Scar by J. Albert Mann

“But for longer than I could handle a plow I’ve wanted to belong here … in this war.”
    I quickly find out that the doctor enjoys speaking about the war much more than he does about corn pudding or doctoring. We hike past a forest of pines while he explains the failed British strategy to divide the middle colonies away from New England—it seems the British believed those of us in the middle colonies would be easy to defeat, since we’re swarming with Tories—and then, with us out of the way, they’d be able to conquer our Patriot brothers in New England and the war would be over. But we were stronger than they thought, which the doctor’s long tale of the battle of Saratoga proves. Most of his story I’d heard before, but today, marching alongside these men, panting alongside them, every word sounds new. The doctor may have beenapprehensive about chasing after Joseph Brant, but he is certain in his patriotism.
    â€œThe British fight with their pride, Noah,” the doctor says. “We fight with our hearts. And pride tires much faster than the heart. The heart is a miraculous muscle. It receives its power from an unknown source, and the more action you send its way, the stronger and harder it beats. King George will have to send over more than his pride to stamp out the heart of this war.”
    Dr. Tusten glows with sweat from his passionate speech and our endless marching. I give him a moment to catch his breath and then ask, “So what happens next?”
    He shocks me with a loud burst of laughter. “You are what happens next, Noah,” he laughs.
    I grin. I’m happy to be walking with him … happy to listen to his talk … happy to be marching and fighting. I can almost hear my father joking with the men behind me. I fight the urge to turn … to look for his face. Because I know he isn’t there.
    Dr. Tusten grows quiet with his own thoughts, perhaps about his family or maybe about what is to come ahead on the path. I want him to keep talking but I can see he’s done for now, so I leave him there to be alone, dropping back by easy measures to join Josh.
    My head feels like I’ve drunk too much mulled cider and I can barely feel my legs. I let the other men overtake me by twos and threes. Someone I don’t know claps me on the back as he passes. Another man, in the middle of a sentence,turns to nod at me as he moves by. I catch tiny pieces of conversations … fall planting … musket care. The long snake of men keeps me moving forward as it winds its way past me. The darkness is deepening, yet I feel light and awake. I’m fighting for what my father wanted. I’m fighting for what I believe in. I’m fighting with my heart.
    But our enemy crawls into my head and I can’t get him out. What is Joseph Brant fighting with? Maybe he fights because he’s bound by the Covenant Chain, the treaty between the six nations of the Iroquois and English that unites them like brothers. Maybe he fights because he considers himself English. I’ve heard he’s actually sailed to England and met the king and queen.
    I stumble along behind a man whose form I can barely make out in the dusk and think about Joseph Brant … about all the Indians. They once populated this land we’re marching through, but not anymore. It has become my father’s land. And Mr. Little’s, who traveled all the way from Connecticut to claim it. Even mine, with my dreams of what I will do with my own farm one day. Maybe the king promised Brant that he’ll stop the Colonists from snatching up the land … that if England wins the war, he’ll fence us into New Jersey, Massachusetts, or Connecticut. I wonder if Joseph Brant believed him.
    I slide in next to Josh. We walk, silent, except for the slapping of mosquitos from our necks. I force myself to match his stride while I push thoughts of Joseph Brant and Indians and land and