me, had lived with or been brothers to Warriors like the Narragansett and the Mohegan. The British troops would not allow that kind of situation to occur and they had suffered for it.

The French worked a little differently in their battle plans.

Although, a number of generals had used the tactics of keeping light infantry and cavalry in advance and on the flanks of their columns, the French maintained their light troops close to the main body of their column.

The French used the Indians to do their scouting.

That was generally a good principle to follow, but from what I learned from living among the Indians was that their loyalty towards the colonists changed and injury to the Tribes was long remembered.

There was no telling how a Tribe would respond to either the French or the British ever since smallpox had been introduced to the Indian Nations. Some of the Tribes were barely holding on to the number of Warriors they had left, and it took generations to bring a Warrior to Life and raise them to fight with strength and courage.

Most important, it was part of Life that a Warrior does not fight for himself, he fights for the People of the Tribe.

Many of us knew this to be a fact, and we looked at the Rangers in the same light as the Indians; that is, the People of the Nations, look at their Warriors. For a white to be taken into the Tribe, was a long and difficult path to follow and many men and women had failed to survive this way of life.

There was no other way for the Rangers to look at themselves, except as Warriors, equally gifted and matched in strength to the Indian Warriors. Even though, we had Rangers, who came from other colonies fighting alongside those of us, who were born and raised in New England, they were as competent and, at times, better than some of ‘our own’ Rangers.

But that is how Rangers fight, live and die.

Not everyone