Hello again. I wrote this short story about six years ago, eventually using it for a writing assignment. It was the only grade I actually got that was good in the class, and I've spent some time since polishing it, though I believe I have a lot of ways to go before it's what I would consider where I want it to be.
I'm kind of like that- I want my story to be as great as can be, as close to perfect as possible. Sometimes that means I'll spend almost a decade on a story, such as Cloning Jesus.
This is a historical fiction story- taking place during the Revolutionary War.
I hope you guys enjoy. Let me know what you think!
The Patriot
There came numerous sounds of small pops and minor explosions, of bullets tearing through the militia’s already scattered ranks. Their Continental force of two regiments hadn’t stood a chance against the British, two-hundred semi-trained against a thousand infantry and three hundred cavalry as well as artillery. It never would have worked, even in their favorable and relatively fortified position. The first volley had reduced their ranks by half, and then there had been the panic, and without orders from officers too dead to speak; retreat, and abandonment. The other half had in all likelihood been lost in the desertion, but at least those who remained alive still were.
Another volley rang, and Adam watched Henderson stagger and fall as he was cut down, a bullet spraying from his forehead. He had known him since childhood, and now he was gone. Another, a man he had known for scarcely five minutes, and the only Negro in their militia gasped and fell, having been pierced multiple times. With glassed eyes the former slave stared blankly upward from the forest’s floor, slain.
Still Adam raced, his heavy flintlock musket in hand. He ducked and dove under and over large fallen trees, past thick branches and roots as he ran, scurrying past boulders and anything else that came in his path, much like a rabbit might. It was for this reason he had received his moniker from the other men. Of all his other fellow patriots, there were only two in sight, and they raced in different directions; one foolishly back toward the line while the other sprinted farther away. It was run or die.
The sound of the battle grew distant to Adam, and once the forest had become silent, he crouched behind the largest of the trees before him in the thick Southern Virginia forest. He kept there, shivering, shaking and sweating. His gun felt like a terrible weight, and the bullet he had first loaded into it months before when joining was still there, he having never fired it. His black hair hung wetly over his forehead, and his uniform, at best, could be considered tattered. Several men had died in his white shirt and blue-colored colonial militia jacket before coming into his position, and the shoes were little better than a leather sole and rags with cloth stuffed in them. But there he was, no matter how poorly dressed there were hundreds of enemy with the sole agenda of killing him. No matter how tiny and insignificant he believed himself to be, they thought he was worth traveling over two-thousand miles and half the world to kill.
He was too young, he thought, only seventeen. He could still remember the night, not so long ago, when his father had burst through their small farm house’s door, two rifles in hand, having missed dinner by two hours. When he left later that night Adam had followed after, not daring disobey his half-drunk and ever patriotic father. They enlisted that night, and before even knowing what specifically a soldier was, he had become one.
Thinking of his father caused him to wince. He hated the man, his alcohol, and worse yet, his temper. Everyone had a God-given right to speak, the man believed, and thus very vocally did so. He was quite an idealist, and proud of his ability to read. However, despite being intellectual he was also temperamental. Everything angered him, and because of this, many did. But of those who suffered most were his family. He was an evil man to them, a devil, and in Christ they prayed not for salvation in heaven, but rather salvation from he.
Despite having not seen him in nearly half a year, for Paul there was still the fear that remained from the memories, as well as the fear of his return. Their militias were constantly changing, new faces appearing, old ones disappearing. One never knew who could step within the tavern one night, or appear the next morning at their camp to fight…
Adam shook the disconcerting thoughts away, he had left the evil of his father behind on that fateful night he had joined, seeing the opportunity and taking it to separate himself from the callous figure forever. He could never get far enough away from that accursed figure, never, not realizing in his escape his damnation to another hell; war.
But as he stood there, crouched silently behind the tree, listening intently, the freedom looked like nothing more than death to him. But, intelligent, Adam was not quite ready to give into that nightmare, not yet, and so quietly he began to wait. After a time the battle approached again. His stomach fell; he had hoped they would not enter the forest, fearing sniper fire, of which there intermittently was. Every pop of a gun made him flinch, and for what felt an eternity it remained this way.
Dwaelin Kearney stood anxiously outside the line of other men waiting to see the commander of his colonial regiment. He was middle-aged, of stern, solid build. His left, farm calloused hand shook slightly as it always had since he stopped drinking. Since joining he had been forced to; not out of discipline of any kind, not initially, but namely because all the other men in his unit would drink the ale before he really could enough to get drunk, at least not enough as he wanted. But as he sobered up, once pulled from the mud and mire of his vice, he resolved to finish the task. And so six months later he stood in that line; no longer thick as he had been.
"Next!" the attending soldier outside the tent shouted as one whose commanding officer is but scarce feet away. Namely, a grim one, and one at absolute attention.
Dwaelin entered the tent, finding it rather spacious, to his surprise. It was furnished in the manner of the man's class, and clearly reflected upon the man's gentry status. Dwaelin also understood, then, all the baggage that had been brought. The tent was neither empty, also. Seated behind a small desk the commander of their continental forces sat. Aides bustled to and from him, and more than one cast a curious and prim look before moving on with whatever task had been endeavored to each.
"Sir." Dwaelin said as he approached, and removed his hat respectfully.
"Yes?" the commander drawled, a southern lilt clearly afflicted his speech. "What can I do for you?" he inquired, gazing quietly at the man before him. Dwaelin swallowed, suddenly finding his throat dry.
"Well, sir, I was hoping to request for a transfer to another unit... near Valley Forge. I- I've heard my son is there, and I'd like to find him." Dwaelin did not add that he also knew his son would have gone there as plainly as he knew the son would rise. He knew his progeny, for he knew himself, something the former always seemed to forget.
Commander Andrew Rankin gazed at Dwaelin who had the peculiar notion that he was being studied as a specimen might by a scientist under that innocuous gaze.
"I see," he said. "And while I applaud your desire to assist your son at Valley Forge, they have neither the supplies nor can we afford to spare even a man, or have you forgotte the British are here, too?" the commander asked, and as if to give example to his word, there was the small pop and patter of gunfire some distance away. There was no battle, but constant conflict between the two camps that lay nearby one another.
Dwaelin breathed in,
"I understand sir, and if I may, the cause for our separation was my own. I was perhaps... too harsh on him as he grew. I was an alcoholic and a lout, and a loud and abusive one at that..." he sighed, and then straightened. "But you see before you a new man today, reformed. Though I wish I could say I was a better man in the best, I have not been, but I am now."
"In God?" commander asked but Dwaelin shook his head.
"Nay, not in Him, but in my virtue, though he did help some, too." Dwaelin added. The commander nodded.
"I wish to make amends and set things right. This war may put me in the ground, I would like a few words with my son, nothing more."
The commander continues to look at him and then looked to an aide.
"Get me the transfer form," he said quickly, and the aide immediately stepped away to a small nearby table and picked up a paper from one of the stacks there. Once it was before him, the commander began, quill feather in hand, to write.
"This war may put us all in the ground, should the Redcoats have their way. You'll have more than just a few words with your son, yes." And with that, finished penning script at the bottom of the page. He then handed it to Dwaelin, who could scarcely believe his hope having come true.
"Thank you, sir," he breathed, having believed he would not succeed. Commander Rankin nodded,
"Best of luck to you," he spoke, "and bring a pair of good, warm shoes; you'll need em!" were the last of the man's words Dwaelin could hear, his own thoughts masking them. I wonder if I'll get to see General Washington... he wondered.
Despite having been at the new regiment for two weeks, Dwaelin had neither seen even a glimpse of Washington, nor even of his son. He was not alone, though, and those few friends he had made spread the word that he was looking, though it did not get far, quickly. And so, as time passed, and Dwaelin continued to despair.
It was then came the orders for their regiment's assembly, coming from the commander himself.
"We move out tonight!" his normally soft voice barked. Years of military service had taught him, among many other useful things, how to shout when necessary. "The British are camped near the woods of Pennsylvania, but a day's ride and march from here. Battle tomorrow." the commander almost brusquely finished. He nodded once, and then strode away. They had their orders, and they were expected to be followed completely.
The camp was assembled within the remarkable time of an hour; there had been no permanent buildings save the palisade outline they left of their makeshift fort. And even those would last at most the coming years before needing to be replaced or disappearing into the landscape. The men formed into even ranks and lines, and made their way toward the British. The rocky flat landscape of Southern Virginia gave way to the sweltering swamps and sprawling forests of the rest of verdant Virginia. Fall began to broker and already a frigidness that hinted of a bitter winter already sent chills in those that were not properly prepared and dressed for it. Pennsylvania was little better, and only colder.
The scouts returned the next day with news; the British had been located, a great force far out-numbering their own, so Dwaelin had heard whispered. Anxiety began to fill him as it did many other soldiers; anxiety for the upcoming battle all knew would take, and anxiety in wondering whether they would be left afterward, ravished or not, to wonder how they had survived when others did not. It did not leave a pleasant taste in any of the soldier's mouths, especially when the year before the thought of war on their soil was unthinkable, an intolerable act... though not unlike those that had brought them to arms and conflict to begin with.
All this was not lost on Dwaelin as they had marched, nor as they formed their ranks in the forest near Valley Forge. A second Continental regiment that had been nearby had joined them. It filled Dwaelin with hope- both for their greater numbers, and that he may find his son. There had been only two units within the area, and he heard tell of his son at either. When he had not found him at this new one he had transferred to... well, it only stood to reason he might be in the other, instead. That thought had only begun to dawn on Dwaelin, and was on the forefront of his mind as the new regiment plodded silently behind his. Silent, for too much noise could alert a British scout that was surely posted in the whereabouts of their force.
Suddenly two horsemen, dressed in blue, rode up to the walking men.
"The British are several miles to the east, and are approaching this direction!" he spoke.
"Were you spotted?" their commander asked, and stepped forward.
"No." the horsemen said. "No, I was not," he repeated, as if feeling the need to repeat himself. The commander nodded,
"How long until they are here?" he asked, and the scout shook his head.
"I don't know," he said. "But I believe it might be twenty or thirty minutes, no longer. They intend to comb this area of rebels and revolutionaries, whether it be rain, sleet, or snow; mountain or forest or river, none shall stand in 'his majesty's' way... not even God, I should think."
"Yes well that is all in good," the commander mused, and stood in intense contemplation for a moment.
"Well men! We make our stand here!" he shouted, and then quickly began sending out his officers to organize the men along the tree line, their muskets aiming in several directions; in that of the British, and those around it. The rest of the forces stood behind, waiting to surprise and end the British Redcoats.
For an hour they stood there, but then, gradually, the ground began to give a gentle vibration and thrum. Marching could be heard, and then the shouting of orders.
"Steady. Aim. Fire!" the Continental commander shouted, as soon the forms of the enemy could be seen; a vivid red, and unmistakable. The first line of the enemy fell as two-hundred shots struck out. But that did nothing to stop the enemy who merely stepped over their fallen comrades onward. Fear grew in those around Dwaelin, and some he could see already looked ready to desert and run.
Dwaelin raised his musket and fired again and again, hitting multiple British. But his actions were paltry compared to the onslaught they faced, and though their distance had been halved, still the British had not fired. Suddenly their muskets were raised, and before even a second volley could be shot, the British had fired, and the Continental lines all but broke as scores perished.
A feeble cry was made for the Continental solders to release their second volley, but instead the British released their own, it decimating those who had behind the first rank. With nearly half their forces slain, the men began breaking from their ranks. Dwaelin looked to the commander, but found him slumped over his horse. What had been his head was full of jagged tears, and through a sizeable portion of the side of the former officer's head he could the background trees, as well as goblets of tissue and bone.
The continental soldiers ran, though Dwaelin searched for his son. He first called his name out, and then his last name, but he soon realized that in the din of the battle he could not be heard, and nor would he be. It was with sight, Dwaelin realized, that he would find his query.
And before he knew it, the ground around him was deserted. With a last glance behind himself Dwaelin cast himself into the heavy woods, disappearing into it like the skilled and stout frontiersman he was.
The other militia member who had stayed near Adam in the hopes of waiting out the battle and British broke loose, sprinting, his uniformed, sky colored form a blur in the trees. A shot rang out, then several, and then many, and he fell. He did not stir.
Adam, having witnessed this began to gasp, but dared not let himself. He crouched into an even tighter ball and crouched in fear. He trembled, and then slowly exhaled. With shallow breaths he quietly breathed, and after a time began to calm. He held his rifle tightly against his chest, until that moment the gun having been as useless as wood in his hands for battle. He had never had the need to kill a human, and so he had thought he never would. He believed what most hope concerning themselves, that he would always be so innocent. He had never questioned this assumption, nor dared test it.
There came a crunch of leaves. Adam immediately turned an ear toward the small, subtle, but all too telling noise. It was autumn, a cold fall that the British had been unprepared for. In the colonial environment they were untrained and unprepared, not for the colonials and their great knowledge of the land; the first guerilla warriors and their hit and run tactics.
Adam’s grip tightened, his knuckles white as the noise drew closer and louder, the crinkling leaves shouting for the man where he was. The man, whoever he was, took no effort to cover the noise he made, revealing his identity to Adam. He was not a Colonial who would have known better; and if not a colonial, then a British, an enemy, one which certainly meant to kill Adam.
Adam hesitated, the figure nearly at his tree! The man strode past, away from Adam, not having thought to check behind himself. Adam held his breath as the man continued to walk, disappearing into the shadows of the forest. Adam exhaled, content to have let the man live, if it meant that Adam himself could. There was a snap of a twig, and Adam stiffened. I
Dwaelin ran through the woods as nimbly as any deer despite his age. His eyes darted about; first ahead, then below, as he followed the tracks. There had been one in particular... but it had been nearly torn apart from dozens of other feet upon it. He dared not let his hope rise, for fear of it being dashed away again by failure. There were times he feared he might never find his son again.
He continued to run, the sounds of the shooting becoming distance the further and further in he delved. The light became darker, spotted between the leaves even in that cool time of year. The ground was moist, hiding most of his footsteps for him, not that he needed it. Not even another colonial would have heard his approach, the forrest, any almost, as natural to Dwaelin as the shovel and till he tore the earth away with and musket he held in his hands.
Suddenly his eyes caught toward the ground, and he could not help but stop and look for a moment. It was a footprint, this one pristine and whole, identical to the one he had found before, as well as identical to his son's. He would recognize it anywhere, having even used such footprint a multitude of times to track his own son while out hunting or when he had been out too long or too far. Gently Dwaelin touched the ground, and feeling it wet and few grains crumble, he knew it had been made but moments before, and had yet had time to dry.
The firings had become even less, and so Dwaelin allowed more and more of his attention to focus on the ground, and follow the trail that the footprint had given him. The line was fairly straightforward, with little deviation. And following that line, Dwaelin could see that it led to a particularly wide and tall tree, exactly the kind he had pointed out to his son to get behind if he ever felt pursued in the woods. They were like forts almost, bases to make and protect oneself from, offering a high ground, an obstacle, and firm foundation all in one.
There was a motion however, the heavy thud of unlearned in foreign woods. Just from that noise alone Dwaelin could tell the man was British, and in all likelihood pursuing a colonial, perhaps even the one Dwaelin pursued. With that jarring thought in mind, Dwaelin leapt forward, aiming his musket at the enemy soldier's head. It was a perfect shot. His finger was pressed to the trigger, and then, slowly he exhaled, and lifted it back. Though Dwaelin had blended with the forest and been less than fifty yards from the enemy, it was only by the faintest luck he had realized the soldier's stride would take him past the tree Dwaelin sought. The firing of the musket might also startle his quarry, as well as alert any other British in the area. The sporadic gunfire had become that sparse.
A vibrant red flashed between the limbs of trees in the forest, a sharp contrast to the natural colors of deep greens and dark browns from verdant leaves and wet wood that were all around the man in a vibrant cacophony of color. Dwaelin watched the soldier pass through the leaves of the thin tree he stood nearby. In time, it too might grow as great as the Oak before him. The redcoat was gone, and so Dwaelin continued.
He walked slowly toward the Oak, making even less noise than he had before. A sense of foreboding had grown, and despite it Dwaelin stepped toward the tree.
Adam stood starkly still, still listening for the figure who had just gone by passed him.
-When there a sudden shuffling of leaves, and a rough hand clamped on his shoulder.
“Hey-!” the other, surprised, had said in an all too terribly familiar voice. Adam had already begun to spin, however, adrenaline flooding his blood and muscles. He thrust his bayonet forward, the sharpened blade plunging into the stomach of his enemy. The other gasped and clutched at the fatal wound before falling, the rifle’s blade sliding out of him with a wet, sick feeling. Adam breathed heavily, his breath like mist in the air. He looked in horror at whom he had surely slain.
The man lay coughing, blood dribbling from his mouth. His eyes, like the Negro’s had become glazed. He looked at Adam, some focus still in them, and an expression of surprise overwhelmed his face. Gasping his last death rattles the man reached upward and coughed weakly.
“My son,” Adam heard the man say, and could smell the alcohol on his breath. The man’s blue-clothed arm dropped; he was dead.
Adam collapsed onto the ground where he sat and continued to stare at the man. The forest fell silent, forgotten by him as a wave of emotions washed over him. He began to weep bitter tears of contrast, of sorrow in having lost his innocence, but at the same time in joy from having achieved freedom, the American Dream.
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