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Leonardo’s comments from the Book Buying Addicts Anonymous group.

THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL FUGITIVE

Free Until Jan 21st (Kindle) -- http://www.amazon.com/Life-Colonial-F...

An historical thriller based in the American Revolution. Young Jonathan E. Lee is falsely accused of heinous war crimes by his treacherous regimental commander! Jonathan is forced to flee the colonies to save his neck from the hangman's noose, fighting his way across a stormy Atlantic and then joining a mercenary army that is deploying to warring Siam, a kingdom that is squirming under the iron-fist of a madman.

Greetings! I am Dr. Leonardo Noto, a former military battalion surgeon. The idea for "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born out of my passion for American military history and my enthusiasm for the sport of muay Thai (Thai boxing). While training in a Thai boxing camp during the days and working on a novel based in the American Revolution during the nights, I noticed that Thai history during the 1780s was as turbulent as the American history of the period. After two years of detailed research, including nearly forty references, "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born. I hope that you enjoy reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Dr. Leonardo Noto
Practicing Physician and Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," "Intrusive Memory," and "Medical School 101."

Please visit my blog, "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality," at www.leonardonoto.com. Thanks for reading!

I snuck a peak from around my hiding place and I shuddered abhorrently as I witnessed First Sergeant Miller grabbing the frightened Private by his throat and choking him until the lad dropped onto his knees.

“You WILL address me as First Sergeant, you WILL obey my commands without question, or you WILL end up like this sorry heap of manure! Is that understood?”

First Sergeant Miller was answered only by silence, a silence that enraged him so that he lifted his musket and hit the nearest soldier squarely in the face with its butt, instantly knocking the young man unconscious. I stared aghast, willing myself to step forward to halt these atrocities, but at the last moment deciding to hold my tongue for I was new to the military and I had no illusion that the power of my commands rested solely in the hands of the First Sergeant who enforced them. Bravo Company was now clustered together into an unnaturally tight formation, like a herd of buffalo circling for protection from a hungry pack of wolves, the men standing shoulder-to-shoulder as every man’s eyes focused straight forward, none daring so much as a fleeting glance in First Sergeant’s direction. First Sergeant strutted through the ranks like a parading peacock, correcting each soldier one-by-one with terse commands: “feet at forty-five degrees; thumbs along the seams of your pants; tuck in that damn pointy chin!” Feeling emasculated, my self-confidence shredded into tatters, I retired to my tent for a shot of brandy and a nap, staring at the tent’s breeze-fluttering ceiling as the last drops of liquor trickled their way down my lumpy throat.

The next two weeks were a flurry of controlled chaos as First Sergeant Miller and I drilled the soldiers in the military arts of marching, marksmanship, and modern battle tactics. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that virtually all of my men were seasoned marksmen, an artifact of childhoods spent scavenging for food in the untamed mountains of Appalachia. However, the men’s backgrounds also made them naturally free-spirited, making discipline a constant challenge. I rapidly learnt to appreciate, though never to fully condone, First Sergeant’s disciplinary rigor as a necessary evil. Within two weeks’ time, First Sergeant Miller and I had successfully transformed the men of Bravo Company from a rabble of farm boys into a collection of lethal soldiers. The initial disciplinary difficulties and the occasional surreptitious bouts of drunkenness aside, by the end of the fortnight I was confident in the ability of Bravo Company to face our soulless enemy in the fiery cauldron of combat. Indeed, even Colonel Woodrow had a rare look of approval across his hate-chiseled face as he reviewed our formation during his final inspection before the regiment’s deployment to the New York frontier.

On the 22nd of October, I was awakened nigh midnight by First Sergeant’s booming voice. I sleepily opened the folds of my tent to find him standing beside the most off-putting individual I had ever beholden. First Sergeant’s companion was named Wolfslayer, a redskin of limited height and slight build who nonetheless managed to radiate an engulfing aura of intimidation about his person. The vicious appearing tomahawk that was tucked into the Indian’s belt and his deer-hide clothing only added to the man’s threatening appearance. I thought to myself that I would be loth to meet him in the woods alone at night. First Sergeant Miller flashed a tobacco-stained grin as he introduced the native as an old friend while stating, “an’ I don’t call many men my friend; it ain’t a word I toss out easy now.”

Hailing from the Finger Lakes Region of New York, Wolfslayer had been assigned by Colonel Woodrow to serve as Bravo Company’s frontier guide. I introduced myself to the Indian and inquired as to the nature of the unusual necklace that was hanging from his neck. Wolfslayer informed me that it was made out of the ears of Mohawk, Seneca and Cayuga warriors that he, a proud member of the Oneida tribe, had killed in battle during the intertribal civil war that still raged between the former members of the Iroquois Confederacy2. I made a note to myself not to ask about any of the other unusual articles of clothing that he was sporting, then I dismissed Wolfslayer to First Sergeant’s care and headed back into my tent for a final night’s sleep before our deployment.

I arose early on the morning of October the 23rd to supervise the breaking of our camp and I was pleased to find my men working with great zeal, tearing down their tents and burying the heaping piles of refuse that our regiment had managed to produce during our brief stay. After a roaming inspection of the campsite with his Executive Officer in tow, and finding himself satisfied that all was in order, Colonel Woodrow called the regiment to attention and we began our orderly march towards the frontier fields of death, Wolfslayer and First Sergeant marching by my side in front of the rank-and-file of Bravo Company.

2.The Iroquois Confederacy: The most civilized of the Indian intertribal governments in the colonies, hundreds of years old when it fell into a civil war between the tribes allied with the Colonials and those loyal to the British Crown. Of the six tribes, only the Oneidas and the Tuscarora fought alongside the Colonials while the remaining four tribes (the Seneca, Cayuga, Onondagas, and the Mohawks) allied with King George III.

CHAPTER 2:
The 11th Virginian Continental Regiment

October 1778: I reported for duty at the command tent of the 11th Virginian Continental Regiment on the First of October, a fine and breezy autumn day, ideal for the training on which our newly constituted regiment was preparing to embark. I found the 11th Virginia’s commanding officer, Colonel Woodrow, pacing around his luxuriously furnished, command tent in an aggressive agitation. Colonel Woodrow hardly acknowledged my presence as I begged permission to enter, responding only with a lukewarm wave of his hand towards an uncomfortable appearing, wicker chair, the only unpadded item of furniture amongst the half-dozen overstuffed chairs that were littered about the massive tent’s periphery, the center of the command tent being occupied by a solid oak table, its surface covered with topographic maps. I took a seat in the wicker, twiddling my thumbs and feeling quite out of place as I watched my commander pace to-and-fro, gesticulating wildly with his saber and muttering to himself unintelligibly. Colonel Woodrow was a lean muscular officer with a frame more befitting a twenty-year-old enlisted man than a forty-year-old regimental commander. His uniform fit smartly and his saber shone in the sunlight that flooded through the tents open folds. The saber shone nearly as brightly as the Colonel’s impeccably polished leather boots, boots of fine European craftsmanship, probably Neapolitan, I thought as I gazed about the room, my mind eager for any distraction from my sweaty-palmed anxiety as I sat waiting. The minutes ticked by, unbearable minutes that felt like hours. Suddenly the Colonel ceased his roaming soliloquy and squared his body in front of mine, his square jaw tightly clinched.

“Do you know how many white families have been killed by the heathen this year, Mr. Lee?” Colonel Woodrow shouted as he leaned his boxy face into mine.

“No Sir, but any number is surely too many, Sir.”

“But you don’t know how many, do you? You haven’t the faintest clue!” The Colonel rasped in exasperation as he thrust his saber over my left shoulder, barely missing my ear.

“N-n-no Sir, I confess my regrettable ignorance.” I stuttered, my eyes downtrodden as nervous sweat filled my boots.

“Ignorant or apathetic, Mr. Lee? Either way, you are not alone. The fact is that no one knows with exactitude because no one is bothered enough by the deaths of those hardworking men-of-god to keep track of how many the redskins are slaying—slaying with their bloodstained tomahawks, skinning the women and children like ranchers harvesting rawhide! I was raised on the frontier and I watched my entire family butchered by the savage before I had reached my seventh birthday. I saved my wretched skin by hiding under a pile of cow dung, covered in shit like a damn coward deserves. God how I burnt for revenge, from the depths of my blackened soul I burned, hating myself as much as I hated the heathen. But that pathetic boy grew into a man, Mr. Lee, a man who knows the God-given truth that revenge is not only man’s greatest pleasure but also his greatest duty!”

I stared at the Colonel, unable to speak, standing stiff at attention, my eyes staring straight ahead, not daring to move a muscle, the perspiration dripping down my pantaloons the unbroken boots that had been busily rubbing blisters onto my virgin feet all day, blisters that now burned with the fiercest of intensities as my salty sweat seeped into the ruptured vesicles. I wiggled my crackling toes as the Colonel continued his pressured tirade. My commander now seemed again oblivious to my presence, speaking only to himself and to the god that he both worshipped and despised.

“Cobleskill and Wyoming Valley, these are just the latest sites of the heathen massacres; mass killings instigated, supplied, and financed by the godforsaken British. I intend to avenge these atrocities by returning the favor upon their perpetrators tenfold, with God as my witness!” Colonel Woodrow gazed skyward as he shouted his fiery pledge, shaking his fist at the heavens.

The Colonel now stalked across his command tent to a map that hung from the far side, motioning for me to follow after him. The Colonel’s map ranged from Canada to Virginia, from the Atlantic coast to the unspoiled forests of Kentucke, containing a level of topographic detail to be found only on military maps of the finest cartography.

“Our official orders arrived a week ago, signed by General Washington himself. The mission will not be an easy one; the regiment will lose as much blood as it will draw.” Colonel Woodrow mumbled, the raging tempest that had been storming inside him beginning to calm. “Our God-given task is to mold this soft pathetic rabble of clueless farm boys into a functional Continental regiment before the end of the month…”

“That only leaves two weeks, Sir, barely enough time to train the men to march and to shoot!” I feebly protested.

“Barely enough time, indeed.” The Colonel retorted, a professorial tone creeping into his stony voice. “Nonetheless, that is the task at hand and our departure date is nonnegotiable. On October the First, we will begin our march from Virginia to the frontiers of Western New York where we will serve to guard the white settlements against the predations of the soulless redskins. Our secondary objective will be to scout the wilderness, providing reconnaissance to thwart surprise attacks on General Washington’s rear from British Canada. I need not remind you that just last year General Burgoyne marched a force of 6,000 British regulars through this very same country.” The Colonel stated.

I stood speechless for the horrors of frontier warfare were well known to all Virginians. Visions of the scalping and violating of innocent civilians rampaged through my mind as the Colonel gesticulated towards his war map in vivid exuberance. Later that afternoon, Colonel Woodrow gathered the other Virginian gentlemen who were assigned to our regiment into his command tent and officially commissioned us as officers of The Continental Army. After swearing our oaths-of-office on the Colonel’s well-worn Bible, the new regimental cadre, myself included, received our command assignments and then we were abruptly dismissed to take charge of our units.

The 11th Virginian stood at 250 men strong, half the size of a regular line regiment. Colonel Woodrow commanded the regiment with support from his executive officer, a newly commissioned Major, purportedly selected for his military prowess but in reality chosen for his social connections with members of the General Assembly of Virginia, a worthless man who served little purpose other than to relay the Colonel’s orders to the company commanders. The regiment was divided into five companies of approximately 45 men apiece. The fighting companies were designated Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Echo Companies. A sixth, and smaller, company was designated Headquarters Company and it contained Colonel Woodrow’s regimental support staff. Each company was commanded by a newly commissioned captain, save for Headquarters Company which was directly commanded by Colonel Woodrow. The five infantry companies were apportioned into two platoons of 20 men apiece, each platoon commanded by a young Lieutenant.

The 11th Virginian Continental Regiment was a light infantry regiment, designed for frontier warfare in which the ability to move rapidly over difficult terrain won the day, as opposed to the brute force that typically decided conventional engagements. To achieve this mobility the regiment was devoid of cumbersome heavy artillery, carrying only two small cannon. The rank-and-file were handpicked from the hardy mountain folk of the western frontiers of Virginia, a land where days spent without food were a common occurrence and hunting with a musket was a skill learnt in childhood.

I was to command Bravo Company and I found my company’s First Sergeant waiting impatiently for my expected arrival in front of the company formation, the men in neatly lined ranks and standing in stiff positions-of-attention. The First Sergeant was a tall, lean, and muscular man with a coarsely wrinkled, sun-hardened face and equally chiseled eyes. The First Sergeant saluted me smartly with a brisk, “First Sergeant Miller reporting for duty, Sir,” then he suddenly spun about to bark at a man who had been slouching in the formation. I returned my First Sergeant’s salute and then turned to face my men, my limbs trembling with anxiety as I stood, hoping that my pathetic bout of nerves didn’t show through the façade of confidence that I was desperately trying to project. I cleared my throat and began to speak in my loudest and deepest voice.

“My fellow Virginians, you have all volunteered to stand where you now stand through no coercion, guided only by your love for our beleaguered home. For this selfless commitment I commend you and it is the greatest honor of my life that I have been chosen, along with your platoon leaders and First Sergeant Miller, to lead you wherever the great State of Virginia deems our services most vital. As you may know, we have been ordered to proceed to Western New York to protect the defenseless settlements of that virgin country from the savages’ merciless aggression. In the course of our duties, we will simultaneously serve to guard the rear flank of General Washington’s army, currently stationed at West Point, against surprise attack from British Canada. Our mission will not be an easy one. The savage is as clever as he is brutal and he has known the terrain where we will meet him since his infancy. Thus we must train with an intensity that is equal to our task! Time is not on our side for we are scheduled to depart in one fortnight and there will be little time for further drill once our march has commenced. I will now turn you over to First Sergeant Miller; that is all. ”I excused myself from the formation having judged, correctly, that First Sergeant Miller would want time alone with the soldiers without the distraction of my presence. I walked to a spot that was out-of-sight behind a nearby tent where I could listen to my First Sergeant as he spoke.

“Private Carpenter! Why in fuck’s name are you moving in my formation, Private Carpenter!” First Sergeant expelled in a guttural bellow.

CHAPTER 1:
A Warrior’s Reminiscence

June 1783: The blazing orange, tropical sun creeps above the rattan-studded horizon to announce the dawn of another sweltering day in the island paradise of Phuket, Siam. The gentle ocean breeze wafts the smell of decaying flesh into my nares as I survey the carnage of the past days’ fight from behind the cover of a thick palm. Less than a yard away, the dark skin of a dying enemy soldier is covered with vicious red ants, slowly eating him alive as he bellows out in pain-laden death throes. I climb out from my jungle concealment and walk across the sandy beach to ask the dying man in the Siamese tongue if he would like for me to speed the end of his life. The dying soldier is too feeble for speech, barely managing a slight affirmative nod of head. I unsheathe my sword and run the man thru his jugular, stepping back respectfully as the blood gushes from the jagged wound that I have inflicted upon his neck. As I watch the life drain from the young man’s sad face, I find myself reminiscing on the first time I gazed into a pair of youthful eyes prematurely aged by the horrors of war.

September 1778 (Five Years Prior): An otherwise dull Tuesday suddenly transformed itself into a frenzy of excitement as my older brother, Henry Lee III, arrived unexpectedly in Leesylvania1 for the first time since the beginning of the colonial revolution. Mother and I had been taking our tea under the shade of our estate’s great wrap-around porch while observing our slaves working the adjacent cotton fields when Henry’s silhouette had appeared over the horizon. Mother jumped up excitedly, spilling her tea and leaving a stain on the white-washed railing, which she quite uncharacteristically ignored as she cantered down the steps to meet him.

I waved half-heartedly at my brother but remained seated for we had not parted on favorable terms and I was, frankly, not excited at the prospect of his return. Henry clambered down from his raggedly thin horse, gave Mother a hug, and then walked towards me with a pronounced limp of the right leg. I shall never forget
the look of my brother’s gaze that day; gone was the shine of boyish innocence from his icy-blue eyes, replaced now with the penetrating stare of a man who had witnessed the animalistic brutality of combat. Henry’s body was transformed too, skinny now, his two-year-old uniform that had been so painstakingly sown by my mother hanging from his bones like beggar’s rags. Quite ashamed of my initial indifference, I rose from my rocking chair and hurried to assist Henry as he clumsily scaled our porch stairs.


1. ”Leesylvania”: The unofficial name of the region of Northern Virginia that lies adjacent to the Potomac River, near the present site of Washington City, where the Lee Family settled after emigrating from the British Isles.



“This leg of mine, it’s never been the same since my horse fell atop me at Brandywine Creek. Anytime I ride for more n’ an hour it cramps up somethin’ awful.” Henry mumbled as his face twisted into a grimace of agony.

“Where are you ridin’ in from, General Washington’s camp at West Point?” I inquired, eager to make conversation to disguise the expression of shock that was plastered about my face, shock at the haggardness of my brother’s appearance.

“Yes, and a fine improvement over last season’s accommodations at Valley Forge, that’s for sure. Many a good patriot froze to death in that snowy hell.” Henry muttered bitterly. “Enough with all this talk of the damned war, let us speak on somethin’ more pleasant. How are the plans for your grand tour of Europe progressin’, Jonathan?”

“Tell us about this General Washington, Henry! Is he the hero the papers make him out to be?” Mother interjected loudly and to Henry’s great annoyance.

“I asked a polite and simple question about my brother, mama!” Henry shouted, his voice hard and calloused. “Why all this subterfuge?”

“The trip’s cancelled; it’s too dangerous to cross the Atlantic anyhow now that France has entered the war.” I stated matter-of-factly as I pulled my shoulders back and puffed out my chest. I’ve decided to join the Continental Army; I leave in three days to join my regiment.”

“And Father has given consent for this tomfoolery!” Henry demanded, his voice filled with bitter disdain.

“Father has his reservations, the same reservations he had when you were commissioned, as I recall.”

“I didn’t realize I was kin to such a fool, throwin’ away an opportunity to travel and study in Europe with full expenses
paid no less! Don’t you see my gimp leg, boy, and how ragged I look ‘cause of this endless fight. Are you really that blind or are you just plain stupid!” Henry exclaimed, his tone condescending and full of rage.

“Let us speak no more on this!” Mother begged as she fought back heartbroken tears.

“Speakin’ isn’t what I had in mind for him!” I blared across the patio, loud enough to distract the field slaves in the distance, my fists gripped white-knuckled in anger.

“I said enough!” Scolded Mother as if we were both still young boys rather than fully grown men. “This is my home and y’all will respect it!”

My brother and I glared at one another, our eyes full of hatred, fists tightly clinched. Mother moved between us, and with the greatest reluctance, for hot tempers run thick in my family’s blood, Henry and I backed down, unclenched our fists and entered my mother’s home, giving one another a wide berth as we dusted off our boots and stepped through the doorway. The three of us found Father reading the local news pamphlet in his trusty, old hickory rocking chair, oblivious to the commotion that we had caused outside due to an affliction with pronounced deafness due to his time spent fighting in the French and Indian War. Henry strolled over to him and they embraced warmly, a broad toothless and somewhat unnatural smile shone across my father’s old, wrinkled, perpetually frowning face. I stormed off to my room, ignoring Father’s thunderous calls behind me as I slammed the door shut and then fixated my gaze out of my bedroom window, lost in thought. Later that evening the family gathered for a grand feast prepared by our house servants in my brother’s honor, a feast that I begrudgingly attended after incessant nagging by Mother.

“Mother tells me you’ve just returned from Georgia, Father. How do you find our brethren in the Deep South are holdin’ up amidst all this chaos?” Henry inquired between generously-sized and eagerly partaken bites of roasted pheasant.

“They’re holdin’ up better than we are, that’s for certain, though I expect the British will attempt to change that soon enough. The British generals have no choice but to take the war to the south, as important a port as Charleston has become now and is becoming more so every day. Find yourself any new musket in the hands of a Continental and I can guarantee you that it was smuggled in through Charleston or Savannah on a blockade runner. Yes, the British will strike in the Deep South before this time next year, mark my word.” Father stated as he peered over his reading spectacles, his news pamphlet lying in its customary location, unfolded open upon his lap.

“And what of the cotton trade, Pa? Rumor has it that the Georgians are growin’ strains that produce twice, even thrice, the usual bounty.” Henry asked as he shook his head in disgust.

“Indeed they are, and growin’ it in the fertile soils of the Mississippi Territories in flagrant violation of their treaty with the Cherokee. They float the cotton on down the river to Mobile and New Orleans where the British blockade remains porous; the cost of shippin’ by barge down the rivers is less than what we pay to travel our cotton by wagon over less than an eighth of the distance.” Father said dryly with a wizened look of despair creeping across his brow. “I fear Leesylvania may only be suitable for growin’ soybeans and vegetables in the years to come. It is a thought that I have been losin’ much sleep over since my return, almost as much sleep as I have been losin’ worryin’ on you, Henry. Now, tell us of the Revolution; in what shape is the Continental Army to be found presently? It’s hard to find information in the pamphlets these days that is worth the paper it’s printed on.”

“The war’s not a subject for the ears of women and children, Pa.” Henry said coldly, staring deep into my eyes and as he articulated the word ‘children,’ making it clear to all present to whom he was referring.

My brother and I spoke little over the next three days, save for common courtesies that were uttered without eye contact and in guttural tones. When Henry saddled his horse to return to his regiment at West Point, I could not find it in my heart to bid him farewell. I watched enviously as my brother’s war mount lazily meandered down our plantation’s dusty path, little knowing that it might well be the last time I laid eyes upon my brother in this life. This was knowledge that would have pleased me at the time, for in my youth I could not have imagined how much I would long for the company of my family, my brother included, in the dark years to come.

THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL FUGITIVE

Free Until Jan 21st (Kindle) -- http://www.amazon.com/Life-Colonial-F...

An historical thriller based in the American Revolution. Young Jonathan E. Lee is falsely accused of heinous war crimes by his treacherous regimental commander! Jonathan is forced to flee the colonies to save his neck from the hangman's noose, fighting his way across a stormy Atlantic and then joining a mercenary army that is deploying to warring Siam, a kingdom that is squirming under the iron-fist of a madman.

Greetings! I am Dr. Leonardo Noto, a former military battalion surgeon. The idea for "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born out of my passion for American military history and my enthusiasm for the sport of muay Thai (Thai boxing). While training in a Thai boxing camp during the days and working on a novel based in the American Revolution during the nights, I noticed that Thai history during the 1780s was as turbulent as the American history of the period. After two years of detailed research, including nearly forty references, "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born. I hope that you enjoy reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Dr. Leonardo Noto
Practicing Physician and Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," "Intrusive Memory," and "Medical School 101."

Please visit my blog, "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality," at www.leonardonoto.com. Thanks for reading!

THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL FUGITIVE
Free on Amazon!

Amazon.com:
http://www.amazon.com/Life-Colonial-F...

An historical thriller based in the American Revolution. Young Jonathan E. Lee is falsely accused of heinous war crimes by his treacherous regimental commander! Jonathan is forced to flee the colonies to save his neck from the hangman's noose, fighting his way across a stormy Atlantic and then joining a mercenary army that is deploying to warring Siam, a kingdom that is squirming under the iron-fist of a madman.

Greetings! I am Dr. Leonardo Noto, a former military battalion surgeon. The idea for "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born out of my passion for American military history and my enthusiasm for the sport of muay Thai (Thai boxing). While training in a Thai boxing camp during the days and working on a novel based in the American Revolution during the nights, I noticed that Thai history during the 1780s was as turbulent as the American history of the period. After two years of detailed research, including nearly forty references, "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born. I hope that you enjoy reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Dr. Leonardo Noto
Practicing Physician and Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," "Intrusive Memory," and "Medical School 101."

Please visit my blog, "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality," at www.leonardonoto.com. Thanks for reading!

THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL FUGITIVE
Free on all ereaders!

Amazon.com:
http://www.amazon.com/Life-Colonial-F...

Smashwords.com:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...

Barnes&Noble:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-l...

An historical thriller based in the American Revolution. Young Jonathan E. Lee is falsely accused of heinous war crimes by his treacherous regimental commander! Jonathan is forced to flee the colonies to save his neck from the hangman's noose, fighting his way across a stormy Atlantic and then joining a mercenary army that is deploying to warring Siam, a kingdom that is squirming under the iron-fist of a madman.

Greetings! I am Dr. Leonardo Noto, a former military battalion surgeon. The idea for "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born out of my passion for American military history and my enthusiasm for the sport of muay Thai (Thai boxing). While training in a Thai boxing camp during the days and working on a novel based in the American Revolution during the nights, I noticed that Thai history during the 1780s was as turbulent as the American history of the period. After two years of detailed research, including nearly forty references, "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born. I hope that you enjoy reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Dr. Leonardo Noto
Practicing Physician and Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," "Intrusive Memory," and "Medical School 101."

Please visit my blog, "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality," at www.leonardonoto.com. Thanks for reading!

THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL FUGITIVE

Free on all ereaders!

Amazon.com:
http://www.amazon.com/Life-Colonial-F...

Smashwords.com:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...

Barnes&Noble:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-l...

An historical thriller based in the American Revolution. Young Jonathan E. Lee is falsely accused of heinous war crimes by his treacherous regimental commander! Jonathan is forced to flee the colonies to save his neck from the hangman's noose, fighting his way across a stormy Atlantic and then joining a mercenary army that is deploying to warring Siam, a kingdom that is squirming under the iron-fist of a madman.

Greetings! I am Dr. Leonardo Noto, a former military battalion surgeon. The idea for "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born out of my passion for American military history and my enthusiasm for the sport of muay Thai (Thai boxing). While training in a Thai boxing camp during the days and working on a novel based in the American Revolution during the nights, I noticed that Thai history during the 1780s was as turbulent as the American history of the period. After two years of detailed research, including nearly forty references, "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born. I hope that you enjoy reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Dr. Leonardo Noto
Practicing Physician and Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," "Intrusive Memory," and "Medical School 101."

Please visit my blog, "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality," at www.leonardonoto.com. Thanks for reading!

Free on Kindle until July 13th! http://www.amazon.com/Cannabinoid-Hyp...

A dark medical/crime techno-thriller. Frank Shoemaker, M.D. is the world's preeminent neurosurgeon thanks to his development of "The Shoemaker" device for the palliation of acute psychosis. Now the good doctor is wanted for an unspeakable crime -- but was it justified?

Mr. Jones is a drunkard, haunted by demons of a combat-filled past. Mr. Jones and his team of mercenaries have been contracted to pursue the elusive Dr. Shoemaker, and Mr. Jones never fails to get his man -- alive or otherwise!

Greetings, I am Dr. Leonardo Noto. "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis" is an intelligent thriller that interweaves hard medical science into a dark and fast moving tale of murder and betrayal. I hope that you enjoy reading "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis" as much as I enjoyed writing it!

www.leonardonoto.com or follow me on Twitter @DrLeonardoNoto

Free on all e-readers: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...

INTRUSIVE MEMORY is the true story of how I overcame a hellish childhood, pulled my life back together, and realized my dream of becoming a physician. This book is not for the fainthearted. It begins in the mental hospital where I spent much of my childhood after being removed from my home by Child Protective Services, then whirls the reader through a cascade of pathological environments including a violent military school and Mississippi jail. This is the story of how I fought against the odds and against my inner demons to survive, claw my way into medical school, and succeed by graduating in the top of my class!

Dr. Leonardo Noto -- Physician and Author.

Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "Intrusive Memory," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," and "Medical School 101."

Medical Blog: "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality!" www.leonardonoto.com


Intrusive Memory

The staff grabbed me as soon as I stepped out of Dr. Agarose’s office and they slammed me to the floor. I hit the ground with a loud “thud” — it hurt something awful because the carpeting was paper thin and the floor was rock solid underneath. One large man put all of his weight on my back, using his knee as a lever against my spine, as four or five other orderlies grabbed my arms and my legs. The man on my back was so heavy that I could hardly breathe and I started gulping for air like a bass in the bottom of a rowboat. Dr. Agarose and my mother came out of the office, my mother’s excessive makeup running down her cheeks like a Saturday Night Live skit, her face coated with the fake show of tears that I’d seen so many times before. She patted my hair while I struggled wildly against the orderlies, my anger now boiling past the capacity for rational thought. Realizing the futility of my struggle, I began banging my head on the floor trying to knock myself out to make it all go away. One of the hospital staff members grabbed my hair to hold my head up as I tried to scream, unable get in enough air to yell because of the weight of the obese man who was on top of me. My mother eventually tired of the show and she stood up, the tears ceasing immediately as she began having a professionally-toned conversation with my psychiatrist. They walked away talking about me the way doctors speak to one another about an interesting case study, like the Elephant Man for instance, and not long afterwards I was mercifully injected with a sedative that temporarily put me out of my suffering.

I suppose that it is quasi-normal for an adolescent to declare that he hates a parent and is never going to speak to them again only to let it blow over in time. I was not a normal adolescent and the day that I realized that I no longer loved my mother I meant it. The rest of the time I spent at Stony Creek was a waste of my insurance company’s money by any estimation. I refused to cooperate in any therapy and I would simply sit quietly during the sessions and ignore anyone who spoke to me. I considered myself a “political prisoner” and my behavior during the next few weeks at Stony Creek went from bad, to worse, to worst. It is little wonder why the staff at Stony Creek began to believe my mother’s lies about her “defective child’s” inexplicable behavioral problems.

My pent-up rage against my mother, my father, and my infuriation about my forcible detention at Stony Creek consumed me during the two months that I was held as an inpatient there. Despite the fact that I was sedated on Mellaril to such a degree that I occasionally fell asleep whilst standing, my “guerilla war” against Stony Creek had reached fully operational status. I had managed to read, and to destroy, nearly every book in the school library (at least fifty) by using a rather simple method — as I read the book I would randomly tear out pages, hide the pages in my pocket, and then throw them into the large waste basket in the hall as we filed past it in line from activity to activity. I overheard a few staff members discussing how much money the health insurance companies paid Stony Creek per patient, around $1,000/day, and I became determined to prevent Stony Creek from making any money off of my “imprisonment.” I even went so far as to do rough calculations using estimated salaries of employees, electricity costs, etc. to estimate approximately how much damage I had to do every day to negate the profit margin that the hospital was making off of me. Looking back, as far as I can tell anyhow, my calculations were fairly accurate. In addition to destroying just about everything that I managed to get my hands on, and without ever getting caught, I would also leave the hot water running in my room’s shower and sink in an attempt to run up the electric bill. One day I decided to leave the hot and cold water running simultaneously since, I reasoned, that I may as well attack the water bill while I was going after the electric. To my delightful surprise, the amount of water coming out of the sink facet was now greater than its draining capacity and it spilled over onto the floor while we were all attending a mandatory church sermon. To add insult to the injury, Stony Creek’s rooms were constructed below the level of the central hallway to allow for easy wheelchair access — every room had a small ramp built into the entrance — and the water accumulated to at least three-to-four inches before anyone noticed the massive puddle that was creeping its way out of my room! That resulted in at least $10,000 worth of damage, or at least that’s what I heard the staff saying to one another in the hallways.

Needless to say, Stony Creek’s staff hated me with a passion. After the psychiatrists went home for the evening the orderlies would punish me by holding me up with my arms behind my back, which was really painful, and by letting the other patients openly make fun of me and, on occasion, rough me up a bit. In the staffs’ defense, I was an extremely difficult patient in a hospital that largely specialized in dealing with juvenile criminals and they really were utterly unqualified to handle a child like me. Overtime many of the other patients came to admire me — two seventeen-year-old criminals even took to referring to me as “the kid with balls.” After eight weeks, the powers that be at Stony Creek decided that they had had enough of Leo Noto and they arranged for my transfer to Pleasant Breeze Hospital, a long-term mental facility in Jefferson, Tennessee. My last night at Stony Creek was sleepless and I spent the restless hours trying to make sense of how my once ‘normal’ life had degenerated into this living nightmare.

I had had the misfortune of being admitted to Stony Creek on a Friday afternoon, and since the psychiatric staff was off on the weekends, I was left on the restraining bed until Monday morning. The staff had begun letting me off of the bed briefly, twice per day to eat because it’s easier to feed someone orally than intravenously, which was the other option since I was malnourished to a borderline state of starvation at this point in my life. It is also easier to put a drug in someone’s food than it is to inject it several times every day and I know that they were doing this because I refused my apple juice during my first meal on the suspicion that it might be drugged and the staff proceeded to force me to swallow it. I would later learn that one of the drugs they were giving me was Mellaril, an antipsychotic/sedative medication with a plethora of rather nasty potential side-effects including: Parkinsonian neurological dysfunctions (i.e., intractable tremors and drooling) and tardive dyskinesia (an irreversible movement disorder of the muscles of the face), to name a few. Other lovely side-effects of this drug range from permanent pigment depositions in the retina, painful muscle dystonias, and neuroleptic malignant syndrome — a constellation of dangerously high fevers and muscle rigidity that can progress to kidney failure and death. Fortunately, I didn’t develop any of these horrific sequelae but I’ll never forgive the people who forced that poison into my thirteen-year-old body because it very well could have done permanent damage. Never during this time was I allowed to see anyone I knew, including my parents, or given any explanation for why I had been forcibly institutionalized. I gave up on God on that restraining bed since it seemed a foregone conclusion that if God would not help me now He must not exist.

While contemplating my behavior at Stony Creek I would like my readers to keep in mind a few salient points. I was only thirteen years old, I was from a horribly abusive family, and I had been “brainwashed” by my mother to think that D.H.H.S. and their associates wanted to place me into foster-care, where I had been told by my mother that I would be sexually assaulted. The only way, in my mind, to avoid foster-care for not only myself but also for my younger siblings, was to keep my mouth shut and, quite frankly, I was almost certainly correct about this. It is also pertinent to note that I didn’t consciously know that I was an abused child. I know that this may be difficult to conceptualize for those who have not been in a similar situation, but I suppose that it is analogous to the old saying “we were poor but we didn’t know it.” Children only have one family and it is only natural for them to assume that what goes on in their family is “normal,” at least for them if not for their peers. Making matters worse, my mother had done a wonderful job of playing me against my father and I considered him just as much of an enemy as I did D.H.H.S. I was in an inescapable catch-22 where, in my mind, I couldn’t help myself without harming my mother and my brothers, all of whom I still loved dearly. I very deliberately and rationally, based on the information at my disposal at the time, made the decision to protect my family at the expense of myself. Of course that didn’t mean that I was any happier about my present situation, and since the futility of direct resistance had become painfully obvious, I quietly vowed that I would run a “guerilla war” against my “captors” at Stony Creek.

That Monday I was released from the isolation room and transferred to a room on the adolescents’ floor. It was a reasonably comfortable room, save for the fact that my next door neighbor was a sixteen-year-old Gangster Disciples’ gangbanger from Johnsonville named ‘Twinkie.’ Twinkie bore a striking resemblance to Mike Tyson and he had the appearance and mannerisms of someone who didn’t shy away from using violence as a routine form of communication — he had been admitted to the hospital for raping two of his preadolescent cousins. Across the hall was Mac, a seventeen-year-old Vice Lords’ gangbanger, also from Johnsonville, who had been admitted by his family after being shot in the leg by the same Gangster Disciples set of which Twinkie was a member. I’ll never forget the first time I saw the gaping bullet hole in his leg, a wound which Mac’s doctors had decided to leave open to heal on its own via scarring, a process that in medical circles is referred to as ‘healing by secondary intention,’ i.e. without stitches. Mac had a large afro hairdo and he must have stood at least 6’5’’ — one of the things I first thought when I saw his mangled leg was that that was probably the end of a promising basketball career. Believe it or not, Twinkie and Mac seemed to get along really well, although they both scared the heck out of me.

Those not from the Deep South may be surprised to learn that little nowhere towns like Johnsonville, Mississippi have street gangs, and this fact is something of an interesting social phenomenon. The black migration northwards during the 50’s and 60’s was followed by a counter-migration back to the south during the late 80’s and 90’s. Along with this migration came street gangs, especially the black Chicago-based gangs, the Gangster Disciples and the Vice Lords, who began springing up chapters in virtually every city and small town in the cotton belt. As a result of this influx of street gangs, Memphis became a major drug distribution point and several high-ranking gang members, many still taking orders from their bosses in Chicago, set up there. In the early 1990s, Johnsonville, Mississippi, a small town that rests about a forty-five minute drive south of Memphis, had a violent street war between the Gangster Disciples and the Vice Lords. Mac was one of the turf-war’s many casualties.

The other patients in Stony Creek included the typical cases seen on adolescent psychiatric wards: sexually abused children, drug-addicts and drug-dealers (cocaine was big in the Memphis metro-area during the 1990s), violent criminals, and the occasional paranoid schizophrenic. Stony Creek specialized in treating adolescent criminals and I’ve often wondered if this was a deliberate decision on the part of the administration or whether the hospital ended up that way by chance due to its proximity to Memphis, consistently one of the most violent cities in the country. When I first met the other male patients I was immediately disgusted by the fact that so many blatant thugs had managed to weasel their way out of jail by being admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Honestly, at least half of the male patients should have been behind bars and they must have had really great lawyers to have been able to sucker the legal system into sending them to ‘treatment’ instead of straight to prison. The female patients were another story entirely. Sexual abuse, rampant promiscuity, and suicide attempts were the rule on the female-side of the hall — the only exception that I recall in the whole bunch was a schizophrenic girl who, as it turns out, attacked me the first time I laid eyes upon her, throwing me out of my chair and onto the floor because she thought that I was “makin’ da voices come again.”

I met my psychiatrist for the first time around noon that Monday and my mother was there for the conference, there and wearing lots of makeup and a nice dress. I was glad to see her and I gave her a hug and asked her to please get me a lawyer because I was scared and I just wanted to go home. Dr. Agarose was a middle-aged, balding man with a truly gargantuan head and I remember wondering if he had to special order his glasses to find a pair that fit. The guy also bore a close resemblance to the psychologist from The Simpsons and I still wonder if that character was modeled after him. During the meeting I was as reticent as my mother was loquacious. My mother immediately began accusing me of having horrible behavioral problems and she broke down crying as she moaned, “I just don’t know what’s wrong with him, he used to be such a good kid.” And then, I shit you not, she started coming-on to my psychiatrist, right there in front of me! He blew her off but my mother persisted and Dr. Agarose actually had to say “let’s redirect our conversation back to Leo now” more than once during the session. My mother continued accusing me of all manner of horrible behavioral problems, from abusing my brothers to doing drugs, all the while putting on a rather pathetic show of crocodile tears. I was enraged — I had taken care of her kids, gone without food to save her money, helped her dictate her college midterms, and listened to her respectfully while she accused me of chasing my father away on countless occasions, never having complained, not even once. Now, there I was, locked up with a bunch of rapists, druggies, and gangbangers, keeping my mouth shut to protect this woman and it obvious, even to me, that she didn’t give damn about me. Not one damn! I stormed out of the session and decided that I didn’t love my mother anymore and that I never wanted anything to do with her ever again.

Chapter 1

The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.
~James A. Garfield, 20th President of the United States of America.

It was May 15, 1995, the last day of the eighth grade. I was sitting in my third period English class watching the clock tick off the seconds to summer freedom when a sixth-grader arrived at the classroom door with a written message that would change my life forever. I’ll never know the exact wording of that little note, but my English teacher immediately told me to go to the guidance counselor’s office, even watching me as I walked down the hall, which was unnerving because she didn’t do that even when she sent someone to the office for misbehavior. I was frightened because my mother had warned me that if one of my teachers saw the bruises on my face they might call D.H.H.S. and she had even tried to cover them with makeup for the past few days. The facial bruises, by the way, were self-inflicted with a baseball bat, a self-punishment for “letting my family down.” My mother was very careful about where she hit me and she never would have been careless enough to leave bruises in such an obvious location. In fact, the first time she saw the bruises she yelled at me, not for hitting myself, but for hitting myself in a place where other people would see it. All of this was buzzing through my mind as I opened the door to the guidance counselor’s office and saw that sitting inside with the counselor was…my father!

I immediately ran out of the office. Just as I was stepping into the central corridor the assistant guidance counselor grabbed my shirt collar and yanked me into the conference room, which was immediately adjacent to the counselor’s office. I loudly demanded that I be allowed to call my mother at work and, somewhat to my surprise, she handed me a phone with my mother already on the line. My mother sounded desperate and she nervously said “Leo, Leo, wait there, I’m on my way — I’m calling Andrea and Elaine for help.” Then she hung up. Andrea and Elaine were my mother’s younger sisters, identical twins, and I was glad to hear that she was calling them because Elaine and her husband were respected attorneys and I was feeling like I could really use a lawyer right about now. I was certain that the guidance counselor would put me into Department of Health and Human Services (D.H.H.S.), Child Protective Custody, and I didn’t want to be molested or turned into a house-slave as my mother had told me that I would be if this ever happened. My mother was a social worker and she knew about these kinds of things so I believed her entirely on the matter.

The guidance counselor opened the door to her office and, with a stern expression on her Wicked Witch of the West face, motioned for me to enter with a curl of her pencil-thin index finger. I acted like I was moving towards her and then, without thinking, bolted out of the room, down the hallway, and out of the school at a full sprint. The assistant guidance counselor gave chase, and she was very close to catching me for the first hundred yards until we exited the school building and I started running down the hill, at which point the counselor’s dress began to trip her up. I kept running until I had crossed the street in front of the school and entered the woods, woods which were thick with spring growth — the perfect hiding place. I don’t know how long she chased me because I didn’t look back again until the woods got so thick that I was forced to slow to a walking pace to avoid the spiders’ webs that were strung between the trees. Finally, I dared a look back over my shoulder and I realized with relief that I had escaped.

In the woods it rapidly dawned on me that time was not working in my favor. Soon the police would be after me, if they weren’t already, and if I wanted to make it home without getting arrested for truancy I had better hurry up. I exited the woods and jogged down the side of the highway until I reached my neighborhood, about a two mile run. I was out of shape and winded by the run so I allowed myself to slow to a walk when I reached my block. My plan was to make it home, grab as much money and food as I could find around the house, then hide in the backyard behind the shed until I figured out what to do next. It wasn’t much of a plan but trying to think when you’re running from the police is a lot harder than it sounds. Just as my house was coming into sight I heard a car horn blaring behind me. I looked back, thinking that I was about to get run over, and I saw that it was Andrea in her Explorer. She leaned out the window yelling in her thick Mississippi drawl, “Leo, hurr’ up an’ get in. The police er’ out lookin’ for ya’.” I hesitated for a moment then reluctantly climbed into the front seat. Andrea immediately started driving whilst simultaneously dialing my mother on her brand new, high-tech cellular phone.

My mother told Andrea to take me to Stony Creek Hospital in Dove, Mississippi because the school guidance counselor and D.H.H.S. had scheduled a family evaluation for us there and there was no way to get out of it. Andrea assured me that I wouldn’t have to go inside the hospital if I didn’t want to, which is the only reason I didn’t jump out of the Explorer and take off running again. Andrea and I drove down Nicety Road the fifteen-some-odd miles to Dove and then up the hospital’s steep driveway. Stony Creek was a large, sprawling, one-story building with reflective windows that prevented anyone outside from seeing into the patients’ rooms. It was an intimidating place, sterile and cold.

Andrea parked the Explorer then attempted to coax me inside the hospital, unsuccessfully — there was no way in hell that I was going into a mental hospital voluntarily. She eventually gave up and walked inside the hospital alone while I stayed in the Explorer, hunched down in the seat so that people wouldn’t see me. Andrea came out a few minutes later flanked by four large men and I immediately locked the doors to the Explorer although, in hindsight, a wiser plan would have been to take off running again. God I was scared and I prayed for The Lord to please help me. I had heard about the horrible things that happened in mental hospitals and if I had had the means I would have murdered all four of those men to have stayed out of there. The four hospital orderlies surrounded the Explorer, one at each door, and Andrea electronically unlocked the vehicle with her keychain. I grabbed the first solid object I saw, a full Coca Cola can, and I tried to defend myself with it but I was no match for the four of them. The orderlies grabbed me, wrestled me out of the vehicle and onto the ground, and then carried me inside like a slaughtered pig, one man holding each of my limbs.

The four men hefted me into a small, barren, white-bricked room and strapped me face down onto a leather-hard restraining bed with a rubber restraint wrapped tightly around each of my appendages. They then started examining my whole body, including my genitals, for wounds and tattoos — examining me none too gently at that. The restraining bed was cold and hard, as were the hands that were violating me, and I was so afraid that I nearly urinated on myself. I said another prayer, begging God to help me, but to no avail. The next thing I remember is a large bore needle being jabbed into my buttocks and the whole world going black as I tried in vain to fight the drug that they had forced into my body.

I awoke at some point later, how long I can’t be sure, groggy from the drugs but still full of fight, like a dog backed into a corner by a man trying to club him to death. I immediately began trying to force my way out of the restraints, struggling and struggling to exhaustion and beyond before finally accepting the futility of this effort. I then attempted to chew the rubber arm restraints off and I had made a fair amount of progress on the right arm cuff when the towering orderlies reentered the room, unstrapped me, hefted me off the table, each man with one of my limbs again grasped tightly in his hands, and strapped me into a pampoose. A pampoose is a full-body straight jacket attached to a wooden backboard and being in it is very painful, a bit like being strangled by a python. I was left in the pampoose for several hours, which I know for a fact because the staff was required to check my peripheral circulation once every hour to make sure that none of my limbs were necrotizing, that is to say dying, from lack of circulation. Several people have actually died outright from being physically restrained like this — the pampoose is that tight. Eventually, I was transferred back to the restraining bed, but not before I had had the opportunity to urinate all over several of the bastards who had been manhandling me all day long. That would prove to be the highlight of my stay at Stony Creek and I still remember it rather fondly.

Free on all e-readers: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...

INTRUSIVE MEMORY is the true story of how I overcame a hellish childhood, pulled my life back together, and realized my dream of becoming a physician. This book is not for the fainthearted. It begins in the mental hospital where I spent much of my childhood after being removed from my home by Child Protective Services, then whirls the reader through a cascade of pathological environments including a violent military school and Mississippi jail. This is the story of how I fought against the odds and against my inner demons to survive, claw my way into medical school, and succeed by graduating in the top of my class!

Dr. Leonardo Noto -- Physician and Author.

Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "Intrusive Memory," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," and "Medical School 101."

Medical Blog: "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality!" www.leonardonoto.com


Intrusive Memory

“You WILL address me as First Sergeant, you WILL obey my commands without question, or you WILL end up like this sorry heap of manure! Is that understood?”

First Sergeant Miller was answered only by silence, a silence that enraged him so that he lifted his musket and hit the nearest soldier squarely in the face with its butt, instantly knocking the young man unconscious. I stared aghast, willing myself to step forward to halt these atrocities, but at the last moment deciding to hold my tongue for I was new to the military and I had no illusion that the power of my commands rested solely in the hands of the First Sergeant who enforced them. Bravo Company was now clustered together into an unnaturally tight formation, like a herd of buffalo circling for protection from a hungry pack of wolves, the men standing shoulder-to-shoulder as every man’s eyes focused straight forward, none daring so much as a fleeting glance in First Sergeant’s direction. First Sergeant strutted through the ranks like a parading peacock, correcting each soldier one-by-one with terse commands: “feet at forty-five degrees; thumbs along the seams of your pants; tuck in that damn pointy chin!” Feeling emasculated, my self-confidence shredded into tatters, I retired to my tent for a shot of brandy and a nap, staring at the tent’s breeze-fluttering ceiling as the last drops of liquor trickled their way down my lumpy throat.

The next two weeks were a flurry of controlled chaos as First Sergeant Miller and I drilled the soldiers in the military arts of marching, marksmanship, and modern battle tactics. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that virtually all of my men were seasoned marksmen, an artifact of childhoods spent scavenging for food in the untamed mountains of Appalachia. However, the men’s backgrounds also made them naturally free-spirited, making discipline a constant challenge. I rapidly learnt to appreciate, though never to fully condone, First Sergeant’s disciplinary rigor as a necessary evil. Within two weeks’ time, First Sergeant Miller and I had successfully transformed the men of Bravo Company from a rabble of farm boys into a collection of lethal soldiers. The initial disciplinary difficulties and the occasional surreptitious bouts of drunkenness aside, by the end of the fortnight I was confident in the ability of Bravo Company to face our soulless enemy in the fiery cauldron of combat. Indeed, even Colonel Woodrow had a rare look of approval across his hate-chiseled face as he reviewed our formation during his final inspection before the regiment’s deployment to the New York frontier.

On the 22nd of October, I was awakened nigh midnight by First Sergeant’s booming voice. I sleepily opened the folds of my tent to find him standing beside the most off-putting individual I had ever beholden. First Sergeant’s companion was named Wolfslayer, a redskin of limited height and slight build who nonetheless managed to radiate an engulfing aura of intimidation about his person. The vicious appearing tomahawk that was tucked into the Indian’s belt and his deer-hide clothing only added to the man’s threatening appearance. I thought to myself that I would be loth to meet him in the woods alone at night. First Sergeant Miller flashed a tobacco-stained grin as he introduced the native as an old friend while stating, “an’ I don’t call many men my friend; it ain’t a word I toss out easy now.”

Hailing from the Finger Lakes Region of New York, Wolfslayer had been assigned by Colonel Woodrow to serve as Bravo Company’s frontier guide. I introduced myself to the Indian and inquired as to the nature of the unusual necklace that was hanging from his neck. Wolfslayer informed me that it was made out of the ears of Mohawk, Seneca and Cayuga warriors that he, a proud member of the Oneida tribe, had killed in battle during the intertribal civil war that still raged between the former members of the Iroquois Confederacy2. I made a note to myself not to ask about any of the other unusual articles of clothing that he was sporting, then I dismissed Wolfslayer to First Sergeant’s care and headed back into my tent for a final night’s sleep before our deployment.

I arose early on the morning of October the 23rd to supervise the breaking of our camp and I was pleased to find my men working with great zeal, tearing down their tents and burying the heaping piles of refuse that our regiment had managed to produce during our brief stay. After a roaming inspection of the campsite with his Executive Officer in tow, and finding himself satisfied that all was in order, Colonel Woodrow called the regiment to attention and we began our orderly march towards the frontier fields of death, Wolfslayer and First Sergeant marching by my side in front of the rank-and-file of Bravo Company.

2.The Iroquois Confederacy: The most civilized of the Indian intertribal governments in the colonies, hundreds of years old when it fell into a civil war between the tribes allied with the Colonials and those loyal to the British Crown. Of the six tribes, only the Oneidas and the Tuscarora fought alongside the Colonials while the remaining four tribes (the Seneca, Cayuga, Onondagas, and the Mohawks) allied with King George III.

CHAPTER 2:
The 11th Virginian Continental Regiment

October 1778: I reported for duty at the command tent of the 11th Virginian Continental Regiment on the First of October, a fine and breezy autumn day, ideal for the training on which our newly constituted regiment was preparing to embark. I found the 11th Virginia’s commanding officer, Colonel Woodrow, pacing around his luxuriously furnished, command tent in an aggressive agitation. Colonel Woodrow hardly acknowledged my presence as I begged permission to enter, responding only with a lukewarm wave of his hand towards an uncomfortable appearing, wicker chair, the only unpadded item of furniture amongst the half-dozen overstuffed chairs that were littered about the massive tent’s periphery, the center of the command tent being occupied by a solid oak table, its surface covered with topographic maps. I took a seat in the wicker, twiddling my thumbs and feeling quite out of place as I watched my commander pace to-and-fro, gesticulating wildly with his saber and muttering to himself unintelligibly. Colonel Woodrow was a lean muscular officer with a frame more befitting a twenty-year-old enlisted man than a forty-year-old regimental commander. His uniform fit smartly and his saber shone in the sunlight that flooded through the tents open folds. The saber shone nearly as brightly as the Colonel’s impeccably polished leather boots, boots of fine European craftsmanship, probably Neapolitan, I thought as I gazed about the room, my mind eager for any distraction from my sweaty-palmed anxiety as I sat waiting. The minutes ticked by, unbearable minutes that felt like hours. Suddenly the Colonel ceased his roaming soliloquy and squared his body in front of mine, his square jaw tightly clinched.

“Do you know how many white families have been killed by the heathen this year, Mr. Lee?” Colonel Woodrow shouted as he leaned his boxy face into mine.

“No Sir, but any number is surely too many, Sir.”

“But you don’t know how many, do you? You haven’t the faintest clue!” The Colonel rasped in exasperation as he thrust his saber over my left shoulder, barely missing my ear.

“N-n-no Sir, I confess my regrettable ignorance.” I stuttered, my eyes downtrodden as nervous sweat filled my boots.

“Ignorant or apathetic, Mr. Lee? Either way, you are not alone. The fact is that no one knows with exactitude because no one is bothered enough by the deaths of those hardworking men-of-god to keep track of how many the redskins are slaying—slaying with their bloodstained tomahawks, skinning the women and children like ranchers harvesting rawhide! I was raised on the frontier and I watched my entire family butchered by the savage before I had reached my seventh birthday. I saved my wretched skin by hiding under a pile of cow dung, covered in shit like a damn coward deserves. God how I burnt for revenge, from the depths of my blackened soul I burned, hating myself as much as I hated the heathen. But that pathetic boy grew into a man, Mr. Lee, a man who knows the God-given truth that revenge is not only man’s greatest pleasure but also his greatest duty!”

I stared at the Colonel, unable to speak, standing stiff at attention, my eyes staring straight ahead, not daring to move a muscle, the perspiration dripping down my pantaloons the unbroken boots that had been busily rubbing blisters onto my virgin feet all day, blisters that now burned with the fiercest of intensities as my salty sweat seeped into the ruptured vesicles. I wiggled my crackling toes as the Colonel continued his pressured tirade. My commander now seemed again oblivious to my presence, speaking only to himself and to the god that he both worshipped and despised.

“Cobleskill and Wyoming Valley, these are just the latest sites of the heathen massacres; mass killings instigated, supplied, and financed by the godforsaken British. I intend to avenge these atrocities by returning the favor upon their perpetrators tenfold, with God as my witness!” Colonel Woodrow gazed skyward as he shouted his fiery pledge, shaking his fist at the heavens.

The Colonel now stalked across his command tent to a map that hung from the far side, motioning for me to follow after him. The Colonel’s map ranged from Canada to Virginia, from the Atlantic coast to the unspoiled forests of Kentucke, containing a level of topographic detail to be found only on military maps of the finest cartography.

“Our official orders arrived a week ago, signed by General Washington himself. The mission will not be an easy one; the regiment will lose as much blood as it will draw.” Colonel Woodrow mumbled, the raging tempest that had been storming inside him beginning to calm. “Our God-given task is to mold this soft pathetic rabble of clueless farm boys into a functional Continental regiment before the end of the month…”

“That only leaves two weeks, Sir, barely enough time to train the men to march and to shoot!” I feebly protested.

“Barely enough time, indeed.” The Colonel retorted, a professorial tone creeping into his stony voice. “Nonetheless, that is the task at hand and our departure date is nonnegotiable. On October the First, we will begin our march from Virginia to the frontiers of Western New York where we will serve to guard the white settlements against the predations of the soulless redskins. Our secondary objective will be to scout the wilderness, providing reconnaissance to thwart surprise attacks on General Washington’s rear from British Canada. I need not remind you that just last year General Burgoyne marched a force of 6,000 British regulars through this very same country.” The Colonel stated.

I stood speechless for the horrors of frontier warfare were well known to all Virginians. Visions of the scalping and violating of innocent civilians rampaged through my mind as the Colonel gesticulated towards his war map in vivid exuberance. Later that afternoon, Colonel Woodrow gathered the other Virginian gentlemen who were assigned to our regiment into his command tent and officially commissioned us as officers of The Continental Army. After swearing our oaths-of-office on the Colonel’s well-worn Bible, the new regimental cadre, myself included, received our command assignments and then we were abruptly dismissed to take charge of our units.

The 11th Virginian stood at 250 men strong, half the size of a regular line regiment. Colonel Woodrow commanded the regiment with support from his executive officer, a newly commissioned Major, purportedly selected for his military prowess but in reality chosen for his social connections with members of the General Assembly of Virginia, a worthless man who served little purpose other than to relay the Colonel’s orders to the company commanders. The regiment was divided into five companies of approximately 45 men apiece. The fighting companies were designated Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Echo Companies. A sixth, and smaller, company was designated Headquarters Company and it contained Colonel Woodrow’s regimental support staff. Each company was commanded by a newly commissioned captain, save for Headquarters Company which was directly commanded by Colonel Woodrow. The five infantry companies were apportioned into two platoons of 20 men apiece, each platoon commanded by a young Lieutenant.

The 11th Virginian Continental Regiment was a light infantry regiment, designed for frontier warfare in which the ability to move rapidly over difficult terrain won the day, as opposed to the brute force that typically decided conventional engagements. To achieve this mobility the regiment was devoid of cumbersome heavy artillery, carrying only two small cannon. The rank-and-file were handpicked from the hardy mountain folk of the western frontiers of Virginia, a land where days spent without food were a common occurrence and hunting with a musket was a skill learnt in childhood.

I was to command Bravo Company and I found my company’s First Sergeant waiting impatiently for my expected arrival in front of the company formation, the men in neatly lined ranks and standing in stiff positions-of-attention. The First Sergeant was a tall, lean, and muscular man with a coarsely wrinkled, sun-hardened face and equally chiseled eyes. The First Sergeant saluted me smartly with a brisk, “First Sergeant Miller reporting for duty, Sir,” then he suddenly spun about to bark at a man who had been slouching in the formation. I returned my First Sergeant’s salute and then turned to face my men, my limbs trembling with anxiety as I stood, hoping that my pathetic bout of nerves didn’t show through the façade of confidence that I was desperately trying to project. I cleared my throat and began to speak in my loudest and deepest voice.

“My fellow Virginians, you have all volunteered to stand where you now stand through no coercion, guided only by your love for our beleaguered home. For this selfless commitment I commend you and it is the greatest honor of my life that I have been chosen, along with your platoon leaders and First Sergeant Miller, to lead you wherever the great State of Virginia deems our services most vital. As you may know, we have been ordered to proceed to Western New York to protect the defenseless settlements of that virgin country from the savages’ merciless aggression. In the course of our duties, we will simultaneously serve to guard the rear flank of General Washington’s army, currently stationed at West Point, against surprise attack from British Canada. Our mission will not be an easy one. The savage is as clever as he is brutal and he has known the terrain where we will meet him since his infancy. Thus we must train with an intensity that is equal to our task! Time is not on our side for we are scheduled to depart in one fortnight and there will be little time for further drill once our march has commenced. I will now turn you over to First Sergeant Miller; that is all. ”I excused myself from the formation having judged, correctly, that First Sergeant Miller would want time alone with the soldiers without the distraction of my presence. I walked to a spot that was out-of-sight behind a nearby tent where I could listen to my First Sergeant as he spoke.

“Private Carpenter! Why in fuck’s name are you moving in my formation, Private Carpenter!” First Sergeant expelled in a guttural bellow.

I snuck a peak from around my hiding place and I shuddered abhorrently as I witnessed First Sergeant Miller grabbing the frightened Private by his throat and choking him until the lad dropped onto his knees.

CHAPTER 1:
A Warrior’s Reminiscence

June 1783: The blazing orange, tropical sun creeps above the rattan-studded horizon to announce the dawn of another sweltering day in the island paradise of Phuket, Siam. The gentle ocean breeze wafts the smell of decaying flesh into my nares as I survey the carnage of the past days’ fight from behind the cover of a thick palm. Less than a yard away, the dark skin of a dying enemy soldier is covered with vicious red ants, slowly eating him alive as he bellows out in pain-laden death throes. I climb out from my jungle concealment and walk across the sandy beach to ask the dying man in the Siamese tongue if he would like for me to speed the end of his life. The dying soldier is too feeble for speech, barely managing a slight affirmative nod of head. I unsheathe my sword and run the man thru his jugular, stepping back respectfully as the blood gushes from the jagged wound that I have inflicted upon his neck. As I watch the life drain from the young man’s sad face, I find myself reminiscing on the first time I gazed into a pair of youthful eyes prematurely aged by the horrors of war.

September 1778 (Five Years Prior): An otherwise dull Tuesday suddenly transformed itself into a frenzy of excitement as my older brother, Henry Lee III, arrived unexpectedly in Leesylvania1 for the first time since the beginning of the colonial revolution. Mother and I had been taking our tea under the shade of our estate’s great wrap-around porch while observing our slaves working the adjacent cotton fields when Henry’s silhouette had appeared over the horizon. Mother jumped up excitedly, spilling her tea and leaving a stain on the white-washed railing, which she quite uncharacteristically ignored as she cantered down the steps to meet him.

I waved half-heartedly at my brother but remained seated for we had not parted on favorable terms and I was, frankly, not excited at the prospect of his return. Henry clambered down from his raggedly thin horse, gave Mother a hug, and then walked towards me with a pronounced limp of the right leg. I shall never forget
the look of my brother’s gaze that day; gone was the shine of boyish innocence from his icy-blue eyes, replaced now with the penetrating stare of a man who had witnessed the animalistic brutality of combat. Henry’s body was transformed too, skinny now, his two-year-old uniform that had been so painstakingly sown by my mother hanging from his bones like beggar’s rags. Quite ashamed of my initial indifference, I rose from my rocking chair and hurried to assist Henry as he clumsily scaled our porch stairs.


1. ”Leesylvania”: The unofficial name of the region of Northern Virginia that lies adjacent to the Potomac River, near the present site of Washington City, where the Lee Family settled after emigrating from the British Isles.



“This leg of mine, it’s never been the same since my horse fell atop me at Brandywine Creek. Anytime I ride for more n’ an hour it cramps up somethin’ awful.” Henry mumbled as his face twisted into a grimace of agony.

“Where are you ridin’ in from, General Washington’s camp at West Point?” I inquired, eager to make conversation to disguise the expression of shock that was plastered about my face, shock at the haggardness of my brother’s appearance.

“Yes, and a fine improvement over last season’s accommodations at Valley Forge, that’s for sure. Many a good patriot froze to death in that snowy hell.” Henry muttered bitterly. “Enough with all this talk of the damned war, let us speak on somethin’ more pleasant. How are the plans for your grand tour of Europe progressin’, Jonathan?”

“Tell us about this General Washington, Henry! Is he the hero the papers make him out to be?” Mother interjected loudly and to Henry’s great annoyance.

“I asked a polite and simple question about my brother, mama!” Henry shouted, his voice hard and calloused. “Why all this subterfuge?”

“The trip’s cancelled; it’s too dangerous to cross the Atlantic anyhow now that France has entered the war.” I stated matter-of-factly as I pulled my shoulders back and puffed out my chest. I’ve decided to join the Continental Army; I leave in three days to join my regiment.”

“And Father has given consent for this tomfoolery!” Henry demanded, his voice filled with bitter disdain.

“Father has his reservations, the same reservations he had when you were commissioned, as I recall.”

“I didn’t realize I was kin to such a fool, throwin’ away an opportunity to travel and study in Europe with full expenses
paid no less! Don’t you see my gimp leg, boy, and how ragged I look ‘cause of this endless fight. Are you really that blind or are you just plain stupid!” Henry exclaimed, his tone condescending and full of rage.

“Let us speak no more on this!” Mother begged as she fought back heartbroken tears.

“Speakin’ isn’t what I had in mind for him!” I blared across the patio, loud enough to distract the field slaves in the distance, my fists gripped white-knuckled in anger.

“I said enough!” Scolded Mother as if we were both still young boys rather than fully grown men. “This is my home and y’all will respect it!”

My brother and I glared at one another, our eyes full of hatred, fists tightly clinched. Mother moved between us, and with the greatest reluctance, for hot tempers run thick in my family’s blood, Henry and I backed down, unclenched our fists and entered my mother’s home, giving one another a wide berth as we dusted off our boots and stepped through the doorway. The three of us found Father reading the local news pamphlet in his trusty, old hickory rocking chair, oblivious to the commotion that we had caused outside due to an affliction with pronounced deafness due to his time spent fighting in the French and Indian War. Henry strolled over to him and they embraced warmly, a broad toothless and somewhat unnatural smile shone across my father’s old, wrinkled, perpetually frowning face. I stormed off to my room, ignoring Father’s thunderous calls behind me as I slammed the door shut and then fixated my gaze out of my bedroom window, lost in thought. Later that evening the family gathered for a grand feast prepared by our house servants in my brother’s honor, a feast that I begrudgingly attended after incessant nagging by Mother.

“Mother tells me you’ve just returned from Georgia, Father. How do you find our brethren in the Deep South are holdin’ up amidst all this chaos?” Henry inquired between generously-sized and eagerly partaken bites of roasted pheasant.

“They’re holdin’ up better than we are, that’s for certain, though I expect the British will attempt to change that soon enough. The British generals have no choice but to take the war to the south, as important a port as Charleston has become now and is becoming more so every day. Find yourself any new musket in the hands of a Continental and I can guarantee you that it was smuggled in through Charleston or Savannah on a blockade runner. Yes, the British will strike in the Deep South before this time next year, mark my word.” Father stated as he peered over his reading spectacles, his news pamphlet lying in its customary location, unfolded open upon his lap.

“And what of the cotton trade, Pa? Rumor has it that the Georgians are growin’ strains that produce twice, even thrice, the usual bounty.” Henry asked as he shook his head in disgust.

“Indeed they are, and growin’ it in the fertile soils of the Mississippi Territories in flagrant violation of their treaty with the Cherokee. They float the cotton on down the river to Mobile and New Orleans where the British blockade remains porous; the cost of shippin’ by barge down the rivers is less than what we pay to travel our cotton by wagon over less than an eighth of the distance.” Father said dryly with a wizened look of despair creeping across his brow. “I fear Leesylvania may only be suitable for growin’ soybeans and vegetables in the years to come. It is a thought that I have been losin’ much sleep over since my return, almost as much sleep as I have been losin’ worryin’ on you, Henry. Now, tell us of the Revolution; in what shape is the Continental Army to be found presently? It’s hard to find information in the pamphlets these days that is worth the paper it’s printed on.”

“The war’s not a subject for the ears of women and children, Pa.” Henry said coldly, staring deep into my eyes and as he articulated the word ‘children,’ making it clear to all present to whom he was referring.

My brother and I spoke little over the next three days, save for common courtesies that were uttered without eye contact and in guttural tones. When Henry saddled his horse to return to his regiment at West Point, I could not find it in my heart to bid him farewell. I watched enviously as my brother’s war mount lazily meandered down our plantation’s dusty path, little knowing that it might well be the last time I laid eyes upon my brother in this life. This was knowledge that would have pleased me at the time, for in my youth I could not have imagined how much I would long for the company of my family, my brother included, in the dark years to come.

THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL FUGITIVE
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An historical thriller based in the American Revolution. Young Jonathan E. Lee is falsely accused of heinous war crimes by his treacherous regimental commander! Jonathan is forced to flee the colonies to save his neck from the hangman's noose, fighting his way across a stormy Atlantic and then joining a mercenary army that is deploying to warring Siam, a kingdom that is squirming under the iron-fist of a madman.

Greetings! I am Dr. Leonardo Noto, a former military battalion surgeon. The idea for "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born out of my passion for American military history and my enthusiasm for the sport of muay Thai (Thai boxing). While training in a Thai boxing camp during the days and working on a novel based in the American Revolution during the nights, I noticed that Thai history during the 1780s was as turbulent as the American history of the period. After two years of detailed research, including nearly forty references, "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born. I hope that you enjoy reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Dr. Leonardo Noto
Practicing Physician and Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," "Intrusive Memory," and "Medical School 101."

Please visit my blog, "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality," at www.leonardonoto.com. Thanks for reading!