Molly Pitcher and the Cannon Smoke
The sun over Monmouth was a white-hot coin, hammered flat against the sky. It was the kind of heat that baked gunpowder into clumps and cooked courage right out of a man’s bones. Soldiers staggered. Horses foamed. Even the shadows seemed to pant. Down the rutted path from a farmhouse came a woman with sleeves rolled and jaw set, balancing