Young Writers Society

*

When we arrived a few yards from the State House, I noticed the sky at first. Swirls of reds, oranges and blues were starting to appear. I predicted we had a few hours left before the sun set completely.

Finally we arrived in front of the brick building and the three of us gawked upwards towards the large sun dial in the center and the two statues. There was a stone unicorn to the right and a lion wearing a red crown, to the left, facing each other on the roof.

"Father," I started, tugging the sleeve of his gray shirt, "There is nothing here."

"Yes… I have noticed, son. Maybe we are too late. Any suggestions, Martha?"

"We haven't seen the stairs that lead into the building itself." She removed her focus from the objects, and squeezed father's right hand. "I feel my heart racing. Should we?"

"Absolutely, Martha." I watched father gulp and than he dug his fingertips into my shoulder. I winced a little, and peered questionably into two eyes fixed in my direction. I noticed he was breathing heavily and sweat dripped from the corners of his ears. "Samuel, you do not have to follow us, if you feel unstable. There is no shame admitting to fear, my boy."

I reached behind my back, gripped the knife and held it front of my chest. "I'm ready and prepared."

Father nodded, and the three of us turned a right-hand corner until we were facing the marble steps that led inside the State House. Two sounds pierced my ears – mum screamed and father cursed foully. The words pouring from his mouth were some of the vilest.

That day, I truly became a man, and my childhood vanished in a split second. I finally grasped father's speeches. I was fighting a war and I had my first real taste of bloodshed.

On the white marble steps was a scarecrow, which depicted a British soldier. It was dressed in their customary uniforms, complete with a gray cocked hat. A sword was pushed through one end of the scarecrow's head, and stuck out the other side. A wooden stake was shoved into its spine. On the top of the stake, a board was nailed to it with a carved message:



As the red drops seeped from within the letters, I felt my stomach lurch and I clenched it tightly with both hands, dropping the knife and falling to my knees. Drops were still dripping from the sign, staining the white steps a dark crimson colour.

"Is that… Mum? Father… is that…-"

Mum knelt to the right of me and buried her face into her hands.

He limped by my body and slowly sat on the opposite side. I watched him lower his head towards the cobblestones and shook it slowly. "Father?" I squeaked, "Is it?"

"I do not know, Samuel," he said in a hoarse whisper, refusing to meet my face. I noticed his voice was cracking. "Let us hope it is only red paint. The thought of someone… someone using act… act… actual… hu… human… blo… blo… blood..."

Gripping my stomach tighter, I heaved and my breakfast poured through like thin soup. When I had finished, I rubbed the salvia from my lips and glanced towards father. He buried his face into his hands also. I coughed, swallowed some flem and glanced towards mum. Her face was still hidden in her hands - silent as death itself.

I started to hear deep moans and than father began to cry loudly. In hopes to comfort them, I wrapped each arm around their necks and squeezed their shoulders. They did little to refuse my offer; mum remained in her position.

Father quietly said, "Thanks son," through racking sobs.

Like mum, I showed little emotion physically. Inside though, I felt the tip of my knife stab into every organ, causing painful pricks. In the midst of our misery, I spotted an object moving with a purpose from a tree. It was another man, but he wasn't any ordinary man; one that was dressed in an almost completely red uniform. He stepped up in front of me, inches from my toes, glanced at the scarecrow, and then frowned. I felt panic grip my arms and they began to shake.

Mum and father removed their heads from their hands instantly and looked into my face.

"What is it?" father choked.

When I didn't answer, he caught sight of the man in front of us and gaped wordlessly. Through the corner of my right eye, I noticed mum's hands were trembling again.

The man cocked an eyebrow, and glared into each of our faces. "Are you three responsible for this?" he roared, pointing to the scarecrow.

"Sir! We were only on an outing and stumbled upon this… this thing," I said. I sensed mum and father were in no condition to speak, so I spoke of the first thought that entered my mind.

"Rubbish. You mean to tell me, you three happened to find this awful display? Do you think I am mad?"

"Sir! Honest, we know nothing about this."

The soldier nodded slowly and studied my face for any hint of a lie. He gripped the end of the sword and yanked from the scarecrow and dropped in front of his feet. It produced a metallic clank as it hit the marble.

"What is that by your foot, boy?" the soldier said, pointing towards my toes.

I followed the direction of his finger and realized what he was pointing at. My mind began to race frantically. What now? What should I say? If he discovered any hint of a lie, the situation could become bleak.

"That is my knife, sir."

"Oh? And why is there a knife and sword here?"

"When we spotted the scarecrow, there was a sword already shoved through its skull. I… I… My Father wishes for me to have a weapon in the event if my life was in danger; if someone frisked my pockets and stole valuables. I… Uh… I removed my knife in fear, sir. I thought I heard someone moving in the brush."

"I see. May I inquire what that atrocious brown liquid is by your feet? It is quite rank," the soldier commented, fanning his nose.

"Oh, I… I sort of lost my breakfast, sir," and glanced sheepishly towards the wall behind him.

"Because of this?" he said, pointing to the scarecrow.

My vision returned to the soldier. "Yes, sir."

"If it caused immense discomfort on your part boy, may I assume you are loyal to King and Country?"

I glared hatefully into his eyes, after that. Father nudged my side with his elbow. When he spotted the soldier glaring at him questionably, father bluffed a cough.

I understood that father urged me to lie, or our lives were at risk. Through gritted teeth I said, "I am loyal to His Majesty."

The soldier nodded thoughtfully and ordered for us to leave the building. I asked the man if I could take my knife. He thought it over a few seconds, and nodded reluctantly. "If you attempt to charge, I will not hesitate to shoot you between the eyes, boy. My pistol is loaded."

"Thank you, sir." I reached, grabbed my knife and placed it behind my back. I pulled father to his feet and handed him his walking stick. I checked behind my shoulder on mum. She was already on her feet and nodded, signaling to me that she was ready.

"Come, let us go home," I said in a weary voice.

No one objected to my directness. Instead, we trudge south in silence. When we arrived at the end Newbury Street, mum spoke. "You displayed quick thinking, Samuel. If it weren't for you; we might have not survived. You should be proud of yourself."

I felt my cheeks become warm. The compliment caused me to grin, despite the dismal circumstances. I looked to father for further guidance. He met my glance and sighed. "Are you alright, Father? The rims of your eyes are puffy, even from this awkward angle, I can see."

"How astute of you, Samuel," he remarked dryly. "We will discuss this tomorrow. Right now, I am sore, depressed, and frightened."

"Frightened?" I asked.

"For the power the Colonists possess. I understand fully why the people were pacing so quickly today. I imagine they were as startled as the three of us were," he said softly.

"We will all talk about this tomorrow, Samuel," mum said firmly. "End of discussion."

"Alright, I'll stop with the questions."

*

The following day, it was in the late afternoon before the three of us met in the sitting room. I am normally the first awake after dawn breaks. Instead, when I stirred next to the fire pit, mum was sitting on the bench, reading. When I attempted to slip into a white shirt, my arms didn't cooperate. It hurt to raise them an inch from the floor. By forcing myself to lift my arms and slide them through the sleeves, it felt like my triceps were screaming for me to stop. When I flexed my pecks, the muscle ached horribly and caused me to double over in agony. Even a slight touch or poke to my abdominals was too much to bear. My calves were also tender to a slight touch. When I tried pulling my aching body to a standing position, the pressure from my weight caused a surge of pain from the ankles to my hips and I collapsed; beaten by Mother Nature.

Mum must have noticed me struggling because I felt her hands slip under my armpits and positioned my body so it was leaning on her back. As she slowly walked, my arms hung lifeless by my waist and I felt my ankles dragging against the floor. She eased my body off her back and positioned my neck to the center, so I was facing a window in front of the bench and then she placed my arms behind my back so I could lean against them for support. Mum also twisted my legs so they were perfectly straight. What a sight it was. I served as a puppet, and mum was the puppeteer. Normally, I might have grown irritable or upset by her babying me but I was in no condition to refuse generosity. I was temporally handicapped until all the muscles unwound.

I watched her sit on the bench when she finished. "Thank…Ouch! My jaw hurts too," I complained.

"Would you like a massage?"

"No thank you. A slight poke causes pain. I'll wait until later."

"Would you like me to spoon feed you?"

"Mum…," I groaned. "I'm not hungry. Thanks anyway, though."

"Suit yourself Samuel. But if you need help, you can ask."

"I will Mum, thank you."

The minutes dragged every painful moment, when I accidentally jerked a limb. Eventually, my entire body became heavy and I crashed to the floor, lying on my back. To pass time further, I counted the logs in the ceiling. When I reached fifty, I attempted to rise, only to yelp and fell backwards again.

"An awful and horrible mistake I made yesterday," I said, speaking to the ceiling.

"Your Father tried to warn you."

"I know," I groaned miserably. "Is he still sleeping?"

"I believe so, why?"

"I need help. I'm a useless and weak being right now. I need Father's wisdom."

"Wisdom? And I'm not intelligent?"

"No offense Mum, but Father is older than you, so he is wiser," I retorted.

"Your Father is sixty-one. Mind explaining how a single year is different?"

"That is one whole year he has been alive longer than you Mum," I grumbled towards the ceiling.

"If you weren't in such obvious pain, I would send that attitude outdoors, until your Father was awake," she said sharply. "I will check in a few, as soon as I finish reading this page."

"Deal, Mum."

Worms have it easy. They lack arms, legs and a neck, I thought to myself. I wish the soreness would disappear. So help me, I will never do something so foolish as that stunt again! I wonder how many logs are actually on the ceiling? Let's see… Fifty-one… Fifty-two… Fifty-three…

Thwack! A door slammed and I felt light vibrations pass by and heard the bench creak, as someone sat on it. "Mum, is that you?"

"Yes, Samuel. Your Father is in fact already awake. He said for me to tell you, he is dressing and tying scraps of cloth around his knee."

I winced, as I raised my neck slightly in the air. "What is the purpose of the cloth?"

"For added support, Samuel. I'm sure the trip was equally as taxing on him. He will be out in a moment; relax, try and recover."

"A good plan." I slowly eased my neck down, careful to not cause sudden jerks that would trigger discomfort.

"Martha! Come here, please," father hollered.

A faint gust of air caused a sleeve on my shirt to budge, as mum passed by. Fifty-four… Fifty-five… Fifty-six… Worms have such a simple life. What more is there? They crawl and devour grass; free from all complications of the human world.

"Samuel! Son, are you asleep?" a voice bellowed, and snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Father, is that you?" I asked dizzyingly.

"Who else would it be? Sit up, young man. We have much to discuss about yesterday," he said calmly.

"Welcome, dear. Remember, I mentioned he's very sore."

"Martha, the boy does not have a blown kneecap."

"Yes, but he carried a portion of your weight yesterday, and graciously I might add. I had to drag his body and position him so Samuel was comfortable."

"Hmm…," I heard father say. "Martha, how are you feeling physically?"

"I suppose I'm in better shape than you two."

"If I may, I have a proposal. Would you mind lifting Samuel's back and sliding the bench in back of him? His body will be supported and he will able to face both of us."

"That sounds fair. I don't mind sitting on the bench behind him. Do you mind, Samuel?" mum asked.

"Oh, and I was so enjoying counting the logs too," I remarked sarcastically. "In all honesty, I would prefer to be leaning upwards, instead lying on my back."

My ears perked up when I heard wood grinding against wood. I assumed mum was dragging the bench across the floor, like father suggested. Within a few seconds, two tiny hands slipped underneath my armpits, dragged me across the floor about six inches, and then twisted my body gently and slowly around. With one hand supporting my neck, an object was pressed tightly against the lower half of my back. I took comfort, leaned heavily against the bench and felt mum's toes brush against my shoulder blades.

"How are you now, son?"

"Stiff as death, Father."

"Sorry to hear, Samuel. You are young enough, where a recovery should be quick. You will survive," he chuckled.

I locked glazes with his eyes, and grunted. "It is not funny, Father," I said seriously.

"Oh… That frown of yours is about to touch your jaw," he smirked. When I didn't comment, father continued. "Firstly, I for one am pleased that you are certainly in admirable company, Samuel. Our outing proved that the Sons of Liberty are indeed not mobs or raiders as the papers claim, but rather distinguished radicals. They are all you have tried to prove to me and more." I watched him smile thoughtfully and stare into my direction for a comment.

"Father, if I was not so stiff, you know I would hug you," I said, returning his smile. "You too Mum," I added. She scratched my neck for a few seconds and stopped.

An awkward silence passed and no one spoke. I had a gut-feeling what the next topic would be and it caused discomfort among us.

Father scratched the graying stubs of his balding head and fiddled with his shirt. "I…," he began, "I do not know where to begin. I… Martha?"

"Is this in regards to the scarecrow?"

"Yes, Martha," he muttered.

"I'm honestly at a loss of words too, Welcome."

Another silence crept slowly by. I stared in his direction intently and father appeared to be avoiding me. He glanced to the left or right, never showing eye contact. There must be a solution to alter the silence, I thought. A faint memory of a putrid brown liquid, staining marble and a red-suited man fanning his nose entered my mind. The thought of the soldier thoroughly discussed caused me to smile inside.

I knew it would be dark humor, but maybe it would break the tension, so I spoke. "Has anyone seen one man so squeamish? Remind me the next outing we attend together; bring a sack of vomit to ward off the British."

The mockery hadn't sounded as amusing as I hoped but I waited nonetheless. Father cocked a head, and studied me. I noticed the corners of his lips twitched and his cheeks quivered. A slow grin formed on his lips and he chuckled lightly.

"Judging from your mother's grin, we are grateful for the effort. I cannot speak for her specifically, but many thanks, my dear son for dragging my bum from the clouds. I do have mixed emotions and I was having a profound time trying to organize them. I suppose there is no simple way to interpret them."

"Go on, Father. Remember what you taught me? You said conversing in a conversation is the strongest course a person should engage in to abolish emotions before they erupt."

Another tiny smile grew. "You do learn quickly, son. I suppose I should set an example and follow through but I actually do not know where to start, Samuel and Martha."

"We have the rest of the afternoon; there is no rush," mum said casually.

"Yes, Father. Remember how I relaxed to sort through my own emotions and past before? I closed my eyes tightly and mentally tuned the world out. Try that - relax and close your eyes. The first memory that pops into your head from yesterday, focus solely on it and see how you feel."

He nodded, inhaled and exhaled very slowly. I watched him beginning to rock in his chair and then he closed his eyes, while the object gently tapped against the floor.

A long time passed, and neither mum, nor I spoke. His face remained expressionless and his breathing appeared normal. While we waited, I wiggled my fingers and rotated my neck. The pain stabbed pricks in all directions of my body, but it was not as severe as it was earlier. At least I was able to ignore it, and loosen the joints but standing was an entire issue all together. I didn't want to fall flat on my bum if my legs buckled. I decided to wait until the upper part of the body healed before attempting the great feat of walking.

"Mum, is he alright?" I whispered.

"Shh… Let's wait a few more and if he hasn't budged, I'll check your Father," she said quietly.

"I heard that you two." He stopped rocking abruptly, opened his eyes and immediately glanced in my direction. "Hello, Samuel," father said, with a grim expression.

"Uh… Hello, Father."

"Now that I have had time to reflect, I would like to speak."

"Go on," mum and I said simultaneously.

"Thank you. Firstly, I feel quite absurd breaking into tears from a single straw soldier."

"It is fine, Father. You have always been that way, even as a boy, I remember how sensitive you were. You also told me there is no shame admitting to fear. You should not feel ashamed."

"I appreciate the kind comment, Samuel. You suggested that I focus on the first memory of yesterday but I did not follow through, son. Instead, a horde of gruesome memories flooded my memory. It has been years since I contemplated the aftermath of the Seven Years War and how it changed me mentally and emotionally. On a mental standpoint, I admit that I am wary of people. On the battlefield, the soldiers whom I assumed to be close mates; acted by means of treason. It is disheartening to watch a mate killed in a battle, but to have them charge with a bayonet aimed for your breast is sickening and depressing. I suppose the message plastered against the sign triggered heartache. Do you remember the story about the execution, Samuel?"

I shook my head.

Father sighed. "Do not tell me you have forgotten the beheading?"

"Beheading?" My eyes widened afterwards when the realization instantly struck me. "That one soldier, the one that had his uniform stripped because he was caught as a spy, right?"

"Beheading? What on Earth?" I heard mum chime in behind me. The tone in her voice was an octave higher than usual.

He frowned and nodded sullenly. "Yes, Martha, it is true. Many years before, by my own hand, I followed my superior officer's order, and took my countryman's life, and you are correct Samuel. There were two or three others that sided with the French, and promptly dealt with, either by execution or imprisonment." Father gulped, brought a fist to his mouth, and then coughed. "Do you think less of me, Martha?"

"No. I have gained something more precious instead; a stronger appreciation for your character. You were a soldier fighting for the honor of your country and fighting for a solution to resolve the conflicts, and yet, through the hardships, you have managed to guide Samuel into adulthood."

"My thanks, Martha," father muttered.

I watched, as he poked his injury. After a few seconds, father glanced upwards, still frowning, and nodded. "I wish to continue," he said firmly.

"Is that a wise decision, Welcome? It is clear you're having difficulty speaking of the past."

"And that is the reason I must speak. Too long have I bottled those shadows, and like any living animal that has been trapped for extended periods; they claw and howl, yearning to be set free. I suppose I shall start with my knee. When a blind bullet ripped through tendons, I was carted away from the battlefield, without further injuries or complications. The medics were able to remove the bullet, but the muscle tissue was severely damaged. After I shown no sign of infection and was limping; a sign of mobility, I was immediately discharged within a week. I believe you were very young, Samuel."

I nodded. "I faintly remember."

"When I returned home, do you remember how difficult the transition was, for me especially?"

"No, I don't," I said quietly.

He sighed. "Well, I suppose you tuned it out mentally, as you mentioned. Martha, you remember, yes?"

"Unfortunately, I do, Welcome," mum mumbled. "You used to wake from your sleep and scream bloody murder in the middle of the night, sobbing uncontrollably. When I attempted to console the grief by stroking your arm or rest my head on your chest, your body trembled violently, as you cried. Every motion in our bed caused you to shake and moan aloud, in your fitful sleep. For several months, you refused to sleep without your musket by your side of the bed. You were so fearful that an intruder would slip through one of the windows and attack while we were sleeping. It took some time, but eventually you allowed me to place your musket in the warring room. Unfortunately, you refused to sleep unarmed, so I stared at a silver hatchet on your bedside table before falling asleep. For a while, I was looking at dark, grayish circles under the rims and the sparkle in your brown eyes died. Your moods were difficult to predict; from seemingly happy to sadness in an instant. When your mood changed for the worse, I had to shield our son and force him outdoors until you seemed in higher spirits. The humor and laughter I grown fond of, my husband didn't return in almost a full year."

Father sighed, leaned over and stroked one of my cheeks. This conversation by far was the most discouraging. I felt so awful and sad for him but in a stranger aspect, the conversation was enlightening. Father had never spoken in details of his time in the war in depth, nor expressed how soft-hearted he was.

"Father, I am sor-," a palm by him cut me short.

"I am not through. I have decided whilst rocking, that it is my turn to confront those that still haunt me. Martha, do you recollect the significance of August first, in the year of seventeen hundred and fifty-nine?"

My ears perked up when I heard him say August first. I still remembered a little, and how father refused to tell me the full meaning of the date. All he informed me was that the date marked a Battle Honor for the regiment father was a member of, but he also neglected to mention the name of the regiment. I also remember he told me the bugle had a more pronounced meaning. I wonder if the date and the bugle are connected?

"It's an anniversary," mum said behind me.

"But you do know its significance?" father asked.

"Minden, Welcome. You've mentioned it to me, nearly the beginning of every August."

I twiddled my thumbs curiously and my confusion swelled but I sat in silence, patiently waiting. As long as mum was speaking to father, further information would hopefully pour, and I'd finally learn his warring history.

When I heard father mutter, "Minden," I straightened my back, winced a little, and returned my attention to the conversation.

"Battle of Minden…," father said, trailing off. He leaned forward, cupped my left hand in both of his, and stared intently in my face.

I nodded in response. My throat had become parched, so I swallowed nervously.

"My trusted mate," father began. "Blood would never betray me, and so my son, I will reveal everything. I wish to never withhold so many memories that they erupt in the manner they did at the Towne House." Father's gaze shifted slightly upwards, still holding my hand in his. "Martha, are you alright with my decision by discussing the past with Samuel?"

The bench jerked and creaked, as mum fidgeted behind me. "Yes, I am," mum said. "He has the right to know the specifics, just as I know your history as a soldier."

Father lowered his head in my direction again. A weight tightened around my left hand. He had squeezed it, but whether it was done on purpose or unconsciously, I was not sure. All I knew for certain was that father was gapping. His slack jaw allowed me to see two brownish front teeth.

Seconds slipped by. I locked eye contact, and then a staring match between father and me began for several minutes. I thought it was amusing in a sense, that mum had not spoken and chose silence too, but the mild enjoyment I gained, was immediately dismissed by father. He dropped my hand abruptly and my knuckles hit the floor. I watched him bury his face into his palms.

Frowning, I folded my hands in my lap, and I decided silence for now was the most suitable course of action, and questioning father might hinder any progress. To alter the uncomfortable stir in the air, I started rotating my neck, in hopes of warding off the stiffness.

About fifteen minutes passed, and I had stopped rotating my neck a while ago. Mum and I never spoke a word. I wondered what she was thinking but I didn't press her for details either. Finally, at last, father eased his hands slowly downward, displaying his eyes at first, while the lower half of his face was covered by palms. After a few seconds, father removed his hands entirely, and folded them in his lap.

"A Corporal shot, disgraceful," father remarked bitterly.

"Corporal?!" I remarked, forgetting my vow of silence.

"Shush, Samuel," mum said sharply, resting a hand on my right shoulder. "Let him speak. He is trying to inform you. Your father is having a difficult time but give him a moment and he will explain."

"I apologize, Father."

"Apologies are not necessary, son. It was expected a question would erupt from your mouth, and thank you, Martha. Samuel," father mumbled.

I rubbed a shin with a toe, nervously. "Uh, yes, Father?"

"In fifty-nine, a Corporal was shot, disgraced, and discharged within a week of several years of service. Do you know who I am speaking of?"

I shook my head.

"That was the sort of response I had expected. This Corporal injured his right kneecap permanently. Do you know who I am speaking of now?"

I shook my head in confusion again.

"Very well. I suppose I should be blunter. This particular Corporal is British, and although he was discharged due to injury, he is proud of the Battle Honor the 51st Regiment of Foot received on August first, winning the battle in Minden. This Corporal was a Light Infantryman, whose job was to provide a skirmishing screen ahead of the main body of the infantry, harassing, and delaying the enemy advance. Before you question me, skirmishers were stationed ahead or to the sides of a larger body of their British companions. With our bugle horn –"

"Our?" I asked bewildered, raising an eyebrow.

"Shh…," father said, by placing an index finger to his lips. "With our bugle horn, hatchet and musket, the Lights were usually the first to witness –"

"Hatchet?" I asked, astonished.

"Please, son. Let me finish," father remarked.

"Yes, Samuel. Shush," mum said sharply.

I nodded in response.

"Good," father replied calmly. "As I mentioned, the Lights usually were the first soldiers that witnessed brutality in its highest form. Our ears heard the whirling of cannon balls firing; we watched each other crumple when musketry was the culprit. Samuel, we were the first to witness the flow of blood and death."

When father mentioned 'flow of blood' and 'death,' I shivered a little. The image of strolling next to broken bodies on the field, or arms rising, screeching in agony for assistance; the picture began burning brightly within my imagination. However, despite the grim image, I was still confused. I slowly placed the pieces together and realized Minden was father's Battle Honor, and August first marked the anniversary of that battle. I did not understand the role of this Light Infantry, nor did I have the slightest idea who the Corporal was, so I asked bravely.

"Father, may I ask a question? It concerns these 'Lights' and this Corporal."

He nodded. "Ask."

"What exactly were the roles of the Lights and could you explain more about the Corporal? Who is he?"

I watched father scratch the right of his cheek, and frowned. He brought an index finger in front of his chest, opened his mouth, and then as quickly as it opened, father shut his jaw, and dropped his hand into his lap.

"Welcome?" mum asked.

"Shh…. What say you let me explain at my own pace, Martha," father said in a gruff voice.

Raising an eyebrow and chewing on a fingernail, father's sudden change in his tone, startled me. I'm sure mum felt the same, but I sat, watching him.

No one spoke, and father shrugged. He lowered his head and muttered to his feet, "I sincerely apologize, my wife."

"I suppose I'll accept the apology for now," mum said simply. "I understand confronting any memories you have lurking is rather difficult, but please try and resign yourself in a civilized manner."

Father nodded to his feet, and then raised his head. "I will attempt to do so, Martha. Son, about your questions, are you prepared for an in depth answer?"

"Will death be discussed?" I shivered again.

"Possibly, but it depends on what bloody memory presents its self first. Firstly, I will begin with the 51st Regiment of Foot. The 51st was the regiment I was a member of. I was armed with your hatchet and dagger, a bugle, my musket and powderhorn and a felt hat. Many Light soldiers left behind the powderhorn on campaign, assuming it was too cumbersome for use on the field. Lights were outfitted with shorter horse blankets or a uniform by your standards, Samuel, than Regular Army. Our purpose was to act as skirmishers, moving rapidly and expertly, thus the reasoning of our lightened equipment, and that, my son, is the role of a Light Infantryman. Before I begin speaking about the Corporal, any questions so far?"

"Yes, but let's see if I comprehend so far."

"Your vocabulary is improving, Samuel. That is good to acknowledge," he said.

"I blame Mister Samuel Adams. His vocabulary can be immense, and being around Mister Adams has no doubt taught me new words. Anyway, when a soldier skirmishes, they harass enemy troops, delaying their advance on the battlefield, correct? And a Light soldier was equipped with a lightened load, so that they could move quickly across the field, right?"

"Correct, son, to both your questions. What others are there?"

"What is Regular Army, and well…," I stopped, and gulped. I starting chewing on another fingernail, and spat a piece in front of me. The next question concerned father specifically and I was not sure how he'd react.

"Go on. Speak your mind, and ask," he urged by waving the back of his hand.

"Were you a Light soldier?" I blurted.

"Yes, your Father was," mum chimed in before he could answer.

Father grunted by mum's outburst, but nodded nonetheless. "I was. As a member of the 51st Foot, I was apart of the Light Infantry in the British Army."

"That is intriguing. Thank you for informing me," I smiled.

"I do hope with all the information I am bestowing upon you, Samuel, it will not entice you," he mumbled.

My smile faded, and I shook my head, frowning also. "Of course not. I understand the responsibility I have, and won't use my combat training unless my life is at stake. Do not worry."

"Good," was all father said. "Regular Army is essentially, well, let me see if I can phrase it properly." He tapped the side of his temple, thinking. "Ah," he said shortly. "Regular Army or Regulars, is a permanent organization of military ground forces of a nation. Any more questions before I address the Corporal?"

I nodded immediately. "Forgive me if I'm at fault, but this Light Infantry appears to be a select group of men. Am I correct to make such an assumption? And what of the bugle? You once told me it had a 'pronounced meaning.'"

"No, your assumption was correct. The infantry is a group of specially selected men, and yes, I was meaning to address the bugle but with all your questions, you are distracting me."

I lowered my head, and mumbled to my kneecaps, "I'm sorry."
"It is fine. I agree that I am not the most patient man with miles of questions but what say you blurt them all at once, and then there will not be further interruptions," he said.

I raised my head, and flashed a weak smile. "How were you selected to be a Light soldier?"

"I believe that is the first question asked by you today, that I can honestly answer without remorse," father answered immediately. "In fact, the question has caused a minor sense of pride within me."

I studied father's facial features for a few moments. He was wearing an emotional mask. His frown never strayed; it only strengthened to the point where his lower lip bunched when he finished speaking. Sometimes the corners of father's eyes twitched, and I was positive tears would erupt, but they never did. His usual bellowing tone was becoming raspy whispers. Deep down in my gut, I was beginning to feel guilty for pressing him, but father's secretive nature and withholding so much information from me; my desire to fully understand this man, and the reasoning of father's resentment towards warfare outweighed dismissal. I turned around, and noticed mum's lips were in a straight line, but her hands were cupped in her lap. Mum didn't remove her fixed gaze, nor said a word, acknowledging that I was looking at her. I shrugged, returned my attention to father, and was relieved the stiffness was diminishing.

His gaze was set straight ahead in both our directions. I watched Father shift his weight slightly, and hunch over, folding both his hands into a tight ball in front of his chest.

"Father? What is on your mind? What are you thinking about?"

"Shh.... Samuel," mum cooed.

He straightened himself out in his rocking chair, stretched and then father yawned. When he had finished, father hunched and folded his hands into a ball again. "I was remembering a joyous day of my life."

"Oh?" I asked.

He nodded. "August fifth; the first day I took a gander upon a squealing and lively boy."

I grinned and I hunched over also, resting my forearms on top of my kneecaps. Some thick locks of my hair fell loosely over my left brow.

"Light soldiers were specially trained men, carefully selected for their toughness, and able to scout and skirmish, concentrating on dispersing with great stealth and speed. I suppose I was chosen because of my strategic knowledge with hand-to-hand combat. He taught his firstborn well about fighting, make no mistake about that, son. The eld -"

"My grandfather, that is who you were referring too, correct? The one that taught his firstborn? Please forgive my interruption but I'm trying to follow and understand."

"Yes," father sighed. "I admit, it is my fault for not being more thorough but you are correct again. As I was saying, the elder officers had duffel bodies with a piece of twine strung around their necks, and the targets were lifted about two feet from the earth. With exercises, I proved to the skeptical faces of my countrymen, that the dagger and hatchet were bloody brilliant. With some of the tactics I demonstrated with you, I showed the officers if I was in close company, I was able to break their nose, the clavicle of their shoulder, and gouge eyes. Afterwards, I slipped behind the back of the duffel body, and pressed the handle of the hatchet against the Adam's apple, whilst my right forearm was jammed into their neck, pushing it forward, choking my imaginary enemy. At that point, I released my hold, and stood in front of the target again. I made ready by positioning the dagger's blade in my fingers. Within a blink of an eye, I roared, and threw the dagger. As expected, my aim was sufficient, and the blade was embedded in the stuffing, where a person's heart would have been.

My hunting days, I suppose, added to the skills I had acquired with combat. I admit, speed was never a strong suite of mine, but I was indeed a master with stealth and scouting.

For the first six or so months of the first year I enlisted, I did not adjust to my new lifestyle well, as it should be evident by our discussion with the execution but by the beginning of the second year, in fifty-seven, I willingly trained the troops. None of the commanding officers had ordered such a task, but I acted on my own accord, privately teaching them. When word reached of blatant disregard without discussing matters outright, some of the officers wished to court-martial me. This means, Samuel, commissioned officers wanted to send me to court, and try me for an offense under military law. These soldiers of importance thought my judgment in training was an act of disobediences, and in the army there is simply no room for a subordinate man, especially one that was not within a fraction of a Colonial or a Major General. However, other officers argued, and pointed that perhaps the training from a possibly experienced man; could assist the troops against the French, and their native allies, who had highly developed field craft and marksmanship skills."

"Weren't you afraid of being tried?" I asked uncertainly.

"Frightened is the word," father muttered. "Anything could have happened, depending on who was to lead the trial. The very least, my fate would more than likely have been stripped of my uniform and discharged, but certainly imprisonment was not out of the question either. Whilst in the war, my ears heard the horrendous stories of the prison ships from my comrades. The stories were told by skilled storytellers, who could wield webs of painted portraits in our memory, as we sat around in a circle, listening. Whether it be propaganda or truth, the crackling flames illuminated fright in its purest form with the darting of the storyteller's pupils and grief-stricken expressions, as each of their hushed voices took turns. One such story described loathsome dungeons. Good, honest people were denied the light and air of Heaven. Scantily fed on poor, putrid, and sometimes uncooked food; obliged to endure companionship of the most abandoned, and those ill with infectious disease, worn out by groans and complaints of their suffering fellows, men would supposedly endure the ultimate sacrifice for treason, and being prisoners of war."

I watched Father clutch his shoulders tightly, and shivered. Afterwards, he crossed his arms against his stomach, glaring intently in my direction. I said nothing, and I was amazed mum hadn't either. Instead, I mimicked Father, in hopes that the mild pressure against my chest, would shield me from my own picture starting to emerge.

After a few seconds, Father unbuttoned his black waistcoat, slipped his arms out, and dropped it by his left foot. Beads of sweat had formed by his thick brows, and he immediately reached, and wiped them away.

"I believed I had a minor charge brought against me, but the absolute fear of sitting below the bowels of a ship, in the darkness, sitting among disease, starvation, and filth; it would have been a glorious hell, and death in that situation would be a blessing," he continued. "If such prisons existed or they still dwell, may the Lord protect His children in their darkest hour of need."

He gulped, and then swallowed. Thanks to him, the image fully presented itself now. I pictured fifty men below a ship, their heads jerking from one side to the next, with the rhythm of the waves. I saw pale, ghostly white faces. The men in my mind were frail, and bones protruded from under their flesh by their ribcages and jowls. As the image became more realistic, I hunched over, cupping my mouth, and heaved some salvia. I imagined all fifty gnarled fingers were pointing, as I stood watching the half-circle of men. Flies buzzed about, and some covered portions of the prisoner's face as well as the deceased.

A tiny weight was perched on my right shoulder. I rubbed my eyes, and wiped away globs of salvia from the corners of my lips. Afterwards, I swallowed also, attempting to force the image away.

"Samuel? What is it?" mum asked with concern. Her hand remained, and I swallowed again.

"When Father described prison ships, an unpleasant imaged appeared," I remarked honestly.

"Shall I halt for now?" father asked. "If revealing portions of my past is too unsettling, perhaps another time."

"No, please tell me," I said stubbornly. "I wish to know everything about my Father."

"That is over sixty years, my boy, and time is not that forgiving, but the outcome was that I remained a Light. There was one condition however. I could train the other troops to my specifications but with supervision. With my assistance, I shaped the 51st Foot into warriors. Let it be known, Samuel, British rifleman were highly skilled in other regiments but I sought whilst studying some of my mates practicing on the field, they appeared to lack a degree of melee combat. Anyway, by the end of fifty-seven, my third year in the army approached, and the beginning of the year of fifty-eight started. I regained respect among my fellow countrymen. Not one of His Majesties officers questioned my morals any longer. However, a Colonel or Serjeant would continue supervising if I happened to be instructing a line of men or just one.

In the summer of the eighteenth of July, seventeen hundred and fifty-eight, I remember I was sitting on a log, reading the signatures of our family etched into the hatchet. A man will perform almost anything to occupy their mind, Samuel, but a soldier kicked the log with his boot. I instantly stood, and saluted my superior officer.

I still remember his words. 'Private Garrison, you are to report to His Excellency, and Field Marshal, Prince Ferdinand.'

Inside Ferdinand's quarters, there were three others; a General, a Lieutenant General and a Brigadier. Son, to clear up any misconceptions, in the British Army a Field Marshal is the highest rank, and he controls every aspect about the army but a General is of high rank also. The General, in respect, is second in command, so to speak. A Brigadier is the fifth rank before a Major General. To assert my point, I was among regal gentlemen of high standing. Ferdinand was center, and the three others were standing to his left, saluting me, as I stepped forward."

"You must have been nervous, Father! I would have turned and ran away!"

"I was nervous but I managed to keep my composure, and not display it openly by shaking or sweating profusely. I saluted my commanding officers, but their right palms remained above their eyebrows. The four men's lips were set in straight lines, and for a brief moment, I thought my devoted dedication to the Lights were in vain.

As the Lord weaved his blessing, Ferdinand beckoned me to step forward. Obeying His Excellency, I stopped within inches of his boots. Ferdinand's expression was as serious as the others but nonetheless, he nodded, and pointed to the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant dropped his hand, and marched so that he was also within inches of my body.

He bellowed, 'Private Welcome Garrison, due to supreme dedication, undivided attention in the British Army, the rank of Corporal has been awarded with sincere gratitude. We hope to witness many outstanding accomplishments in the futures to behold.'"

"Did you blush?" I smiled.

"Samuel… Let him speak," mum said calmly.

"I am sure I did, son, but without a mirror present, it was impossible to know for sure. As I was saying, Ferdinand stepped forward, and honored me with the two-stripped chevron, a badge, Samuel, for me to sew into my uniform, and proudly display my rank. By now, you must know who the identity of the Corporal I was speaking about earlier, yes?"

"It was you!" I pointed, smiling again. "You were the Corporal that was shot, and sent home."

"Correct," father nodded seriously.

My smile faded as a thought occurred to me. "Father? I do not remember a badge on either sleeve of your uniform. What happened to it?"

"I tore it off."

My eyes widened in confusion. "Tore it off? Why would you do such a thing?"

"The chevron, like the bugle, and rose, are reminders. Some of them hold fond memories, others outshine them. In either case, I know I display a profound contempt with warfare. My experiences have truly changed my prospective with life. That is why I lecture you continuously." Father pointed to his chest with his thumb, and continued, "As your mother informed you, I returned in an emotional wreck; a changed man. After all these years, I likely will never recover, and return as I once was before enlisting. However, the chevron, well…"

When he trailed off, instead of questioning father further, I sat patiently and waited.

A few minutes passed before he spoke again. "The chevron… It… Should I tell our son where it is, Martha?" he asked uncertainly.

"It's your decision, Welcome. You should discuss whichever you feel comfortable with."

He frowned. Leaning inwards into his chair, father stretched, and then yawned. I sat in silence and continued to wait. After he had ceased on the yawning and stretching, father sat straight, with each hand on top of his kneecaps.

"If I reveal the location of my chevron, do I have your good honest vow that you will never invade my privacy?"
"Yes, I swear. I assure you, Father, I won't disobey you."

"Very well, Samuel," father said in a calm tone. "Firstly, I will mention that your mother knows the location of the chevron but to my knowledge she has not touched my journal."

"I certainly have not!" she said. "I would never do such – "

"Journal?!" I hollered.

"Shush, please, Samuel. Yes, in between the mattress of our bed, there is a journal, and marked in the middle, is the chevron. I recorded every thought, prayer, or opinion, whilst I was in the Seven Years War. There are some very intimate passages, so keep your nose clean, and stay out."

"What of the bugle?" I repeated, changing the subject.

"Oh, that. I suppose with the miles of questions, I became distracted. The French bugle is an emblem of the Light Infantry, just as the white rose is, and of Yorkshire."

"I see." I began chewing on a thumb nail, as another question was probing me. I realized this particular question could have two consequences. One, father would cuff me or two, the question would depress him.

"Judging from the nail chewing, it appears you are bursting with a question. Out with it, son and explain, what is on your mind?"

I swallowed nervously.

"Go ahead, Samuel. What is it?" mum urged.

"Well?" he asked.

"Can you read a passage from your journal to me?" I blurted in almost a whisper.

He groaned, and rubbed his temples clockwise. "I should have foreseen that one coming," father remarked. "Still, I will keep to my word, and further reveal certain aspects I neglected to share with you. Be warned," he said, pointing his index finger. "Almost every page is filled with sentiments. You do know the meaning of sentiment, yes?"

"Every page is filled with some sort of emotion," I replied.

"Run along, and fetch it, please," he said.

I gradually lifted myself in preparation of collapsing. Instead, I stood with hardly any pain or soreness. There was the odd cramp in my neck or the lower part of my back but I was satisfied that my legs hadn't buckled yet.

I turned, and walked slowly out of the sitting room. In my parent's room, I stood in front the doorway. Their bed was to my left, and I walked immediately to the mattress. I slipped both my hands underneath, and searched, feeling around for an object. It didn't take long to locate the journal. It was practically in the center, and simple to find. I grabbed it, and exited out of their quarters. When I approached father in the sitting room, I held out the journal. The leather cover was worn, and the edges of it were tattered but the binding seemed to be in decent condition. At least it had not fallen apart in my palms.

Father took the journal, and nodded. "Thank you. What was written on the first page, son?"

I shrugged. "How should I know?"

For the first time during this whole conversation, father produced a smile. It was small, but it was a smile nonetheless.

He flipped through the pages, and stopped what appeared to be the middle of the book.

"Please, sit," he instructed.

I sat and crossed my legs.

A green object was raised above the journal. It had two stripes.

"Here is the chevron, son."

"May I hold it?" I asked enthusiastically.

"No, you may not. I do not want any damage to come to it."

"But?"

"Samuel, quiet!" mum hollered. "I want to hear your father."

"I understand," I mumbled.

"Hopefully the interruptions will cease for the time being… Samuel," he grunted. "The chevron bookmarks a special passage you two. You may read the page, Martha. Son, hand this to your mother."

I reached forward, gripped the journal, and passed it over my shoulder. Mum took it from my hands. I expected she would read it aloud but no sounds came. I turned around and noticed her blue eyes scanning line after line, as she read silently to herself.

Well, that is a fine choice! I mumbled to myself.

I turned around and grumbled.

About five minutes passed, when I felt a finger tap my shoulder. I turned around, and met a surprise! A few tears were dripping from the corner of her right eye. In all the years of my life, I barely have witnessed my mum cry. I watched her, as she held out the journal for me. The beats of my heart quickened with anticipation but I kept to my solemn promise. I grabbed the journal carefully, so as not to lose the place, turned and held it outwards for father, without reading anything.

Instead, he waved his palm, and shook his head. "I would like for you to read the passage; July 25th, in the year of fifty-eight as well, Samuel."

"Alright," was the only response I managed to say.

I swallowed, and then read the inked page silently:

Green = Comment/Correction
Blue = Suggestion
Black = Review

*

I let father pass and helped to steady his weight by allowing him to lean on my left shoulder, while I hauled the rest in my opposite hand.

What was the ‘rest you mentioned? The muskets, etc, that Samuel was carrying?

I slipped from under father's arm temporally, shut the door firmly, and then resumed my position under his [s]left[/s] arm again. Father walked one foot at a time, down the steps until we reached the [s]earth[/s] ground.

Notice I took out ‘left’ and ‘earth’. Samuel mention which arm he helped his father with and ‘earth’ was awkward since ‘ground’ is more suitable.

Grinning, I slowly lowered my body, careful to not snap any twigs and I [s]lied[/s] lay on my stomach.

^^^ See quote

If I am able, I could slide my body along with my elbows and when I get close enough, I will slap his back and grin.

Shouldn’t this be in italics?

He remained seated, his back facing me. My nerves finally gripped my actions and I started easing [s]my body[/s] forward, without father's orders. I was anxious to prove that I was already skilled enough.

^^^ See quote

"On who, Samuel? I am the only one here," father smiled. "If events favor us, you will never have to worry. By using these palms; strike in the center of the nose. It will cause immense pain, possibly breaking it, in which case you are able to flee. If your attacker grips your throat and pulls you into their face, use that power; move in with the force and smack the sides of their ears with your palms. This should cause pain to travel directly into their brain; again you are able to escape. However, son, should you have to perform this technique, avoid the temples, above the ears. Your intention is to flee for safety, not to destroy your attacker. The temples are delicate, and an immense connection to them could potentially kill a person. Remember that, Samuel."

I was in awe of how much knowledge he possessed. I glanced towards my hands and marveled them.

I share Samuel’s awe. Have you done this before? Did you ask someone to demonstrate for you?

By doing this, I [s]can[/s] could sidestep the attacker and swiftly jam them into the rib cage, before the person react[s]s[/s] ed.

^^^ See quote

I nodded, walking swiftly towards the house. I gave the knife a quick jerk, turned, walked towards him, and placed it into father's left hand.

This was a little too informative. You gave too much into Samuel’s action when a simple: I took the knife and gave it to father, etc, would explain the same thing without getting wordy.

I stepped a few inches backwards from the entrance of the house, smiling also. I watched him approach the foyer, duck, and then limp to his chair. Father leaned forward, set his walking stick by his right foot and then leaned backwards. I heard a loud sigh and watched the steady rocking of the chair. Strands of hair by father's shoulders swung with the rhythm of his body. I smiled again, and walked briskly through the foyer and into the sitting room to greet father.

Welcome seems very different from the father I remember from your earlier chapter. He is more caring, smiles often and is willing to teach his son. He doesn’t keep much away and he doesn’t seem to be violent either.

Shrugging, I walked [s]to the left of me,[/s] towards the bookcase.

^^^ See quote

As I walked passed father, I noticed his eyes were still shut.

‘passed’ = past

Sitting on the bench again, I swallowed, and lightly smacked father's left shoulder, laughing. "I'm fine. I'm reading the Bible, Father. Did you enjoy your nap?" I asked, and set the Bible on the bench next to my left thigh.

I was wondering what Samuel was reading, I guessed it would be the Bible but didn’t know whether the Garrison’s were religious or not.

To me, it was a plain and ordinary horn but to[s]o[/s] father it obviously meant something entirely different or else he wouldn't have requested it.

^^^ See quote

With the two objects in my hands, I exited the warring room, and walked [s]through the foyer that led into[/s] back to the sitting room. I stopped suddenly [s]in the middle[/s].

^^^ See quote

"You are awfully quiet all of a sudden. I would have expected a thousand questions by now."

^^^ See quote

"Good. The white rose is an emblem or symbol of Yorkshire, a small [s]country[/s] county in Britain. Yorkshire comprises of three ridings, or more [s]apporperiately[/s] appropriately [s]divisons[/s] divisions. Samuel," he said, pointing to the dead rose again, "I was born in Ryedale, Yorkshire, England."

I think Yorkshire divided in 1974 or did it happen twice?

And that was just that; I didn't want blurt [s]rediculious[/s] ridiculous questions, and sadden or anger father. Sitting in [s]silenece[/s] silence seemed ideal, for now.

^^^ See quote

"You seem to be deep in thought today. I spoke your name again, and again not so much as a whisper. Has the mild training [s]exsausted[/s] exhausted you?" father said.

^^^ See quote

"No, I'm fine. Really, I'm alright. I apologize if I have not spoken much. I'm actually afraid to speak. You seem to be in a grand mood, and I do not want to be responsible with spoiling it by asking questions."

^^^ See quote

Therefore, I do not have really anyone to celebrate with, accept privately with myself."

‘have really’ should be the other way around.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, son. Since that [s]women[/s] woman of mine has not returned yet, we shall leave her a note, and if you feel able by hauling a farm animal, you and I will visit the river in the outskirts of our property and read books together until the sun begins to depart."

^^^ See quote

"I might address the month of August, but let be known that the date has significant value. It marks a Battle Honor with the regiment I was apart of in the Seven Years War; the year I was shot, and sent home." Father's eyebrows eased upwards into two diagonal lines, and the corners of his eyes twitched. It was as if someone had instantly placed a sheet of glass over them, dulling the shade of his brown pupils, but his thin smile remained. "The French horn, Samuel, is a symbol of the type of infantry I was apart of in the British Army, and the regiment. The French horn was less cumbersome; lighter to carry than a drum or heavy artillery, such as muskets or rifles. In the war, the stem of a white rose was embedded in my uniform by my left breast, so the petals were in plain view, and I always carried it on the battlefield. I was not the only one, however. Many soldiers in my regiment proudly displayed roses. Some were tucked in their uniform; others had them tucked from the brims of their cocked hats, always in view." Father sighed, and held the bugle in front of my face, waving it. "So few memories that have brought me joy, but this instrument allows me to reconnect with the small band of men I was close too, and will never see again," father said, in a softer tone. "This dried stem," he said pointing to his ear, and resting the bugle in my lap, "Symbolizes Yorkshire, and the fond memories of nearly every soldier on the battlefield with a white rose."

Begin a new paragraph when Welcome speaks again, it was all squashed together here and I had to re-read a couple of times.

It lied just in front of his left foot.

‘lied’ = lay

The first thing I noticed was how you repetitively used direction such as left shoulder, I walked to the left, or how you gave directions on Samuel’s movements. You can strike most of the out unless it is necessary.

Some of the paragraphs drag on at times and could easily be avoided by choppy sentences or simplifying by taking out needless details.

What I would like to see is Samuel’s view on England. Does he not know much about it, isn’t he interested in going there one day (as it is his father’s homeland) or is he more patriotic to America/Boston?

Hiya, Myth! How are you? Thanks for all the suggestions. I will take most of them into consideration, especially the "positioning or movement" as you pointed out but I'll come to that in a bit.

I share Samuel’s awe. Have you done this before? Did you ask someone to demonstrate for you?

- I have been fights - standing up until it went to the ground. When I got sick of it, and I wanted a way where I could easily and effectively defend myself without the bumps, bruises, etc. I had someone train me in school for three years in school, and of course I do enjoy the mixed martial arts, so with the two combined, the quote is an example of writing what you know about. And I'm very much aware of how to defend myself and able to flee like Welcome pointed out to his son.

What was the ‘rest you mentioned? The muskets, etc, that Samuel was carrying?

Yeah, it was the musket. I suppose I wasn't very clear. I will have to be more thorough when I finish the first draft. For now, I must press forward.

Welcome seems very different from the father I remember from your earlier chapter. He is more caring, smiles often and is willing to teach his son. He doesn’t keep much away and he doesn’t seem to be violent either.

Yes, I was waiting for someone to point this out. You are very good at spotting traits, Myth. As for Welcome, I guess I could say, you're seeing another side to him. He's not a paper-cut out. Welcome does have many layers, which has given me many headaches, lol! I've noticed he's complex and hypercritical. As you read more, let me know if you feel the same way or not.

But what do you remember about Welcome in the first chapter? I mean his traits.

Quote:
"Good. The white rose is an emblem or symbol of Yorkshire, a small country county in Britain. Yorkshire comprises of three ridings, or more apporperiately appropriately divisons divisions. Samuel," he said, pointing to the dead rose again, "I was born in Ryedale, Yorkshire, England."


I think Yorkshire divided in 1974 or did it happen twice?

Hmm... Are you sure? I don't recall reading about that. But for the sake of argument, I'll leave it as it is for Yorkshire plays a very important role, along with the rose. If, however, if you do find that Yorkshire did divide, could you please send me a link? I appreciate it!

Ooops - forgot -

Quote:
If I am able, I could slide my body along with my elbows and when I get close enough, I will slap his back and grin.


Shouldn’t this be in italics?

Well, I'm one of those unorthdox writers who don't usually follow the rules. For me, I cannot stand reading any piece where there's italics are connected with the character thinking to themselves. I just find it annoying, lol. So, I don't incorperate that style in my work. Still, is not using italics distracting or confusing you? If so, I'll try and be more thorough but no italics.

The first thing I noticed was how you repetitively used direction such as left shoulder, I walked to the left, or how you gave directions on Samuel’s movements. You can strike most of the out unless it is necessary.

Some of the paragraphs drag on at times and could easily be avoided by choppy sentences or simplifying by taking out needless details.

What I would like to see is Samuel’s view on England. Does he not know much about it, isn’t he interested in going there one day (as it is his father’s homeland) or is he more patriotic to America/Boston?

Yeah, I tend to do that a lot. I tend to accidently write what I see. I will keep that advice in mind about using direction. It's good advice and I will take a closer look when the first draft is finished. Thank you!

Oh, trust me. You will see Samuel's view on England. Because the years don't follow in order, I have somewhat the minor freedom of either transforming traits dramatically, while sticking to their main profile. Welcome could be used as an example with this. Or, tweaking their traits and slowly progressing their character as the years press forward and so Martha is another example. And because of my main protagonist (Great Britain's ruling), it's interesting how each character reacts. Trust me, I have no control over them, LOL!

Does the narrative drag for you or certain character's dialect because Welcome, as you may have noticed, doesn't use abbreviations nearly at all. I understand the direction thing could make the sentences awkward, so it that what you mean by the problem of dragging?

Well, I see I've made many mistakes, and spelling errors - I suck, lol! But thank you do much for putting so much time in helping me out! I believe my work schedule is calming down - finally! - so I might be able to finally buckle down and work on OP's critique.

Best wishes and Happy Holidays!

Green = Comment/Correction
Blue = Suggestion
Black = review

*

Letter Post

"So do I," I giggled. "Would you like me to write Mum the note or do you wish too?"

‘too’ = to

Father raised and eyebrow, and then brought the letter close to his face.

‘and’ = an

I smiled inside.

Smile is show on the outside, isn’t it? =]

I had bested father with my own words. "Why not leave the letter on top of the bench? I can reach under, and place the Bible on top. You could leave the quill [s]on top of the Bible[/s] [there] as well; it might draw more attention for Mum."

^^^ See quote

"If [you?] are wanting me to read along [s]with you[/s], all you need is to ask, Father," I grinned.

^^^ See quote

*

Old State House Post

Cries rang throughout within its walls. Hordes of businessman, merchants, journalists, and lawyers gathered for one common purpose.

Was there no other word for ‘journalists’ back then?

*

Home Post

I nodded. "The Sons of Liberty were in an uproar. I wish you were with me, Father but alas, you're not apart of the group," I sighed. "They spoke of, or rather roared about liberty."

‘apart’ = a part

*

Hello Jess!

I’m getting back into critiquing BFG. First thing though, I find that Sewall was easier to read because of the voice and I understand it better. While Sam G tends to put everything into his story, maybe cut down a little?

I can see you were very excited in writing the State House scene, nothing I can pick out but it didn’t seem Sam had much enthusiasm—men around were smiling, slapping the backs of their fellows and he didn’t join in or have anything to add.

I have finally gotten to read excerpts where Sam G has grown up (18 now?) and can see he understand things more than he did before where he had to ask his father for certain things.

I have divided my critique into three posts, will add the last soon soon.

-- Myth

Green = Comment/Correction
Black = Review

*

"I cannot breathe guys," I said, in a muffled voice.

Guys, sounds modern?

"You have the Mighty Lord's greatest gift we shall ever receive; a family and one that loves you so much, we shall slay our own wrists and boar blood for your survival, Samuel."

‘boar’ = pour? lol

*

Running swiftly – the clank of shoes hitting the cobblestones – looking behind my shoulder, an object on hot pursuit – glance towards the sky; gray clouds and lightning bolts flashing wildly – feel stomach heave; must stop for oxygen – peer over shoulder again – the object is on my heels – I turn and run faster – buildings and corners accelerate with the speed of my feet – I trip over my ankle and smash face – turning my body quickly over in preparation to flee, the object hovers high over my chest – I try to scream – no sounds come – blood trickles down corners of my lips – I feel my eyes widen and watch in horror at the object; a noose floats up my chest and wraps itself firmly – try to tear it lose – useless – the rope become taut – I cough and gasp - lightning flashes through the clouds, illuminating Mister Andrew Oliver's somber expression in the sky - I cry out - no sound - running out of air - the noose, tearing into my flesh - my eyeballs begin to pop, then the world goes black. My eyelids flitter and the last thing I see before death is a translucent man standing over my body, with another noose secured around his own neck…

I think some of the dashes could be a period to form clipped sentences.

*

I was practicing [s]on[/s] throwing my knife into the side of the house when father greeted me.

^^^ See quote

"I see; a test. I cannot say we do not deserve it. Here that, Martha," pointing a thumb in my direction, "Our son is testing us."

‘Here’ = Hear

*

"In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit; Amen." she said mumbled.

Said or mumbled?

*

Hello again! Will write up the final review in the next post.

But I was a little surprised at Martha’s attitude towards Samuel Adams, I had thought she would be amazed to have met, the very man who her son has been ‘loyal’ to for three years. Though it is great to see that Samuel has two loving parents, both willing to speak with him when there are problems—even if it is in the middle of the night

Though I’m still waiting to find out what S Garrison’s grandfather was called, I didn’t forget about him =]

You have quite a few typos, some places where you had used Townsend rather than Townshend, had to look in Wikipedia for the correct name.

-- Myth

Hey there!

Well, it looks like I made some stupid errors. Ones that have me baffled that I actually missed. Then again, I really shouldn't keep back tracking and only press foreward in finishing the first draft. XD


To add some action from the so-so drab homelife of the Garrisons', it was my chance to cut loose. It was also my chance to finally introduce the State House, which can be found on King (State) Street. But, lol, you're right. I had way too much fun with it! Good point about Sammy. It never occured to me. I will have to take a hard look, and figure out why the little turdball acted so, uh, nonchalant (if that's the correct word?) I guess he took this meeting with a grain of salt, eh? Then again, he's still pretty young, the youngest member of the Sons of Liberty. Though he IS eighteen now in the year of 1767, perhaps he still has some growing up to do. I'm honestly not sure what his motives were. *scratches head* What do you think?

But I was a little surprised at Martha’s attitude towards Samuel Adams, I had thought she would be amazed to have met, the very man who her son has been ‘loyal’ to for three years. Though it is great to see that Samuel has two loving parents, both willing to speak with him when there are problems—even if it is in the middle of the night

Though I’m still waiting to find out what S Garrison’s grandfather was called, I didn’t forget about him =]

You and me both, LOL! I had supected that it would be Welcome that would be timid, but nope! He came out as being gregarious in the end, but... lol, that stick came, and Sammy is still being whipped into shape! Martha was a thorn in my side for many months; I just could not make sense of her but now, HER family history which was written a month ago, might put her motives in prespective with the first, proper encounter with Sam Adams. (Uh hem, wait til you meet Revere, LOL!!)

Well, about the enigma, aka, the grandfather, there's some tweaking I'll have to do but you're are not the only one who's been asking... I seemed to have driven a few readers outside of YWS into sanity with the subject. I am an evil writer in that sense. It's part of my style to leave readers in suspense in bask in all its glory until I'm ready, lol. Sorry.

About the crits, I agree with all of your suggestions. Way to stay on top of the period, Myth! Good work, and thanks for everything! Best wishes!

I’ve come to the end at last =]

As I’ve said before, you influenced me to go out and research American history for myself—I’m still reading through things slowly, will take up Salem Witch Trails later—so you should be very proud. Now I know who got the Boston Tea Party going, and will you be including that or the death of Charles Townshend?

Samuel shows his keen interest at the age most boys from that era would naturally be curious about their father’s (elder brothers, perhaps) affairs and war/weapons. And through his learning he bonds with his father, a man who doesn’t get out much due to an injury, but manages the father role perfectly—who also tells him of the very country that threatens them with taxes, etc. Poor Martha, sometimes she has to deal with two big kids.

The letter and picture were quite hard to read, maybe you could have the inscription below it? My poor eyes had to squint, wearing glasses makes it worse. But you didn’t include what the journal said! =[

Since Sam G is the youngest then maybe he reflects rather than acts? Or makes comments to himself, someone beside him?

-- Myth

Townshend keeled over?? Whaa... Well, I'll have to go through my notes and mountain of books and take a closer look on that one, lol. Well, on normal circumstances, I wouldn't tell. But there are certain rules I'm bound to, and if I don't follow them, I'll be shot! But... I rather not leave you in torture so, *inhales deep breath* yes, I will be writing the Tea Party but because half of it is fiction, I'll be adding my own twist. I'm very happy one story has influencesd one person to take up my period, and not read quickly through but take everything in slowly. Not many Americans realize this but England and America are brethren. We have the closest ties from the earliest days of the 1600's than any other country, and I'm for one am proud to be half English myself. I think it's tremendous you're so willing to learn bout the Trials and Revolution, and in the end, I hope you'll be able to take a piece with you and pass on your newfound knowledge to the next generation, friends or family.

Martha, sometimes she has to deal with two big kids

*slaps knee and laughs* I have always thought this myself. I've just been waiting to see if someone shared the same opinion. Your impressions of Welcome raising his son, and Samuel as a whole were 100% correct. It's good to know that I'm on the right path, and I'm slowly but surely suceeding with their profiles. Poor Martha indeed, LOL!! Do you think she's strong mentally? Or weak?

Hmm? Which letter again? There's quite a few. I agree about the picture. It was an experiment, and I will remove the illistration - thank you!

Aw, the journal... Since you're up to this point, (and my scanner is on the fritz, I'll have to type from the original, which is a shame. The pages are written in colonial dialect and are setup to be "aged." They look like they have seen better days, which I hoped would set the mood but now I won't know, LOL! At least not yet.

I will type up the journal enteries right away because chapter three is far, far from over. You're just reading the underline of it.

Charles Townshend (1725 - 1767) The Townshend Act was passed just before his death. But Wikipedia seems to call him Townsend and Townshend, don't know what's going on there XD

I've never been 100% correct about anything, and I think Martha pulls it off as a strong character, but it is quite difficult to say as she has not appeared much. I'll give a more definate answer when there is more to read.

The letter I was reffering to was written by Welcome to Martha. Glad to read you'll be adding the Tea Party—six years after the chapter I've just read so Sam G will be in his twenties?

These are the originals, and I couldn't blow them up; too large of a file anyway. Unlike my draft, I can enlarge them. If you cannot read them, that is fine, I'll save your eyes the agony and handtype the enteries. At least though, you got see how the pages looked. I would, however, like feedback on the their appearance please. What were your impressions of the physical appearance?

One other note, these enteries are IN colonial dialect. Have fun, And thank you!

EDIT: Forgot, but now we have reached where the story is no longer G rated.

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Beyond this, I will post more tomorrow. I'm a little soar and a tad sick. XD But I couldn't resist showing the pages.

When I finished, I slipped my right thumb in between the pages, book marking the passage in Father's journal, and placed the leather-bound object in my lap. I reacted by simply gawking blankly at the cover, while emotions suffocated me.

"You have finished?" father asked curiously.

"I have," I muttered.

"Your thoughts?" he asked.

"All me a few minutes, please. I need time to think," I whispered in a hoarse voice.

My throat was raw and itchy, so for relief, I coughed, and when I did, the journal bounced from my stomach. Luckily, my thumb remained in between the pages.

A few seconds passed, and I had expected Father would press me for further answers by now but to my surprise and delight, he did not. I raised my head, and momentarily stared blankly into a pair of eyes that were staring back at me. To meet his eyes looking at me intently and a serious expression, father's demeanor persuaded me to immediately avoid him, and I glanced at the cover again.

The passage… he… my father… Oh! I growled silently to myself. I was a bit surprised anger had shown its ugly face first but I could not blame it. I would have scolded myself for the remaining of the afternoon today if I had the opportunity. Why couldn't I have just kept my mouth shut for once in my life? Why did I ask about reading the journal?

Do you regret reading the journal entry? a whisper inside my head asked me.

No, I… Maybe, I said, answering the voice.

A lot of spelling errors, but do you think your father was really writing in haste? Look at the time spent drawing those pictures.

Shush! I yelled angrily at the voice.

After that, the invisible voice that was badgering me, listened to my request and departed, leaving me bewildered that I was having an actual conversation with myself.

Sighing, I continued gawking at the journal's cover, while other emotions started surfacing. I felt them linger, and they called, beckoning for me to answer them. Instead, I shook my head slowly, and filed them in the back of my mind, unwilling to acknowledge their existence. My decision was somewhat in vein because two emotions stubbornly remained – embarrassment and mild depression. Both waited like two headstrong children; Brother Embarrassment was determined to make me feel awkward and uneasy but Sister Depression wanted me to feel remorse and be sympathetic for Father. When those two emotions intertwined like a tight braid, they left me uneasy, and unable to cope.

To quote father, indeed I was having a profound time organizing my thoughts and emotions, and now I understood how difficult it was for him to speak earlier. I could only imagine what sort of thoughts, emotions or voices was entering his mind this very moment.

I swallowed nervously, and then sighed again. I lifted my head and looked at Father. I noticed he was hunched, and each forearm was on top of his kneecaps. His expression hadn't changed. Father still had a serious expression, and judging by the way his head was positioned, he appeared to be studying me. I turned around, winced; some muscles in my neck were knotted still, and observed Mum. Her cheeks were dry, so I assumed she had stopped crying a while ago but her expression was identical to fathers'. Mum was tight-lipped also. She sat straight, with her hands cupped neatly her lap.

"Samuel…," a deep voiced called.

I turned around quickly and saw that Father was no longer hunched over. Instead, he was sitting straight, like Mum; his hands remained on top of his kneecaps.

"At least ten minutes have passed. Can you speak to me now or do you insist on letting an old man wonder impatiently?" father asked, with a tiny smile forming on his lips.

"I… I… I don't know how to interrupt, I don't know what to say," I remarked honestly.

The smile vanished, and Father nodded. He lifted his head a few inches upwards.

"Martha, care to express your self?"

"I believe I'm in the same situation as Samuel," mum responded.

"And that is understandable, something I had expected, but what say you two cease on being silent as death, and speak your minds. Now, who wishes to begin?"

"I do not feel comfortable discussing certain parts of that entry with our son, Welcome."

"Our son is growing into a young gentleman," father retorted.

"Thank you for stating the obvious, Welcome, but that does not change how I feel," mum retorted in return.

"What precisely in the journal entry has you uptight, my wife?"

"Ohh…," mum groaned. "What a ridiculous question!"

My eyes widened, and it was no surprise that father did the same. Mum's sudden outburst shocked us both.

"You wrote, 'I would ask permission,' and if I agreed, you'd unbutton my dress?!"

"And so the truth speaks," father smirked, and then winked at me. Then just as the smile was born, it disappeared again. "I was writing from my heart, Martha. I was without my family, and it should be obvious, I was lonely the day that entry was written."

"But you wrote about sex!" mum hollered.

Unresponsive and embarrassment growing, I frowned while I listened.

"And what a beautiful night it was, yes?" father asked seriously.

After his question, my cheeks became warm, which probably meant I was blushing. Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, I waited for Mum's response. Several seconds slipped by, and not a word from her or father.

"May I say something?" I blurted.

"One minute, son. I apologize, Martha, if I caused discomfort but I was being honest."

"And a prying louse," mum huffed.

He blinked and then gulped. "That hurts," father mumbled to his feet.

"I suppose that was unkind of me to say that, but you must admit, Welcome, you were being impish."

Father lifted his head and nodded. "I suppose I was acting mischievously, and perhaps we will discuss that particular section of the entry – alone, and when you are ready."

"I'd appreciate that, thank you," mum said.

"Very well, but there must be more on your mind, yes?"

"Yes, there is," mum said.

"Well, out with it. If either of you have not concluded, I am anxious."

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(And I'm going fishing - last minute thing, so I apologize but I'll post more, maybe tonight. Thanks for reading.