When the Revolutionary war broke out my great-grandfather and his family fled from their home on a farm and saw the British burn tire buildings and wheat-stacks for which he had worked so hard. He was an intimate friend of one Acker, a noted Rifleman. This Acker was so expert that for the sport of it, would shoot the caps from a British officer's head, or a button from his coat: He became a terror to the

enemy, and a reward was offered for his capture. My great-grandfather came near losing his life by wearing Acker's overcoat, which for some reason he exchanged his own for. He was mounted, and in company with one Van Wart, when the enemy pursued them. He and Van Wart went across fields, their horses leaping the fences, until they came to a ledge of rocks. They dismounted and for their lives ran up the ledge, but were surrounded. Van Wart was first taken and horribly cut to pieces by the enemy. Sherwood witnessed this butchery, and demanded promise of mercy at their hands, or he would fight till death. Their thirst for blood was, satisfied, or else the disappointment in not

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