Whitcomb’s Rangers: Three Ghosts in the Woods

The moon was a thin white chip above the pines when Sergeant Caleb Marsh signaled the other two forward. Three men — that was all Major Whitcomb ever sent. Three shadows to slip through a hundred miles of enemy wilderness. Three ghosts to return with the truth or not at all.

Caleb pressed his palm to the cold earth. Hoofbeats. Distant, but coming down the military road from St. Johns. British patrol, maybe a courier. The kind Whitcomb wanted.

He motioned to Abel and Loring. They melted into the underbrush, each taking a flank. The three of them had worked together long enough that words were unnecessary. A twig snap, a birdcall, the scrape of a knife on bark — that was their language.

The riders appeared: two redcoats and an officer in a cloak. Lantern light swung from a saddle, throwing gold across the trees. Caleb’s heart thudded. Officers meant maps. Orders. Intelligence.

He waited until the horses drew level with the fallen log he’d chosen hours earlier. Then he gave the soft, low whistle — the one Whitcomb himself had taught him.

Abel’s musket cracked first. The lantern shattered. Darkness swallowed the road.

Loring lunged from the opposite side, dragging one rider down before he could shout. Caleb sprinted for the officer, who was fumbling for a pistol. They collided, rolled, and Caleb felt the man’s breath on his cheek as they grappled in the dirt.

The officer swung wildly. Caleb caught the blow with his forearm and drove his knife hilt‑deep into the man’s coat — not killing, just ending the fight. Whitcomb wanted prisoners when possible.

The forest went still again.

Abel dragged the surviving redcoat to the center of the road. Loring bound him with a length of cord. Caleb knelt by the officer, who groaned but lived.

“Papers,” Caleb whispered.

Loring searched the saddlebags. “Sir,” he breathed, “you’ll want to see this.”

He handed Caleb a leather case stamped with the seal of the First Brigade. Inside were orders — real ones — detailing troop movements toward the lakes, supply shortages, and a planned sweep for “American skulkers” operating in disguise.

Skulkers. Caleb almost laughed. If only the British knew how close they’d come tonight.

Abel nudged the prisoner. “What do we do with him?”

Caleb looked at the officer, then at the trees. They were deep in enemy territory. They couldn’t drag two prisoners through the wilderness. But Whitcomb had a rule: Kill only when necessary. Information is worth more than blood.

“We take the officer,” Caleb said. “Tie the other one to a tree. He’ll be found by morning.”

They hoisted the wounded officer onto a horse. The man groaned again, but Caleb tightened the bandage around his ribs. “You’ll live,” he muttered. “If you don’t make trouble.”

The three rangers slipped back into the pines, leading the horse along a narrow deer path. Behind them, the road lay quiet, the broken lantern still smoking.

Hours later, as dawn bled into the sky, Caleb allowed himself a breath. They had the orders. They had the officer. And they had a hundred miles of wilderness to cross before nightfall.

Whitcomb would be waiting.

And if the British wanted their “infamous skulkers,” they’d have to search a lot harder.

By Clay Griffin - Staff Writer