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I stood firmly on the top of a hill, raising my hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun. It was excruciatingly hot, perhaps 102 degrees, and I myself was not used to such a brutal climate.

I was just outside Charlottesville, Virginia. The year was 1779.

Using my hand to shield my eyes, I slowly peered over the edge of the hill, down into an open valley far below. In the valley, men in bright red uniforms bustled about an occupied camp; some were shaving, others were cooking supper.

There are those British scoundrel bastards, I thought to myself. I had been sent out to test rumors that a regiment of British soldiers were stationed near a makeshift camp myself and other members of the 4th New York had made.

Smiling lightly at my discovery I turned my head and faced a tree line just at the edge of the hill. Many of the trees were thick and strong enough to support a man. I found one with low enough branches, shouldered my rifle, and began to climb.

After climbing for a few moments, I found a set of three branches that all seemed to diverge from the tree’s trunk at the same point. This made something resembling a small platform.

What luck, I thought to myself. I stood on the platform and reduced myself to the “prone” position. I removed my rifle from my shoulder and raised it, pretending to aim at the camp far below. Just in range, I thought. Just within range.

I pulled a packet of powder from one of the vest pockets of my deer skin jacket, ripped it open with my teeth and poured the black substance into the stock. Then I pulled a ball from a pouch that I kept slung at my waist and loaded it into my rifle with its ramrod.

I raised my rifle again down toward the camp. “Which one?” I asked myself.

Although my superior officer, Captain Jenson, had reluctantly sent me on this solo mission, he had ordered me to target as many officers as possible. From where I was in the tree line, the only way I could tell the difference between a British officer and one of the enlisted men was that officers more often than not were on horseback. Since the camp seemed to be in a relaxed state, however, nobody was on horseback, meaning I was simply going to have to guess.

I turned the rifle a few degrees to the right, found a soldier tasting some soup he was preparing, and took a shot.

The ball ripped through what had to be his upper torso, causing him to drop his spoon and tumble forward onto the fire of which he was boiling his soup.

The camp immediately fell into a plunge of chaos as the soldiers near the fallen soup taster abandoned their shaving kits and supper and ran about attempting to take cover. Some of them grabbed their nearby muskets, loaded them, and found something to shoot at, but I was safe from where I was hidden. I hadn’t been seen.

I pulled out another powder pouch, ripped it open with my teeth, and prepared to fire again.

Suddenly, officers came striding into the open camp on horseback, attempting to pull the camp from chaos into order. Good God, I thought to myself, perhaps I’ll get an officer or two after all.

I aimed at one of the men on horseback and tried to lead him as best I could. I fired, and the man fell off his horse. More chaos. The other men on horseback maintained their composure, but some of the enlisted men were diving behind piles of logs that were being saved for firewood to protect themselves.

I quickly reloaded my weapon, hoping to take out one more officers on horseback before descending from the tree and escaping into the wilderness and back to my camp. After my weapon was loaded I fired, hitting an officer in his upper torso.

The British artillery must have been alerted, because I heard the loud booming sound of a cannon tear through the air. Down the tree line from where I was hiding, I saw a tree nearly splinter down the middle, sending bits of wood flying in every direction. Out of fear, I had flinched and covered my ears when I heard the sound of the cannon, but after seeing the nearby tree crushed by a cannonball, I quickly regained my composure and told myself that three kills would have to have been enough for the day. I began to descend from the tree.

About halfway down I heard the booming sound of the cannon again. This time, a cannonball was sent soaring into the tree I was hiding in, causing the trunk to burst, sending broken branches and debris down upon me where I was during my descent.

I ricocheted off of tree branches as my body made its plunge from the tree down to the earth.

It seemed instantaneous, but I remember waking up from a black out. The fall must have done it.

I felt my torso and appendages to ensure myself I was still in one piece. When I learned I was intact, I felt a wave of relief, but within a moment, five British grenadiers had descended upon me with bayonets drawn. I was captured.

I was pulled downhill by two of the enlisted men, while three others followed behind with bayonets drawn and, more than likely, weapons loaded. I hadn’t been gutted, I thought to myself. For some reason, I’m being kept alive.

Soon we were in the camp. I must’ve been knocked out for at least an hour before I was found, because the camp didn’t seem as chaotic as I remember seeing it from my position in the trees. Men seemed to have forgotten their fallen officers and friend, and were already back to their supper and their tobacco pipes. The antithesis of a chaotic afternoon.

One of the enlisted men who was guarding me noticed that I had been eyeing the camp and hit me with his fist.

“Bastard!” he said. “Take it all in! This camp might be the last thing you see.”

I was forced through camp toward the far end where the larger tents were. When we reached the largest tent, one of the enlisted men who was guarding me from the rear ran inside. I heard voices, but I couldn’t hear anything that was being said. In a moment the same enlisted man popped his head out from the inside of the tent and motioned the two men holding me at either arm to escort me inside.

Inside the tent, there was a large table scrambled with a small ink cup, numerous documents of various sorts, and an empty cup. My guess was that the cup was used for coffee earlier in the day.

Behind the desk stood a British soldier, and from his uniform I could tell he was an officer of some vast importance.. He stared at me coldly, then spoke:

“Are you the damned scoundrel that has been causing us trouble this afternoon?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“My name is Colonel Peters,” he said. “Which regiment are you with? What is your name?”

I told Peters my name and that I was with the 4th New York.

“What in bloody hell are you doing in Virginia?” Peters asked, seemingly annoyed. “Who is your commanding officer?”

“I’m part of a platoon of volunteers,” I said. “Colonel James Holmes is commanding officer, but we had volunteered to disband.”

Peters shifted behind his desk, then asked a nearby soldier:

“Sgt. O’Connor, didn’t we forfeit officers to the 4th New York in White Plains?”

Sgt. James O’Connor, an Irishman, nodded. “We lost three officers, sir,” O’Connor said. “We lost Captain Cambridge, Major Anderson, and Brigadier general Smith.”

Peters bit his lip and nodded his head. He said to me:

“Rebel, who is in charge of your volunteer unit?”

“A captain,” I said.

“And my officers? Are they among you?”

Oddly enough, Cambridge, Anderson, and Smith were sent along with us on our trip south into Virginia. Colonel Holmes recommended it citing the men as bargaining chips.

“They are,” I replied.

The colonel paused for a moment, eyeing me from across his desk. He was a very imposing man, standing at least six foot three and to me, he seemed thicker than the largest of tree trunks. Finally he said:

“Could an exchange be arranged?”

I remained silent for a moment as I contemplated his question. I was but a mere rifleman, and the lives of the British officers the 4th New York was keeping prisoner were far more valuable than my own. Regardless, I replied with:

“It wouldn’t hurt to try, Colonel.”

Peters grabbed a quill from his ink cup and a fresh piece of paper and began to scrawl something out. After a moment, he messily signed the bottom. When the ink had dried, he folded it, glanced around quizzically at the nearby soldiers, then handed it to a nearby enlisted man.

“Thanks to you,” Peters said. “I no longer have an aide.”

Colonel Peters had written a letter to Captain Jenson offering a troop exchange. It was to be my life for the lives of the British officers.

A part of me was hopeful Jenson would accept the offer, but a wiser part of me knew that, despite the fact that the notches in my rifle showed I had killed close to ten British soldiers, I still wasn’t as valuable as an officer, let alone three. Another wise part of me didn’t want the exchange to occur. The rest of the 4th New York could have definitely used the British officers as bargaining chips. If the exchange didn’t go through, I decided to myself I would try to escape later on, despite the fact that the idea seemed quite silly and futile.

I explained to Peters’ aide how to get to my camp, and then he went out on horseback under a flag of truce. By the time the aide left, it was readily approaching dusk, and the camp was slowly quieting down for the evening. I was guarded by the bayonets of two enlisted men. I was allowed to sleep.

That night, before drifting off, I lay under the stars and listened intently to the sound of a harmonica being played from a tent nearby.

I began to contemplate the last three years of my life. I hadn’t wanted to be a part of the war, but my father insisted it would be good for me. “Besides,” my father said, “I will be with you. What have you to fear?” Since then I had fought alongside my father in the 4th New York, making many new friends and becoming accustomed to the idea that American independence was a divinely inspired notion. I kept a copy of Paine’s Crisis is my travel bag.

The next morning I was waken up by an enlisted man. He offered me a cup of coffee which I readily took. My body ached from my fall the previous day, and for a moment I was worrying I would be unable to move without assistance. I forced myself up, however, and was escorted to another part of the camp where I was fed meat, potatoes, and some hard cider. The cider tasted like something from New York, and I longed for home.

Peters approached me while I ate and informed me that the aide returned to camp in the middle of the night.

Jenson had written a letter authorizing the prisoner exchange.

I was confused. I was only a rifleman. But, I suppose I didn’t have much choice in the matter, as Peters told me to “hurry up and eat your damn breakfast. You’re only being fed because my aide has informed me that our officers are in good condition.”

This was true. Despite the fact that the 4th New York was usually low on provisions, we still found a way to keep our British prisoners fed and, if wounded, we made sure they were seen by a surgeon.

After I ate my breakfast, I was escorted out of the camp by a group of six enlisted men led by Sgt. O’Connor. Among us were three horses for the British officers. They would be riding them back into the British camp.

It took us about an hour to reach my camp, and when we arrived, enlisted men in the 4th New York were already waiting outside the camp, encircling Anderson, Cambridge, and Smith. Captain Jenson was among the 4th New York men.

When we were within view, he nodded to the men guarding the British officers and they lowered their guns. The officers then walked down the path toward O’Connor and the others.

O’Connor, in like manner, nodded to me, and I walked toward Jenson. As I passed the British officers I removed my cap at them, but they snubbed me.

Soon after, I was receiving warm handshakes from other enlisted men in the 4th New York along with pats on my back and embraces. Even Captain Jenson partook in the joyous occasion. However, it was Jenson who broke up the affair prematurely and reminded us that the British now knew our location, and the flag of truce was only good during the prisoner exchange. Relocating ourselves was a priority.

In camp, I saw men in the 4th New York packing their travel packs and pulling down their makeshift shelters they had erected. Our first day outside of Charlottesville brought on rain clouds that threatened to hinder our march to Richmond. Alas, it had never rained.

While helping other men pack up their things, Jenson stopped me and pulled me aside.

“Are you alright, Joseph?” he asked. It had been years since he called me by my first name.

“I-I’m fine,” I said, a bit taken aback. “I’m a bit sore.”

“Were you beaten?” he asked, worried.

“Not really, a cannon blast knocked me out of a tree,” I replied.

Jenson looked at me and gave a half-hearted laugh. “God must be on our side,” he said.

“In light of recent events, I’d have to agree,” I replied.

“Good. Listen, we’ll work on getting you a new rifle.”

“No rush,” I said.

“We really need you around here. I need you around here,” Jenson said.

“That’s very flattering, sir,” I said.

Jenson smiled, patted me on the back and ran off to yelp the 4th New York volunteers pack up.

I turned to watch Captain Jenson help the men. I think it was at that moment I realized why he had sacrificed his bargaining chips for me.

Even though I was only a rifleman, sometimes the mathematics associated with war do not compete with the mathematics associated with family, and as I marched on to Richmond I promised to never forget that even though we were at war and Jenson was my superior officer, the war was only a few years old, and he had been my father much, much longer.