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amazement.
    â€œNot invade,” FitzGibbon explained. “But we are going to make a trip over to the American side to liberate some supplies. There is a storage depot that supplies the American army at Fort George. If we take away their food and supplies we could cripple them. After all, an army moves on its stomach. This could be a decisive strike against the enemy!”
    â€œOr against us,” Merritt said.
    â€œCome now, William, I’m sure it will succeed . . . and you know how much I respect you.” He paused. “I must admit, your concerns have raised doubts for me.”
    â€œIt’s just too risky, James.”
    â€œBut worth the risk if it works! Not only will it give us needed supplies and deprive them of resources, but it will strike fear into their hearts!”
    â€œI know all the arguments, James, and I agree with them. An attack across the river would even force them to withdraw some of their soldiers back onto American soil.”
    â€œExactly my point!” FitzGibbon said, pounding his fist on the table. He was certainly convincing.
    â€œIf only we were operating on our ground. Our success so far has come from knowing the trails and countryside better than the Americans,” Merritt added.
    â€œSome of your men must be familiar with the area,” FitzGibbon suggested.
    â€œFamiliar, yes . . . familiar in the same manner that the Americans are familiar with our side of the river, and you can see how little that has helped them.”
    â€œI know the area,” I said quietly.
    Both men stopped talking and looked at me.
    â€œRemember when I said I had relatives on the American side of the river?” I asked.
    FitzGibbon nodded.
    â€œFour summers ago, when my Ma was expecting the twins, she was having a rough time. My brother and sister and I were still too young to be much help, so we spent the entire summer with our relatives. Their farm is right there,” I said, placing a finger just down from the red X. “My cousin and I used to ride his horses all through the area, we fished on the river . . . I even know the trails up the cliffs.”
    FitzGibbon reached out and pushed the map toward me. “Here,” he said, handing me a piece of charcoal. “Sketch what you have just described.”
    â€œI’m not much at drawing,” I said, taking the charcoal.
    â€œWe’re not looking for a work of art. Any details you can add would be invaluable to us.”
    I put the tip against the paper. First I added some details to the Canadian side of the river—a couple of back roads and the trail that FitzGibbon and I had followed. Next I found the spot where we always crossed the river. I traced a line with my finger across the river, but diagonally, the way our boat always got pushed downstream during a crossing.
    â€œThis is where we usually land,” I said. “There’s a flat spot and easy access up the cliff.”
    â€œAnd you think that spot would be a better landing than here?” FitzGibbon asked, pointing to another spot upstream.
    â€œI don’t know . . . we always put in here . . . and I figure my father did that because it was the best spot,” I answered.
    â€œAnd how would you get from that spot to the supply depot up here?” FitzGibbon asked.
    I put the charcoal to the paper again. “There’s a farmer’s lane at the top that leads this way . . . I mean this way,” I said. Although I could picture it in my mind, I couldn’t remember where the lane started. “I’m just not sure, but I could find my way if I was there, for sure. And once you’re on that trail it will lead you right to the place you’ve marked on the map. Of that I’m sure,” I said.
    â€œHaving a guide who knows the area changes everything,” Merritt said.
    Did he mean me? I looked at FitzGibbon. He didn’t look happy about the suggestion.
    â€œIt would put us on a level