Forty-TwoThe evil-smelling, thigh-deep mud might just prove his slimy grave. He moved with infinite caution, maintaining intense discipline so as not to make any noise that would attract his pursuers. And as he moved, the years slipped away. He was skirmishing with the Massachusetts infantry, on a special assignment to reconnoiter enemy advance positions.
He slipped back into that world, taking on the eyes and ears, the heightened senses of an animal in the wild. He noted tiny signs on the breeze, and in the air: the whiff of charcoal from a doused fire not more than eight hours old, the soft rasp of a man hoiking phlegm in a wake-up time throat-clearing, the faintest scent of unwashed flesh.
Sugar Loaf Mountain had a dubious reputation as a hangout for thieves and renegades. That’s why
