The Islet

Words by R. Louis Scott

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

October 10, 1776

Michael Trombley, stripped to the waist despite the early hour, worked with great purpose with his finely honed axe. The morning air was thick with mist and no breeze stirred the surface of Lake Champlain. Sweat clung in great droplets on his body, dislodged whenever his axe rang against the tight grain of the cedar. He cursed silently. His assignment under the young lieutenant, who strode about marking the trees to be cut or trimmed, was not to his liking. Michael took another full swing that gave some release from his anger, and his axe sent a satisfying spray of fragrant wood chips sailing out from the twisted trunk. 

The tree was old, ancient perhaps. It grew from a cleft in the solid rock that rose from the lakebed and formed this grey bit of dry ground several hundred yards from the New York shoreline. Valcour Island was less than a mile to the north, but invisible in the fog. Old and gnarled cedars were the only significant things growing here. Minor grasses and weeds made a home for themselves in the cushion of dead foliage that filled the small hollows and depressions in the stone, and seeing them only further angered Michael, as he imagined that weeds like these were now likely sprouting in his fields and fledgling orchard. Of course, it was October and no weeds sprouted this time of year, but the image of such a thing suited his mood and he gripped it as tightly as he gripped the handle of his axe. One more swing and the tree fell with a rush of air through its limbs. 

“Well done, Michael!” called the lieutenant. “Trim that one down and we’ll use the trunk for a beam.”

Michael nodded in reply, still chafing at having been detailed to this task when other men were preparing a flotilla of ships to meet the British when they came. There was no “if” to the matter, of course, only “when”. The entire countryside knew that the Royal Navy would sail out of the north any day now. Where they might decide to make landfall was a matter of great conjecture, and not a small amount of wagering on the part of the more cynical men. 

Taking a moment to rest, he watched a boy with a hatchet working his way down the trunk of one of the islet’s taller trees. Perhaps all of twelve, the lad was chopping off the branches close to the trunk with a great deal more enthusiasm for the work than Michael felt. The irritating young lieutenant had marked that particular tree for trimming rather than for felling. 

He saw Jim from Plattsburgh, a man who had helped him to settle a small plot of land on the Saranac River. Jim was working at clearing some low scrub with a hand axe and took no note of Michael, who couldn’t remember Jim’s last name at the moment and gave up trying after a bit. Jim was a good man, and had promised to introduce him to his sister’s husband’s cousin when this was all over with. “A fine young woman,” he had said, “and sure to be a good wife!”

When Michael had shown up one day from the North leading a mule loaded down with tools and seed, Jim had been the one to direct him to a good spot to settle. Upriver from Plattsburgh, it was prime land.

 “You clear it and look after it and it’s yours,” Jim had said. “If you end up with a bumper crop, you’ve got the river to move your goods. It’s a perfect spot for an able man to settle.”

Michael was accepted quickly as a man in search of his own land to work. The fact that he worked hard and did not interfere or intrude into other people’s business was appreciated by his new neighbors, and when a particular job such as raising a timber-frame barn came up, Michael and his good-natured mule could always be relied on to help. He fished the salmon run in the spring and trout and bass year round from the river. He raised hogs on the plentiful forest mast, and always joined his neighbors to work the fall slaughter. This spring, he had collected maple sap and rendered syrup for the first time. An occasional deer for meat and skins, and Michael found the land and his life to his liking.

Wild and very sparsely settled, being a good neighbor counted for a lot in this part of the country. No one concerned themselves with where he had come from, and the fact that he was a fugitive from British justice had simply never come up. When hard-working Michael Trombley had arrived one day from Quebec after sending the corrupt tax collector sprawling onto his backside with one hard punch to the jaw, no one here knew and none would ask about such things. The past didn’t matter. Helping your neighbor get his wagon out of the mud did. 

And that, he supposed, was why he was out here on this bit of rock in the lake now. He was not a soldier, nor was he a sailor, but he could help the cause, and clearing land was something he was very familiar with. 

His expert work with his axe soon cleared the branches from the old cedar tree, and the lieutenant directed a gang of men to lift and carry the trunk to the Vermont side of their small island.

“Too bad it isn’t a bit straighter a trunk, but I’m certain it is sturdy enough for what we have in mind,” said the lieutenant. Michael could not find it within himself to ask what purpose that might be. The young officer reminded him too much of the taxman. The manner of speech. A man with too much authority for his age. Michael shrugged, went on to the next tree marked for felling, and set to work with the same determination that he had shown in clearing his plot on the Saranac.

By late morning, all of the trees and brush had been cleared from the lonely little bit of rock, and the sun had finally managed to burn off the mist. Two trees had been left standing, stripped of their branches. Michael worked stoically as directed by the lieutenant, but yearned to get away. He began to sneak glances towards the near shore, hoping for a small boat to come and rescue him from this place.

 “Right then, gentlemen, your attention please!” The lieutenant was standing on the highest part of the rock where he would be impossible to ignore. “We’ve still a bit to do before we can consider our mission complete.” Supplies were to be delivered which would need to be brought up on the islet and stowed to guard against damage. Michael’s groan was not the only one, but the dozen or so men that had cleared the rock that day set about preparing dinner with only a modicum of grumbling while awaiting the arrival of the boats that would bring the supplies, and hopefully, the means to return to the shore and home. 

Someone with foresight had brought a brace of rabbits, and several others produced vegetables from their packs, and soon a fine stew was cooking over a hot, fragrant, cedar-fueled fire. Men continued to work under the lieutenant’s direction, and pairs of fresh-cut logs were lashed together to make solid lifting frames. Ropes were lashed to the apex of each frame, and the bothersome lieutenant inspected each assembly and had the men seat the ends of the logs solidly in the rocky ground and pull the ropes to raise them, and he nodded his satisfaction after each test, oblivious to the rolled eyes and disparaging looks of the men doing the physical labor. 

Another group worked at the shoreline, stacking cut logs in an interlocking pattern that soon took the form of a long, low wall right at the water’s edge. These followed the shore closely, and Michael was interested in the manner in which the A- frames stretched over this wall, reaching out at least a good ten feet over the water. Whatever they were building, the lieutenant seemed to know precisely how it should be done.

Eventually, the work was completed to the satisfaction of the lieutenant, which coincided nicely with the rabbit stew being pronounced ready, and the men took time to eat and rest a bit. Michael put his shirt on and sat on a rock near Jim and another man he did not know, but who was apparently well known to Jim.

“Bloody stupid work we’re doing here,” griped the stranger. “Pointless! Useless!”

“I don’t know about that,” replied Jim casually after swallowing a bit of bread. “We’ve got something going on here. I don’t know what mind you, but if the Brits get control of the lake, we don’t have a chance. They could land men anywhere, at anytime, and what could we do about that? Nothing! Not a damned chance of defending the shore if they control the lake. No chance to defend our farms or our mills. They could land out by where you live, take your cattle and your stored grain, burn your house, and then where would you be come winter?”

The stranger scowled at the contents of his bowl and didn’t answer, which was fine with Michael. This man had insulted him earlier, making fun of his lilting French accent. Michael had been ready to knock some respect into the stranger’s head, but Jim had intervened, pointing out that the stranger could hardly be understood himself, with a brogue as thick as the morning fog, and Michael had laughed and settled down, realizing that he was being needlessly proud. 

Michael knew that his own farm was safe. No one in their right mind would march six miles up the river to find some small homestead tucked away in the middle of nowhere. The lakeshore was a different story, though. Plenty of farms dotted the shoreline, and several communities had sprung up in various sheltered bays and river mouths, and these were extremely vulnerable. The lake brought in goods that the people here needed and wanted, gunpowder and books and glass. The farm products of the area also went south on the lake to the growing cities of Albany and Saratoga, where their sale provided cash money to buy the books and glass.

 “Say Jim,” said Michael upon finishing his meal, “you have never told me much about your sister’s husband’s cousin. I think you must be trying to marry off an ugly relative, so that I will take her to my farm up the river and you will not have to look at her anymore.”

Jim snorted. “She’s a looker, Michael. A real looker, with fire-red hair and milk-white skin and bright blue eyes, but she’s headstrong, that one. I was gonna tell you ‘bout that before I worked out an introduction, really.” He smiled at Michael, thinking that this fine young man was really going to be a perfect addition to what he thought of as his family bush. Perhaps not so lofty as a family tree, but good people: fun to be around and not a drunkard or a wastrel in the lot. 

“She got it into her head that she was going to raise a few goats and make goat cheese,” he continued. “Goat cheese! With all these cows around she decides to make goat cheese!” Jim laughed easily just thinking of it again. “Well she makes some nice coin now selling her goat cheese because people like a little variety, you know. And of course now that she’s proved her point, she’s impossible to live with. But you would like her, Michael, I mean really like her, and I’m sure that she would like you, so start thinking about where to build the goat pen out at your place, alright?” 

Michael looked at Jim’s smile and couldn’t help but smile himself.

“I’ll grant you that she is all you say she is, but I’m tired of thinking of her as your sister’s husband’s cousin. Does this enchantress have a name?”

“Loinda,” replied Jim.

“Loinda,” Michael thought. A pretty name. “I like cheese, Jim. I would very much like to meet her.”

Jim laughed again, certain that his matchmaking was a perfect fit. He couldn’t wait until this pair laid eyes on each other, because sparks were sure to fly. He reached over and clapped Michael on the shoulder. “I promise,” he said, “you will be properly introduced. Just be ready to be in the thick of it, because when my wife sees you, she will think the same as I, that you are the right man for Loinda and she the right woman for you.” He finished his speech and Michael felt a sense of belonging that he had missed since kissing his mother goodbye. He was about to speak further, but the lieutenant interrupted by dashing past them, scrambling over the rocks.

“It’s the Philadelphia,” he exclaimed. “She’s coming here!” He continued headlong over the tiny expanse of their island to where all of the men had piled their belongings. While he rummaged for his own pack, the curious workers looked out towards the east to see a small gunboat making leisurely headway towards their bit of rock. 

At the top of her mast hung the red and white striped ensign, limp and lifeless, but the sign of a friend. Long oars powered the craft, as the sails could find no wind worth using. Michael looked on as the boat approached, curious as to what sort of warship might make the lake her home, and tried to quell his disappointment at the boat’s unimpressive proportions and armament. He had pictured something with big guns lining the sides and multiple masts draped with all manner of sails, but the Philadelphia was not nearly as grand as his imagination had made it. A small cannon on the bow and one on either rail appeared to be the sum of her weaponry, and the mast carried only two sails, both of which hung sullenly from the rigging. Behind her were two open longboats in tow.

“Ahoy, Philadelphia!” called the young lieutenant, and Michael turned to note that the man had put on a topcoat and hat of dark blue wool with yellow piping, and that he held a small brass spyglass tucked under one arm. 

The Philadelphia closed the gap of open water and turned neatly as she neared the islet’s shore to present her beam to the low wall of logs the men had built. Oars stopped pulling and began to find use as poles, keeping the hull from grounding by the simple expedient of pushing at the shoreline. Lines uncoiled in the air, launched from bow and stern and uncertain farmers moved to grab hold of them, while four sailors cast off in the towed longboats and made their way slowly to the other side of the islet. 

The lieutenant took charge again. “Only two men per line, gents, and don’t pull in too hard, just keep an even strain. The rest of you, man up the lines for the A-frames, we’ve equipment and supplies to unload.” 

More from habit after a long day of following the lieutenant’s commands than from any sense of military discipline, the rest of the men took hold of the lines on the three A-frames, their purpose suddenly very clear. Each of the frames could have its apex lowered out over the Philadelphia’s open deck, where sailors made quick work of lashing bundles to hang from them. The men on shore then pulled the lines attached to the frame apex, and the cargo was both lifted clear of the gunwales and traversed over to dry land in one smooth movement. After figuring out the best procedure with one or two such movements, a variety of cargo began to move quickly from ship to land, bundles of canvas and coils of rope, small barrels and bulky bags. 

Michael suddenly began to re-think his opinion of the lieutenant. The cargo transfer was proceeding in a very efficient manner due entirely to the young man’s planning and foresight, but before he could begin to formulate an apology in his mind, the last bits of cargo were being shifted, and every man on the islet looked at what came off next, for two cannons were dangling from the frames.

“Hold there! Hold there!” came a new voice, and Michael turned to see the four sailors that had taken the longboats now approaching over the rocky terrain.

The largest of the four waved an arm and spoke again. “Hold ‘em there for just a minute!” he called, and he and his companions rushed forward to position two spindly looking wooden carriages to accept the cannons from where they hung. The men seemed to know what they were about, for soon the big one signaled the farmers to lower their burden slowly, and he and his mates guided the big guns into position. 

“That’s good, that’ll do fine,” he said at last, and the local men gathered around to see the massive weapons, because none of them had ever been close to a cannon before. Each of them reached out to touch and feel the cold, rippled surfaces and marvel at the size of the bores.

“Two six-pounders, Mr. Stiles. Enough powder and shot for perhaps twelve loadings each.” Michael turned to the voice of the speaker and saw a lean, older man in a blue wool waistcoat aboard the ship, casually resting an arm on one knee, foot propped on the gunwale. “I shall hope you will make the most of every one.”

“We will do our best General Arnold, I promise you!” the lieutenant replied.

The man on the ship nodded with a smile before continuing. “The best we know is that the British are likely to be here tomorrow or the next day. I would count on tomorrow. We will be outnumbered without a doubt, and out-gunned most certainly. Anyone who is able will meet at Ticonderoga following the action. Any questions?” 

“None, sir,” the lieutenant replied.

The man on the Philadelphia nodded. “Do your best, Lieutenant.” He paused and grinned. “Or should I say ‘Captain’? At any rate, I’ve sent the finest gunner we have to assist you.” Benedict Arnold scanned the little island and focused on the large sailor, and called again.  

“Bos’n Jones! One of those casks we set off is full of good ale. Drink well tonight and aim true tomorrow!” 

“I shall, General, and good luck to you, sir!”

The general gave the group of men on the island a tired salute and he turned and gave murmured orders that had the Philadelphia on her way. The men on the islet watched her go, a few of them raising hands in small waves, forlorn gestures in view of the sudden revelation of approaching danger. The young lieutenant broke the dark mood with a question for the Bos’n.

“So Jones,” he called, “how do we look?”  

Jones was a big man, over six feet, with a bit of a belly but strong broad shoulders, and he had his curly auburn hair pulled back and tied with a bit of black ribbon. He put ham fists on hips before speaking, and did so in a voice that carried to all the men present.

“Even now, sir, it looks good enough to cause doubt. With some more work, a little fog, and a bit of luck, we could fool anyone that was more than a quarter-mile off.” 

“Well then, Boats, perhaps you can assist us in making our charade as convincing as possible. We should have the supplies we need to make a go of it, so if you will please, direct the men to what needs done.”

The Bos’n commenced ordering men about on various tasks as though expecting their obedience. Michael was paired with one of the sailors, who shinned with uncanny ease up the tall, bare trunk of the largest tree still standing, a coil of light line stuck under his belt. He kept Michael busy tying various items on to the line which he then hauled up and lashed expertly into place. Within hours, a cross-beam had been fixed to the trunk some thirty feet up, to which the sailor then tied off a bewildering array of other lines. These were handled by the Bos’n, who came by often to help and to check progress. At one point, Jones and Michael introduced themselves in an off-hand and informal way as they looked skyward and watched the agile sailor secure a T-shaped extension on to the top of the tree. Michael could see that something was attached to the newly added cross-arm, but he could not discern just what precisely. 

Jones and another man hauled a long log with a curious canvas arrangement attached to it over to the base of the tree. He quickly tied off a messenger to a coil of heavier line, and Michael watched as the Bos’n and the sailor atop the tree prepared to haul the next load skyward.

“Give me a hand here, eh Michael?” the Bos’n asked, and Michael hurried to assist. The log and canvas contraption was lifted quickly to the crossbeam above them, and the sailor there secured it into position in seconds. 

Jones watched the man above them intently. “Good work, Adam!” he called up. “Now get those lanyards prepared and come on down and we’ll have a bit of that ale General Arnold left in our care!” The man above them waved and his smile was evident to Michael, who craned his neck to look up at him. All of this work for no apparent reason still irked him. He continued to watch the man above him tie off various things while he determined that now might be as good a time as any to find out just what they had been attempting to accomplish out here on this bit of rock.

“Ah, excuse me Jones,” he began, “I don’t mean to sound as though I don’t appreciate the effort being put into this work, but what is it we are doing here?”

Jones turned to look at him, hands still on hips and one eye cast up to the tree top every now and then as if to make certain the sailor aloft was not about to drop something on his head. “Do you mean he hasn’t told you?” Jones asked, flicking a glance towards the young lieutenant. “You mean to say that you’ve been working here all day and that little dandy there hasn’t told you what we’re about?”

Michael shook his head, embarrassed to only now be asking what it was he was doing, and not wanting to show off his ignorance at not being able to figure it out for himself. Jones smiled at his silence. “If you feel up to a bit of rowing, I’ll show you what you’ve labored on. Perhaps to see it will be the best explanation of all.” Jones directed him towards one of the longboats and met him there soon after with the young lieutenant, one of the sailors, and Jim in tow. Jones quickly had them arrayed at the oars and pulling strongly while the lieutenant manned the tiller and steered them to the east. A few minutes on the calm water had them well offshore from their little project, and soon the lieutenant called for them to prepare to ship oars. As the water dripped from the raised ends, he turned their craft broadside to the islet, and Michael saw for the first time the outline of the work done that day.

“Perhaps we should have a look at the complete picture, Bos’n,” the lieutenant said with barely contained excitement. Jones cupped meaty palms around his mouth, and shouted across the expanse of water to his waiting men.

“Make all sail!”

On the islet a moment of hesitation passed, and then sailors and farmers let loose the canvas hung that afternoon, and the rock that Michael had labored on all day was transformed from a small and insignificant bit of land into a perfect picture of a low-sided, shallow-draft, single-masted gunboat of the Continental Navy. Dark colored canvas had been laid over the low log wall, making it appear to be a solid planked hull, and the tree that had been left standing served now as a mast. From it hung the same sort of sails that had graced the Philadelphia. Michael wondered at his own inability to have seen what it was they had been working on, but out here on the lake it was obvious. They had built a ship.

Jones was ebullient. “She’s beautiful, sir! Beautiful! We’ll take on the lot of them that comes against us!”

“One thing’s certain, Boats. They’ll never sink us!” The lieutenant beamed his satisfaction and got everyone to rowing again, back to the islet, for the sun was waning and the chill of the October evening was beginning to make itself felt. There remained much to attend to before all preparations could be considered complete. 

* * *

 HMS Inflexible turned yet again, her hull creaking and her rigging singing, so as to bring her starboard side once more to bear on the colonial vessel that stubbornly refused to yield, run, or sink. It had foolishly fired on the British fleet well before they had come into effective range, and those shots had only roused the interest of the British gunners. Two full broadsides had already been fired, and Carleton and Royal Convert were also maneuvering after having delivered vicious broadsides of their own, but the gunboat before them remained intact. Sir Guy Carleton, Governor of British Canada, stood aboard the Maria and watched through his spyglass as two distinct flashes and plumes of smoke from cannon fire indicated that she was still in the fight. 

Carleton turned and quickly scanned the surface of the lake behind him in the direction of Vermont. HMS Thunderer was out there, flailing about in the stiff north wind. Well, at least she gave the longboats something to rally around, he thought, because she was certainly useless inshore. 

He turned back in time to take stock of the colonial gunnery. One ball missed well to his stern, and the other hit the Carleton with little apparent effect, for she responded at once with all six guns on her port side as she completed her turn to the north. Carleton turned to tally the hits on the pesky rebel, and took note of four solid hits and two misses. As he watched, the Royal Convert let loose with her seven portside guns. Sir Guy was unable to tally hits, however, as his flagship Inflexible opened up at that very moment and the thunder and flash of her nine 12 pounders obscured the target for a few brief moments. The various gunboats accompanying his fleet began to add their single bow-mounted gun reports to the fray as they came within range. 

Carleton remained standing calmly aft, adjusting his stance to compensate without conscious thought as Maria heeled over into another turn to bring her loaded and ready starboard battery to bear. She had not yet closed to fire but maneuvered to remain in range. He pondered what role Thunderer might possibly take in this battle when the colonial gunboat again let loose with its two cannons. As he watched, Carleton took both shells low on the main deck, and her mainmast took on a sudden leaning angle while several of her rigging lines parted, sounding like rifle shots across the water, and her main sheets began to flutter uselessly in the steady winds from the north.  

Lieutenant Starke, captain of the Maria, appeared at his side. “One of our gunboats reports sighting numerous enemy ships to the north, sir. They’ve been hiding on the far side of Valcour.”

Carleton nodded a perfunctory acknowledgement and fumed over the luck these colonials were having, then once again raised his telescope to take stock of the damage his fleet must certainly be inflicting. It took a moment to bring the enemy vessel into sharp focus, and in a sudden awful revelation he realized just what His Majesty’s Navy had expended over sixty loads and altogether too much time upon, and his calm demeanor changed to one of pure poison. Standing alongside him, the Captain had obviously seen the same thing, for he uttered a quiet curse, much in contrast to the admiral’s next words. 

“God damn it! God bloody damn it!” Sir Guy Carleton snapped his glass shut in a single vicious movement. “This does not go into the log, Lieutenant Starke, is that understood? Is that clearly understood?” Carleton’s face was blood red with anger, highlighting the white spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. Mr. Starke knew better than to even answer in the affirmative, and kept silent in the face of such rage. 

“Signal all ships! ‘Cease firing and engage the fleet to the north!’” Gunfire from two of the accompanying gunboats punctuated his sentence. “Now!” 

Starke moved quickly to have the orders passed, pleased to remove himself from Carleton’s glowering company. Maria heeled over as she came about to her new course and the rest of the fleet followed in rapid order. The sails of the colonial fleet became clearer with every passing moment, and no one aboard the British ships took further note of the tiny island as they passed.

* * *

It was almost dark when Bos’n Jones finally steered them into the mouth of Salmon Creek, and they found many hands waiting to help them tie up in the sheltered estuary. Survivors from the Philadelphia and the still smoldering Royal Savage had watched their approach from the shore as they had made their way to the mainland from Gunboat Rock. Other men, their rifles at the ready, lined the bank looking south, alert for any remaining Iroquois landed by the British.

Michael tossed the bow painter to a man on shore, too tired to care if the watching sailors considered his effort professional looking. His ears were still ringing even after all of the hours that had passed since the last cannon had fired, and while his stomach growled, he had no appetite. 

The keel of the longboat scraped against the pebbly bottom and ground to a halt. Michael leaped to the shore with his rifle in one hand and his pack in the other, a great rushing wave of relief washing through him. It was all he could do to refrain from shouting aloud at his good fortune to be off the lake. He worked his way quickly to a point on the steep embankment where he could stop and sit and look back at the longboat. He and Jim had stayed behind when the other farmers had left the night before, to carry powder and ball to the men that had loaded and aimed and fired the cannon at the British fleet. They had followed Jones’s directions concerning when to hide among the rocks when there was incoming fire. 

They had then huddled out of sight for all of the hours that it had taken the British to pound the Continental Fleet to splinters, and when it had seemed safe enough, they had struggled mightily to load the two cannons into the longboat. This done, Jones had declared that enough freeboard remained to also bring back the bodies. 

The sailor had stumbled, only to regain his feet at an inopportune time. The lieutenant had stood tall near the large trunk, his blue coat buttoned properly and his hat squarely on his head, watching the action through his brass spyglass. He had cheered their efforts and reported on the results of their gunnery until a British ball had sent a shower of splintered rock through his body and killed him instantly.

Michael watched quietly as men helped to tend to the dead, but turned away as they cleared the bodies from the tiny landing area. It had been awful enough to place the mangled men into the scraps of canvas and then aboard the longboat. 

Jim came to sit alongside. The two did not speak for a long time, but ever-gregarious Jim could not be silent forever.

“I think we’ve done our duty, Michael, and even better we’re still in one piece having done it.” 

“How many ships came against us do you think?” It had appeared a vast armada to Michael when they had all seemed to be firing at him.

Jim cackled quietly. “Oh, about thirty I reckon. But they wasted a lot of effort on us, didn’t they? And did you see where they went? Not down to the Hudson, where they could split the colonies. They went north! And this close to winter I’ll wager they won’t be back till spring.

  “Why don’t you come along home with me now and I’ll introduce you to our Loinda?” 

About the author

R. Louis Scott has often wondered how he might have turned out if public libraries did not exist. Growing up, he devoured the entire science fiction section until, at a rather impressionable age apparently, he discovered The Drifters by James Michener. He got “A” marks in his English classes because he liked writing even though he was (and remains) a rather terrible typist.

During a career in the United States Navy he found ample time to read and developed a preference for works of fiction with an historical setting. The only writing he did during this time period was evaluations for his subordinates and a major work entitled “SH-60B Helicopter Cockpit Conversion for Night Vision Systems” which, although the subject of rave reviews, saw very limited distribution.

Now employed in an engineering R&D laboratory, he integrates cutting edge technology into new medical devices, but at night he converses with characters who are trying to build a ballista.

He resides in San Diego California with his wife Karen and their children, Robert and Julia.

About the illustrator

Yaleeza Patchett has been creating whimsical art and illustrations since a child; her inspiration comes from the cartoons, comic strips and animated movies she grew up with. Four years ago, Yaleeza began expanding her art into her own business named Rowan Ink. It began with a simple pair of hand-painted custom-made shoes for a friend’s birthday. Through her artistic journey she has expanded into different art mediums, but her true passion is sketching, illustrating and painting.  Yaleeza currently resides in the south side of Indianapolis with her husband, her dog, and her cat. You can find her current artwork at Rowaninkstudio.com