Go ahead. You’re not worth the effort of forcing you to stay.”
He turned his back on the two.
“They’d run anyhow come the next fight.”
James laughed in reply.
“Hell. Run? It’s what we’ve all been doing for months. At least I’m running back to something. While the rest of you, you’ll just run away and keep running until you’re all dead.”
“I’d rather be dead than a coward,” Jonathan retorted bitterly.
James bristled at the accusation, balling his fists, but the sergeant was now between the two, and he could easily hammer any and all into submission.
“Damn you! Just leave,” the sergeant retorted, his voice suddenly grown weary.
James started to pick up a musket.
“The guns stay,” Bartholomew snapped. “I’d rather throw them in the river than have you take them.”
James, held the gun for a moment, looking down at it, and then let it fall into the mud.
“James.”
It was Jonathan, his voice choked with emotion.
“What now?” and then James softened for a moment. “Little brother, can’t you see it’s over? Come with me. Mother and Father said it would come down to this. We can still go home.”
There was a note of pleading in his voice, but Jonathan shook his head in reply.
“You were nothing but a patriot when the sun was shining, but now that winter is here? My God, James, how you try my soul. Some day, when others give thanks for what we endure, your name will be forgotten. As I have already forgotten you.”
James could not reply. Tom could see his anguish as well, for Jonathan’s words had cut to his soul.
“To try one’s soul. The sunshine patriot . . . to try one’s soul . . .”
James turned away, Elijah following him.
“James.”
He looked back.
“Tell Mother and Father I love them.”
James nodded. “And our brother? What word for him?”
Jonathan hesitated.
“Tell him . . . ,” he choked back a sob. Tom, who was still holding him, could feel him shudder.
“If Allen has gone over to the damn Loyalists as I suspect he has, tell him he is no longer my brother . . . nor are you.”
James said nothing more, and with Elijah by his side, he disappeared into the darkness. Jonathan broke into sobs then, the others around him silent. Tom held him until the boy, as if embarrassed and shamed, broke away, wiping his face with the dirty sleeve of his blanket.
“To try one’s soul,” Tom thought again, looking at the lad, who stood shamed but defiant.
And he knew it was time to go.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said softly, backing away from the fire.
The sergeant nodded curtly.
“Peter, you take picket down by the river. I’ll relieve you in the middle of the night,” Bartholomew announced. “Jonathan, why don’t you try and get some sleep.”
The boy did not reply.
“Write about this,” Jonathan said to Tom. “Write about us.”
Tom nodded. “I will, brother.”
He turned and started up the mud-slick hill, the fire behind him disappearing into mist, smoke, and snow.
It took awhile of wandering to find his tent, staggering past groups of men huddled around their fires, the long cold night still ahead as they drew closer to the feeble heat that their green firewood gave out.
He was eager to write, afraid that what was forming would evaporate and slip away if he did not get back to his tent at once. At last he found it.
Curled up in the mud nearby was a drummer boy, wrapped in a soggy blanket, shivering in his sleep, drum by his side.
Tom picked the drum up and carried it into his tent. The candle he had left lit was still burning. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out two more, the last he had. He thought about it for a moment, cut one in half with his penknife, and lit the two pieces.
He sat down on his cot, the canvas wet as was the blanket atop it. He drew out a small ink pot. Thank God it wasn’t frozen. He found a quill in the bottom of his pack, and used a penknife to sharpen the point. Carefully, he drew out
He turned his back on the two.
“They’d run anyhow come the next fight.”
James laughed in reply.
“Hell. Run? It’s what we’ve all been doing for months. At least I’m running back to something. While the rest of you, you’ll just run away and keep running until you’re all dead.”
“I’d rather be dead than a coward,” Jonathan retorted bitterly.
James bristled at the accusation, balling his fists, but the sergeant was now between the two, and he could easily hammer any and all into submission.
“Damn you! Just leave,” the sergeant retorted, his voice suddenly grown weary.
James started to pick up a musket.
“The guns stay,” Bartholomew snapped. “I’d rather throw them in the river than have you take them.”
James, held the gun for a moment, looking down at it, and then let it fall into the mud.
“James.”
It was Jonathan, his voice choked with emotion.
“What now?” and then James softened for a moment. “Little brother, can’t you see it’s over? Come with me. Mother and Father said it would come down to this. We can still go home.”
There was a note of pleading in his voice, but Jonathan shook his head in reply.
“You were nothing but a patriot when the sun was shining, but now that winter is here? My God, James, how you try my soul. Some day, when others give thanks for what we endure, your name will be forgotten. As I have already forgotten you.”
James could not reply. Tom could see his anguish as well, for Jonathan’s words had cut to his soul.
“To try one’s soul. The sunshine patriot . . . to try one’s soul . . .”
James turned away, Elijah following him.
“James.”
He looked back.
“Tell Mother and Father I love them.”
James nodded. “And our brother? What word for him?”
Jonathan hesitated.
“Tell him . . . ,” he choked back a sob. Tom, who was still holding him, could feel him shudder.
“If Allen has gone over to the damn Loyalists as I suspect he has, tell him he is no longer my brother . . . nor are you.”
James said nothing more, and with Elijah by his side, he disappeared into the darkness. Jonathan broke into sobs then, the others around him silent. Tom held him until the boy, as if embarrassed and shamed, broke away, wiping his face with the dirty sleeve of his blanket.
“To try one’s soul,” Tom thought again, looking at the lad, who stood shamed but defiant.
And he knew it was time to go.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said softly, backing away from the fire.
The sergeant nodded curtly.
“Peter, you take picket down by the river. I’ll relieve you in the middle of the night,” Bartholomew announced. “Jonathan, why don’t you try and get some sleep.”
The boy did not reply.
“Write about this,” Jonathan said to Tom. “Write about us.”
Tom nodded. “I will, brother.”
He turned and started up the mud-slick hill, the fire behind him disappearing into mist, smoke, and snow.
It took awhile of wandering to find his tent, staggering past groups of men huddled around their fires, the long cold night still ahead as they drew closer to the feeble heat that their green firewood gave out.
He was eager to write, afraid that what was forming would evaporate and slip away if he did not get back to his tent at once. At last he found it.
Curled up in the mud nearby was a drummer boy, wrapped in a soggy blanket, shivering in his sleep, drum by his side.
Tom picked the drum up and carried it into his tent. The candle he had left lit was still burning. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out two more, the last he had. He thought about it for a moment, cut one in half with his penknife, and lit the two pieces.
He sat down on his cot, the canvas wet as was the blanket atop it. He drew out a small ink pot. Thank God it wasn’t frozen. He found a quill in the bottom of his pack, and used a penknife to sharpen the point. Carefully, he drew out
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