“You okay bro?” I say to him expressing genuine empathy but in a vernacular that was only for my own benefit. He doesn’t move and just keeps staring at me, head on the ground. “Is this your first time?” I ask. “First time into battle?” I think I hear him say ‘yes’ above the rustling of the trees but his lips hadn’t moved. “I’ve never been in battle,” I say. “Must be scary.” The boys sits up and looks around to see if we’re being watched.
“Are you a tory?” he asks, hesitantly.
“Me? No, I’m no tory.”
“Then why you tied up?”
“Well, it’s just a misunderstanding between me and the general. I think he’ll let me go once we clear it up.”
“So you a patriot?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m an American patriot. Are you?” He looks at me, first with shock and then suspicion.
“’Course I am. That’s why I’m here.” He has stopped shaking.
“Where are you from?”
“Philadelphia.”
“What job do you do there?”
“Work with my father. He’s a cobbler.”
“He a good father?” I ask. The boy says nothing at first and just rocks back and forth.
“He is.”
“Good,” I say. He tells me about his three brothers, two of them killed in battle. About his mother who used to work with his father but is now too sick, and about his sister who died in childbirth. I tell him a few things about my brother and parents, taking some liberties with place and time. Then a sentry walks by, looking at us both threateningly and the boy lies down, turning his back to me. The wind continues to pick up and I shiver.
I awake to frenetic activity all around me. I breathe mist into the cold morning air watching soldiers going through the labor of loading their rifles: pouring powder down the barrel, wrapping and ramming down a lead ball, cocking the gun, then pouring in more powder somewhere near the trigger. My young friend is doing the same, but struggling with it. “Hey, hey. What’s happening?” I ask him in a loud whisper. He looks around.
“Redcoats comin’.” I pull at my ropes but without hope. “We’re going to ambush them.” After he’s satisfied with his task of loading his musket, my friend follows the other soldiers who are running down the slope and into the trees toward the road. Without warning, someone tugs my head back and then shoves something into my mouth. I’m being gagged.
“You so much as squeak and I’ll blow lead right through you,” says a deep voice I recognize. “Understand that?” I nod vigorously and he runs off. Now there’s quiet. All I see are the trees and all I hear is my own heartbeat. I peer into the forest for what feels like an eternity. There’s nothing. No motion, no sounds. Then a single gunshot, followed by a volley. That sounded like enough shots to take out a good number of redcoats. There’s a moment’s silence and I hear more shots. But these ones sound different. They are uncountably fast, almost continuous, and sharper with less of a boom. They coalesce into a solid wall of noise that lasts maybe ten seconds. A few moments pass and then soldiers burst out from the trees running through the camp, shouting words at each other I can’t make out. These are the colonial troops beating a frenzied retreat. The general is among them yelling orders but I’m not sure anyone is listening. Some of the troops are stopping, beginning to load their rifles. Powder down the barrel, wrapping the lead ball, sliding the ramrod, charging the–. Then from the trees appear the redcoats. But these soldiers are walking with a demeanor approaching the casual, side by side, maintaining a line with a few feet between them. I count six, and each raises his gun, opening fire on the retreating troops. The guns produce not single shots, but bursts of fire and the retreating troops begin to fall in waves. One has managed to reload his musket and gets off a futile shot before his chest blossoms under a hail of bullets. My young friend emerges for the trees, staggering, one of his arms no more than red gristle. He looks at me with an expression not of fear or pain, but of confusion. Then with a burst of gunfire, his head ejects a splash of red.
I turn ice cold and can barely catch my breath. For the next minute I hear intermittent, isolated bursts of fire, and finally quiet. The camp is strewn with bodies, some intact, others dismembered. The redcoats, now maybe ten of them at most, walk among the bodies, exchanging inaudible words, occasionally laughing. I hope to god I go unnoticed but I know that won’t happen. Eventually, one of them looks directly at me.
He approaches me, stepping over bodies and body parts. “Well, what have we ‘ere?” he says. His uniform is disheveled, torn and blood-splattered. He’s carrying what looks to me like an assault rifle: twenty-first century for sure. I’m no gun enthusiast but I can look at the bullet magazine, the grip and the sleek, black design and know that that obscene machine has nothing to do with the eighteenth century. That bastard Asmus had lied and Prasad was right. The redcoat pulls my gag off roughly and I check my teeth with my tongue as if a loose tooth would be a problem right now. “ ’Oo ah yer, then?” I try to stop shaking and I tell him my name. He calls another soldier over, maybe an officer although no less tattered and scruffy. They talk in hushed tones and then, hands still tied,
