But then there was the true tragedy. Sean. My brother. He had refused my help. He wanted to come with me. He wanted this. He thought I would look after him. Protect him. And now, so early in our fight, I was leaving him.
He was here, somewhere. Was he lying somewhere nearby, also struggling for breath? Or was he chasing away the last of the British? Was he already celebrating the victory, scanning the cheering rebels, looking for my face?
Each labored breath I fought for expanded my lungs briefly, only to rattle free an instant later, leaving my body oddly empty. I could feel my heartbeat slowing with each escaped breath. Each exhale racked my body with pain, and a childish whimper escaped my lips.
My loss would be mourned by my father, but viewed as acceptable. He would be more proud of my death than he had been of my life. For some reason, I couldn't even imagine my mother's reaction. Perhaps that was a gift from God. I don't think I could have endured that pain.
The blood was saturating the ground beneath me.
I fought for breath, but no air entered my lungs.
My body shuddered one last time, and then went still.
My heart stopped.
I felt it pound feebly for the last time, and then nothing. It was like a ball of lead in my body—lifeless, hard. There was no air in my lungs. No life in my limbs. No thoughts left to think.
Nothing . . .
And there on the roadside, alone in the middle of a crowded battlefield, I died.
