Clinging tightly to the huge boulder half way down the falls, Tom watched the water cascade past him into the churning gorge below. The sheer raw power, the unceasing momentum of that thunderous falling water, was like nothing he had ever seen or heard before.

As the cool mist soaked him to the bone, Tom stood entranced by the delightfully terrifying, booming roar.

In all of his nineteen years of life he had never experienced anything like it. Yes, he had sailed along the walled landscapes of the lower Hudson River. He had handled the unusual white quartz of Lake George and even helped with the large stone foundations at Fort William Henry. He had heard about the enormous cut stone they were using over at Fort Ticonderoga on Lake Champlain. But this gargantuan, 3000-foot-long, horseshoe-shaped rock wall, topped them all.

Rushing green waters rampaged over the lengthy escarpment crescent and plummeted 170 feet into the gully below. It was magnificent to behold. Truly awe-inspiring.

He shifted his body weight to get a better look. Enveloped by the mist, his eyes caressed the majestic rainbow-tinged falling water. It was sublime. Divine. The hand of a Superior Force.

"HARTFORD!"

Tom turned to see General Hamilton, his commanding officer, shouting down at him from the steep precipice above. "What the devil do you think you’re doing down there? Get back to camp at once!"

Tom scurried up the slippery rock face side-stepping the chunks of moist lichen and moss.

"Trying to get yourself killed, boy? Get back to camp!"

"No Sir! Yes Sir!" Tom saluted the man as he ran past, his musket banging his back.

His fellow foot soldiers were arrayed around the smoldering campfires. They were packing up their gear, finishing their breakfasts and re-checking the mechanisms on their firearms. Chauner, his loyal friend and marching companion, was knocking down the fire.

"Hey Tom, out sight-seeing again?" guffawed the older man.

"The falls sure are a sight to behold, lad. But you’ve got to watch out for those infernal French."

As Chauner spoke, Tom grabbed a dirty cook rag to wipe down his muzzle. He checked his flint and rubbed the spark pan dry.

"... We’re in no man’s land now …"

Tom quickly ran the towel over his arms and legs wincing under the gentle patronizing tone of the elder.

"…You can't be horsing around now, lad. General says we’re to cross in an hour. Then we're to move down river opposite the fort. If all goes according to plan, he thinks we can strike at dusk …"

Quietly chastised by Chauner's word, Tom was determined to prove he was no farm yard rookie, a 'lad', he slung his Brown Bess musket over his still damp military jacket and helped Chauner carry down the heaviest load to the empty boats.

...

In 1758, the fortified French fort of Niagara was situated on the eastern bank at the mouth of the mighty Niagara River as it flowed into Lake Ontario. The British planned to cross below the rapids about a mile above the French citadel.

Sixty strong men, with all their campaign gear, poled and vigorously paddled across the surging current in eight mid-size dories. Tom was stationed at the front of the first boat as the look-out. All knew that the green-eyed farm boy had the best hawk eyes.

Tom scanned the opposite shore for movement as water splashed up against the bow. Nothing but verdant forest clung to the steep embankment. Something twitched in his side vision. Looking down the river towards the lake he espied a tiny, near invisible, single filament of smoke waft skyward behind a knobby hill. Tom knew the fire meant either a small hunting party or a scouting group. He signaled to his commander behind and pointed down stream towards the light gray plume.

The boats came to ground on the shallow limestone shale. The soldiers quickly jumped out and took cover under the overhanging trees.

Tom and Chauner, with four others, were chosen as the advance party. They scrambled up the rocky embankment and moved stealthily through the underbrush in the direction of the knobby hill. Spreading out, they kept in sight of each other. Tom drew his hunting knife.

They could hear voices ahead. French.

Canadada

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