Conceived in Liberty by Howard Fast Page A

I could grow strong and round with a winter. Come spring, Allen, we could go to the southland and over Boone’s road into Transylvania. There’s no war there in the south, Allen, and I would be strong—a fit woman to weave for a man, to clean and to work for him. You wouldn’t have to love me then, Allen—only let me work for you. I wouldn’t be holding you down, Allen—only to work for you.”
    I climbed out of bed, stumbled, and almost sprawled into the fire. I heard Bess’ little cry of terror. I stood and watched the flames. Our wood is almost gone—a low fire. I tried to see something in the small flame.
    Ely is by the Jew. He says something, and then over his shoulder to me: “Allen—come here.”
    I go and bend over the bed.
    â€œYou’ve had schooling, Allen. You’ve read books.”
    I nod.
    â€œYou’ve come on a fair prayer for a Jew in your reading?”
    I shake my head helplessly.
    He says a few words. The Jew sighs, and Ely closes his eyes. Ely says: “I’m not a man to think a lot about heaven and hell—but I’ll go where he went, and content with that.”
    I can’t speak.
    Ely says: “Come and cut a few sticks of wood with me, Allen. The fire’s low.”
    I take up the axe, and we go outside. Ely leads the way into the forest. I cut down a small tree, and then I rest while Ely lops off the branches. The work is good; it takes my mind off things.
    We come back loaded with wood and build up the fire. Jacob is kneeling by the Jew’s bed. We both look at him, but neither of us speaks.
    I go to my bed. Bess touches my face, timidly. I put my head on her breast and sob convulsively.

VIII
    W E ’ VE DECIDED to desert, Kenton Brenner, Charley Green, and I. Not at once did we come to the decision, but slowly, working our courage, and giving ourselves all the arguments we needed to leave the army. First Kenton and I—then Charley.
    Two days after the Jew died, I walked on sentry beat with Kenton. The fresh meat had lifted us, brought back little fires of strength that were all but gone. I came on Kenton at the end of my beat. He leaned on his musket, looking northward over the hills.
    I said to him: “I was watching you—you were silent and unmoving here wondrous long. I thought to myself, you’re frozen and sleeping on your feet.”
    â€œI’m thinking a strong man could walk through the snow.”
    â€œWhere to?” I asked him. “Where would you be walking?”
    â€œNorth—a great stretch north to the Mohawk. I’m sick to look at the Valley land.”
    â€œFor five hundred miles? Edward froze. Stiff as a log of wood. They brought him back and laid him down, and he was all ringed over with ice. I don’t forget the sight of Edward, with the ice sealing his lips.”
    â€œEdward was alone.”
    Then I looked at him, and I could feel how the hope was tearing inside of me. “We’re like rats in a trap—and lacking all courage,” I muttered.
    We asked Charley that night. Charley a Boston man, a city man. A curious man who had read many hundreds of books. He had a round face, tiny blue eyes, and a stoutness that days of starving wouldn’t rid him of.
    â€œWe’re enlisted three years,” Charley said.
    â€œFor three years, and three hundred men in our regiment,” I said. “Six of us left. There’ll be none of you left for ripe rewards at the end of three years—not enough to hang from an English gibbet.”
    â€œI’ve a woman here,” Charley muttered. “I’d be sleeping alone many a night.”
    â€œYou’ve a dirty slut who won’t hunger for you once ye’re gone.”
    â€œI’m sick to be home.”
    â€œThere’s food on the way,” I told him eagerly. “There’s a country full of food on the way. Rich, good food for our taking.”
    â€œWe’ve no