 of Wilmington, Delaware. Makers of better things for better living through chemistry presents the Cavalcade of America. Tonight's play, The Secret Road, the story of the culpers of Long Island, the six spies who changed the course of American history. Our star, Lee Bowman. 1780, late in the War of the Revolution. New York City's in the hands of the British, but the French fleet, bearing a well-equipped army, has sailed for Newport and Rhode Island. With the French fleet rides General Washington's last meager hope of victory, harvest-reaching into York Harbour. It is in nights, and on the third evening reached a hurricane peak of howling wind. We, who were trapped in the British prison ships out beyond Governor's Island, rolled and wallowed in the filth around us. While the gale drove in from the southwest, yanked and tugged at the holiday along prison road with a mad giant's muscle. Third day, I was sent stumbling up to the deck with a pail of slops to ent the oversight. I did what I had to do, and it swelled to the lured. And then I saw the loggers that made us fast to the next ship in line. I thought, quay and tremble, and then the quake broke. Well, the sound believed me just as the books describe it, like a rifle shot. What we saw, one of the men in here. I see his pleasure in his majesty's stinking prison hawks out yonder in the bay. Oh, that's holy, man, man! Tim Free, Talmud can use him. The great storm, but who are you? Well, to our mutual friend, I'm known as. Below our general, Sir Henry Clinton, I am known as Robert Townsend. The youthful bootlicker in gossip, a merchant of sorts, and an officer in the home guard. He doesn't know it yet, but he's made to Talmud his new courier. Captain, this is Austin Rowe, who also rides for us. Howdy, courier. Oh, you've been clamming, son? No, I've been for a swim. You couldn't have picked a better day for it, mighty nice weather out in the bay. It saved my sitting for later. Now, look here, Tony. I've been riding since dawn yesterday with mustern sheets in almost shocking condition. Every army supply contract the Britishers gives out. And every cent of it, he uses to buy food for yarn poor devils in the prison ships. Unbeknownst to the red coats, of course. I wondered where the fresh food came from. Or not. He's a reporter for the papers. In a nice way that, it is strictly social. A journalist, too. He writes for Jim Rubington's high-toned Tory Gazette. The gossip, mostly. So every red coat officer in town butters them up to get his name in the paper. Oh, he's a sly one. The end of the road are all mold in Connecticut. They take the stuff to Washington, personal property. And you know where they're stapled? By order of Robbie Townsend. Of course I don't wear. In general, Clinton's own private courtesy of black petticoat. The French in the process of did messages out with instructions to let themselves be capped patches say that the America sound. Yes, sir. Near my quarters. Outside Fairfield in Connecticut. And opposite Port Jeffersonford Sunrise. We hadn't known the perp the Culper Junior. He said that the Britishers had made plans to return to Whitestone if New York is threatened. I know. That is why I sent out the false writers. Their signal to turn about was to be a hilltop fire and a cannon shot on Eaton's neck in Huntington or Crane's neck in the Pocsteins or the Sips of Paris. Major, on the headland opposite. On Crane's neck. Still of handwriting experts. On earth the identity of those unsung heroes by deciphering the Culper code. Let them have now the laurels they so richly deserved. Abraham Woodhull, the organizer and leader. Robert Townsend, the source of information. Austin Rowe, the writer. Anna Strong, whose clothesline carried signals. Caleb Brewster, master of the longboat ferret. The last link were Arnold Moss, Carl Lilly Lodge, and Robert Dryton. And Mrs. Cy Harris, reminding you to be with us while Kate will present. Here's the better things for better living.