I, Colonel Ebenezer Webster, having served as a Ranger under Major Roberts during the war with the French and under General Washington in our battle for independence, once again prepared to fulfill my legal duty as ranking officer in this vicinity, to muster all able bodied men for training against possible aggressors.

On the day chosen, men from Salisbury and the surrounding townships converged outside my home. Raucous and boastful, they were speculating and wagering as to who would be able to best my shot in marksmanship. Some were saying the experience and training of Phineas Stevens would rule the day. Others were sure the keen eye and steady hand of the youthful Andrew Bohonon would prove the successful combination. Retrieving my musket from it's resting place beside the door, I quickly prepared the load and rammed it home. Stepping outside I greeted the men.

The morning was clear and promised to present a hot July sun as the day waxed on. Eager to get the training under way before the effects of the sun or the copious quantities of rum took their toll, I brought the men to attention and began the march to the hayfield by the river Merrymac that would act as our parade grounds.

The first order of the day would be marksmanship. The men carried what firelocks they had available. Some fancy but most plain and functional. There were Fowling pieces and trade muskets. Even a few English Brown Besses and French Charlyvilles left over from the wars. The mark was to be the same as past years. There was a snag in the river, about 75 yards distant, surrounded by water. One branch stood above the water half a knee's height and in width was a mere hands breadth and a half. This mark had been chose as it was with great ease that a hit or miss could be ascertained. Any musket ball that missed the mark sent a small geyser of water skyward. No splash could only mean a direct hit.

As commanding Officer it was my privilege to set the standard to beat. That and the fact that I had been undefeated the five years previous. I checked the prime in my musket, raised it to my shoulder, and carefully brought the sight to home on the mark. With a "clack" the flint fell. Before the echo of the report returned from the far bank, a loud chorus of "HUZZAH's" rang out. Once again my shot had produced no splash.

One by one the men stepped forward to the firing line. One by one they watched as each of their musket balls sent sprays of water toward the sky. Good natured at first, the excuses abounded.

"The sun was in my eyes", said one.
"A mosquito bit my ear", blamed another.
"You bumped my elbow!" and a myriad of others.

Young Andrew hung his head as those who had wagered on him began to reticule his shooting. In order to console themselves, some of the men had begun to relieve their rum flasks of their contents. The time had come to put a stop to the sport and get on with the other orders of the day.

As darkness was beginning to settle, the men, weary of the task of drilling and marching, were dismissed and made their way towards home. Boasts and promises to shoot better and straighter faded into the evening air. With a last hoarse shout of "Good day", I went inside to complete the required roll of the muster.

Taking quill in hand I bent over the parchment, tinted yellow by the glowing candle. Through the stillness I felt eyes upon me. Turning, I saw my son Joseph standing in the passage with young Daniel by his side. I knew the question to come. It surely would be the same as last.

"This year, Papa," said Joseph. "This year, did you at least use a musket ball?"
We all laughed heartily as I sent them scurrying off to their beds.