He curls at the base of a tree, pulling closer into himself, hugging his knees. He wanted to stay like that forever, a bundle of frozen flesh and blood and cloth, immortalized forever in the snow drift mounding all about him. In due course, it dawns on him that he must get up, or he will die, and as much as he hates himself, he does not want to die. Slowly, he manages to rise to his feet, cracked and bleeding as they are, steady himself against the tree. He glances about, trudges towards the frozen road that is partially obscured by the snowdrifts, realizes that he can’t remember which direction he came from.
The snowstorm picks up about him, shrouding his form in curtains of lace. He looks despairingly at the heavens, knowing that he will die. He will die. Providence will bless him at last. The joy of that certainity fills every fiber of his being except his heart, and he wonders why it won’t. It’s want he wants, isn’t it? There is nothing left for him anymore, so why try to live? What is wrong with death?
The wind blows away some light snow and leaves a scarlet patch on the road, barely visible because of the snow, attracts his attention and an unwanted flood of memories rushes at him: his screams when he woke up in the barracks and saw that his closest friend had died in the bunk below him, the lice in his hair, the feel of his flesh stretched tight over his ribs, the endless hunger and fatigue, the heartache that carried him out of Jockey Hollow and into the New Jersey countryside to die while his own blood marked his progress along the country road. Burning tears leak from his eyes and freeze halfway down his cheeks. Memories continue to wrack his heart: the blindness as he stumbled through the storm, his exhausted collapse against the tree, the return to the road where he is now, and the longing to die-
No. He will not die. As hard as it is for him, he will not die. Not while his brothers in arms are still back in camp. He will not sit back and watch while they fight and die for each other and for him. He will not be a coward. A sudden image of the Brits breaking down his door, their bayonets through his sister’s chest as she is pinned to the wall, the release of unholy steal from her bosom, the thud of her body on the floor. No. He cannot let that happen. He will not sit by idly. He will fight.
He kneels down and begins to clear away snow with his hands, some more red. Now he must do this until her reaches Jockey Hollow. He reckons his distance to be half a mile and furiously clears away the snow as he follows his blood. The wind screams in his ears, biting away the warmth of his face and stinging his eyes. He reaches for a scarf at his neck, but he left it in camp, and the wind eats at him there as well. No matter, he will not freeze to death before he reaches the sentries.
It takes him all of the afternoon to reach the American sentries, who spot him crawling toward them through the drifts on his hands and knees. A slight trail of blood behind him.
Immediately they run towards him and lift him up by his arms, half-dragging him past the camp’s fortifications and to the nearest barrack. The door is kicked open and they pull him inside, lift his body and lay it on one of the bunks. He is barely breathing, a small steam issuing forth from his mouth. A sharp pain in his feet and he screams everything he can, all of his pain and misery and shame and love and hate and want and hunger and thirst and anguish, all of it. Again and again, he screams, his body writhing in pain, his emotions carrying him out of the barrack and into the room where his dead friend lies, cold. A rough hand pressed on his mouth, more hands restraining his body. Automatically, he calms, but he is overwhelmed by everything that has happened to him, and so he gladly lets his vision swiftly darken, an empty void where nothing can touch him, not even pain…
No comments:
Post a Comment